Okay, this week’s prompt included two animals talking to each other. The dialogue goes as follows;

Animal 1: “I told you this was a bad idea”.

Animal 2: “You said that already.”

Animal 1: “Yes, but it bears repeating.”

Or something like that. Anyway, after closing another semester, I opened my Mac, flexed my fingers, and this is what happened. Enjoy!


Happy Valley Animal Control Center 


“Elvis? Elvis, wake up boy!”

Chiquita, the Chihuahua, as usual. The little rabble-rouser is at it again. All around us, a cacophany of yips, yaps, and woofs, all because some stranger, leash and clipboard in his hands, is strolling along the sidewalk between the cages before stopping at Number 40, the home of Bruiser, the Boxer.

“C’mon, boy. Let’s go for a walk.”

Within minutes, Bruiser, stubby tail wagging, lets himself be led through the double doors.

“Oh, noooo!” whines Chiquita. “Poor Bruiser. Elvis, you know where he’s going, don’t you? Elvis! Wake your butt up, boy! I’m talking to you.” 

Oh, go away.

Just when I am dreaming about juicy steaks, grassy yards and a new dog mommy, Chiquita has to go and wake me up.

“Aw, girl, what are you raising Cain about now?”

Her ears perk. Her tail is a blur. Her claws grip the fence.

“Haven’t you heard? A whole lotta us ‘seniors’, including you and me, have a date with
‘da room’.”

“What room?”

Chiquita rolled her doggy eyes. “You know – da room. I’m tellin’ ya. We gotta get outta here.”

Harrumph, I thought, as I curled back up, tucking my muzzle under my tail.

Go pester someone else.

“Okay, then. Don’t say I didn’t try to warn ya,” she says, before turning to the Rottweiler in the cage to the left.

“Ruby, Ruby! It’s gonna happen!”

Unfazed by the drama queen’s hysterics, the Rottie yawns.

The next day, as I’m wolfing down my dinner, Chiquita sidles up to my cage. “Psst…Elvis,” she says, outta the corner of her mouth. “One word: play time.”

After lapping water from my bowl, I look up at her. “Um, in case you haven’t heard, that’s two words.”

“Oh, shut up and listen. When they come to walk us, today, we play along. We don’t know nothin’, ya hear? Then we pull out all the stops: the puppy-eyes, the licks –blah, blah, blah. We catch ‘em off guard. And we wait for our moment.”


Who needs a rooster to wake you up when there’s a Chihuahua around? Yep, Chiquita is at it again.

“Wake up, Elvis. Time to rock and roll, boy.”

I yawn. I stretch. “I’m up. I’m up.”

The fresh morning air carries the aroma of freshly-mowed grass and dog poop – my favorite smells. As I let my volunteer lead me around, I play it to the hilt: rolling over so Chad can rub my speckled belly, licking his hand, and flapping my puppy-dog browns at him. He bends down to scratch behind my long, leathery ears and rub my muzzle.

“Elvis, if I let you off the leash, are you gonna be a good boy?”

I nod and roll over as I watch for Chiquita. Soon, I see her trotting out at the end of a leash. We make eye contact. Then, as I was hoping, the dumb chick walking her bends over, unhooks her, and throws a ball.

This should be interesting, I’m thinkin’, as I look for her to fetch and come a-runnin’ back.

But she keeps on a-goin’. So, I slip through the leash and take off running.

It doesn’t take us long to figure out that we goofed up big-time. As I catch up with Chiquita, a nervous little twit I wouldn’t be seen with, otherwise, I see a tall man who walks kinda funny. He has a big, bleeding hole in his throat and he’s missing an ear.

Meanwhile, people are screaming and running like their lives depend on it.

“Watch out for that ol’ boy, Chiquita. There’s something seriously wrong with him.”

But Chiquita, for all her street smarts, has the brains of a worm. She bounces up to him and pirouettes on her hind feet. He scoops her up and grins ghoulishly.

“Ugggggh!” he grunts, as he caresses her head and clutches her throat.

Well, don’t ask me how I know this, but when I see that gooney-bird open his mouth and go for her head, I run up and bite him on the ankle.

“Waaah!” he roars, swiping blindly at the air.

Suddenly another joins him. And then another. Men, women, even children, all shuffling around.

“Chiquita, I told you this was a bad idea. I don’t know who – or what – these people are, but I’m ready to head back to where we came from.”

“I know it,” she says.

“But it bears repeating. I’ll race you back there.”

“You’re on, Elvis.”

Turning tail, we run back to Happy Valley, past a stand with newspapers. Their headlines: “Day One of Zombie Apocalypse!”



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