Young Writers Society

Pretty much I wrote this when I was bored. Just snippets of different things, not in order. I totally was in a writer's block and used this as an exercise. Here's some of it.

CHER’S

Tails

I’m not going to sit here and lie to you. I am a dog, if that’s what you’re wondering. Yes, a real dog. How can I write? Well, darling, I have my ways. Pretty much I’m going to give you snippets of my life. I haven’t the best memory and I can for sure say everything will not be in order. A memoir, yes… So many things have happened to me… And I need to express myself. Don’t get me wrong; I’m not trying to throw a pity part for myself or brag of a miraculous life. I’m just trying to tell a story like every other author. Mine, is true. Every detail from my perspective.

Am I cute being cute? No, I’m being honest… And to be honest, the common person would claim me as horrendously ugly. However, a shoo-in dog lover would find me quite adorable. Want to take a guess? Or should I just tell you?

Purebred, Hairless Chinese Crested.

I take pride in being purebred, thankyouverymuch.

Take your pick on what I lay on the scale of attraction. It’s your choice. All I know is my girl loved me.

I sniffed. The midnight air was cool, yet exciting with a carnival of so many things. The sound of a car rushing by… Oh, how delicious it would be to chase the neighbor’s Cat, Timothy. Timothy creeps closer to me, he isn’t afraid of such a small dog. I bark, “out cat!” he meows back, a scowl. He thinks I’m funny. I ignore him, turning by tail to him. Ha, talk to the butt.

“hoohoo.”

“Hello?”

“hoohoo.”

“Meow.”

“Hello?” I say again and again and again. Why won’t the owl reply?

“Chloe,” I hear Mr. Stewart yell. “Shut that damn dog up before I shoot it!”

That makes me go quiet.

Sniff, sniff : garbage.

Two-day-old sushi, half a peanut butter and jelly sandwich, an old pair of socks, and a few newspapers.

The Stewarts don’t recycle.

“Timothy…”

“What, dog?”

“Want to share some of that sushi.”

He pauses, sniffs the can, and meows his answer, “why not?”

“Can you help me knock over the bin?”

We do. SHIT. Mr. Stewart wakes up.

The front porch lights go on.

“Run, Timothy!” But Timothy is already gone.

“CHEEERRRRRRRRRRRR!”

I run.

From behind me I can hear Chloe and Mr. Stewart arguing.

“Daddy!”

“Your stupid dog knocked over the trash.”

“Where is she?”

“She ran off. Let her get hit by a car for the Hell I care!”

“Don’t you dare say that, daddy!”

slap

And that’s why I need to be there for Chloe. Because of her dad. But sometimes I get too scared myself.

Okay, Cher. Sit”

I sat.

A treat.

Yum.

“Cher, speak.”

I barked, another treat. Imitation bacon, liver snaps. Oh, I can’t explain how delicious those are. In fact, I’d do anything for another taste. So, I take her next order to roll over.

“Good girl, Cher.”

“Cool person Chloe for giving me treats,” I yip back pouncing on her chest. My tongue outlines her lips. She had cookies for a snack; I devour the taste in also adoration for my girl.

“Cher!” she laughs, I wag my tail. “Cher!”

“CHLOE!” I bark in her face and she gags from my breath. I don’t understand the issue with humans and dog breath. Personally, I think mine is heavenly.

“Gross Cher,” laughs Chloe while picking me up over her head.

High, higher, too higher, I cry.

“Cher, baby!!?!” Chloe holds me tight, I can feel her chocolate-chip breath against my nostrils. I lick her nose, inside each hole—salty bogies.

So, she giggles.

I keep inhaling the cookie sent and salty taste. I love Chloe.

Mail poodles are for serious the most charismatic creatures on earth. The way they stand—Dorian, the stud at the dog park. Oh, when Chlo’-bo took me I nearly keeled over with love. The way his butt smelt, I’ll never forget. Call me mad, call it puppy love, say I’m crazy head-over-paws for Dorian, but I am, I am. As I told you, I don’t lie.

Late a day, in early October, Chloe took me to the dog park. If I could pick one word to describe that day, I’d pick… Halloweeny. You know, when the little human children are bounding around in masks and begging for yummies. That free feeling of pure joy and kids laughing. Not to mention pumpkins with their own facial expressions were resting on stoops, some happy, some frightening (and Chloe was always talking of what she would dress as. I heard about Halloween every single day). I sniffed one as a walk by. It drew me; it forced me, to lick it. The sweet and sour taste of freshness consumed my tongue. I panted and sunk my teeth into the hard, outer shell. At once my leash was tugged back.

“Cher, no, bad girl!”

Bad girl? I was hungry. And the pumpkin made me to it. It smelt too fabulous.

I whimpered.

“Don’t eat the pumpkin, Cher,” she laughed and I knew everything was okay. “It isn’t ours. I’ll buy you a treat at the dog park. Or who knows? Maybe you’ll find a cute little pooch to share a biscuit with.”

o0o0-lala, barking my language, girl.

“C’mon, Cher, baby,” she lifted me in her arms. I watched the pavement distance from my paw, up, level-faced with Chloe. I licked her nose.

I love to tease her that way.

I was started to get extremely pissed, the thought occurred to me to go off and shit on Chloe’s bed.

The day Chloe got me she had seen Clueless, the movie, for the very first time. It was destined for my name to be the same as the character who had been called after a famous singer. Cher. Has a nice ring to it.

I can’t remember the day in such perfect detail, however I clearly remember her sent of sweet citrus—I later learned from hearing her rant to her friend, Hilary, the smell’s name was Dolce & Gabbana: Light Blue. Now, I’ve sniffed many, many things in my years and never has anything of the blue smelt such as that.

Go figure.

W hat I don’t understand is why humans try so hard for the sake of trying to live to die. For my own kind, I know, we live to live . To have run, frolic, eat. Chloe had hardly any time for fun by the time high school rolled around.

Hearing a loud clap, I yelped. The air chilled in such a monstrous drop so as to my bare skin tingled with anticipation of finding warmth. I couldn’t quite grasp the knowledge of this sudden change, not until I lifted my nose in the air and let the scent of storm posses my intuition.

I cowered.

Rain, thunder, lighting had been the worst. I adored, however, the view from inside. Yet Chloe was at Hilary’s house, mom and dad were off in New York on business. Forgotten. Neglected. Chloe had usually come every day to feed and entertain me… however today she forgot. I guess I knew it was a sign of her growing up, growing out of me, perhaps. Chloe didn’t remember I was outside…

Chloe returned home from her very last day of school, the year was 2006, summer had official begun in her eyes. Sweaty, smiling; her skin tasted like salt.

An empty can of tab, an apple core—smells great— and Hannah Montana playing in the background. That’s how my girl left it, her laptop open the apple behind it, the tab so close behind, perched atop a box. I knew she wasn’t coming back by the way she smelt, her cold flesh, and her still chest.

I miss you

I miss your smile

No, Chloe didn’t smile.

I could pick up the notes in the music, with my ears perked; the drowning lyrics swept me to sit beside her. I brought my paw to her chin. Nothing. Mom wouldn’t be home for hours.

Chloe wasn’t a happy girl. She had me, yes—I was her best, and what seemed only friend. She told me everything. There was nothing, however, I could do to stop her. I whimpered, snuggled, but couldn’t help. Just moments ago my girl had been at the computer, the screen I had trouble reading since I was way on the floor, teeny and unable to view higher than her lower leg. When she made to stand up, my heart jolted. Something had been wrong, I could just tell—her head spun, I read her mind of feeling ill… She needed to rest, she fainted, stopped breathing. Now I’m here. I sniff, nudge, paw her again. But nothing.

“Chloe?” To her it would only have been a small puppy whine. To me, a desperate plead for my girl to open those gorgeous brown eyes. “Mom!” I barked, again I called, I needed to get her damn attention, wherever she was. I knew she wouldn’t be able to hear me, but I kept calling out.

The hours in which passed, my front legs had been stretched out upon her chest. I waited with her. She was dead, I was sure. Yet as my head held close, I could hear blood flowing through her veins; a sign of life, but having my sense I knew she wasn’t going to breathe again. Nothing could save her. “Chlo’.”

Mom actually came home, to my surprise. I knew for a fact that my call wasn’t the reason. A mothers intuition, perhaps. She had dialed in; the ringing hurt my ears, several times. In fact, I suspect that the lack of answer sent her straight home.