I thought it was a joke. “Look out for the green poodle.”
My sister's last words. Not an expression of endearment. Not a bit of wisdom for her younger brother. Not a life lament or longing. A warning. About a green poodle.
I thought it was a sick joke when, a couple days after we'd buried my sister, there was a knock on the door, I opened it, and found no one waiting on the other wise except for a poodle, its curly fur dyed St. Patrick's green. I rolled my eyes. I snorted. I called out to the prankster.
And then I shut my door on the poodle and walked back inside.
Barely a moment passed before I heard the shattering of glass, and looked to my side to see the green poodle leaping through a window into my home.
I stepped back. I held up a hand. “Good dog.”
The green poodle lunged at a floor lamp, twisted its head to the side, and took the lamp pole into its mouth. It didn't bother growling as it thrashed around and smashed the the lamp to the floor.
I help up my other hand. “Hey, now. I'm a friend. Good dog.”
The green poodle crouched low and stared up into my eyes. He was taking charge.
I stumbled backwards, tripping over my own feet.
Wood splintered and plaster reigned down on me as the dog threw its body against every wall in the room, breaking open holes and shaking the ceiling.
It barked once and began to growl as its claws tore through the carpet.
I tried to scoot myself backwards along the carpet.
I couldn't move fast enough.
My canine attacker's jaws clamped tight on my leg. I both heard and felt my leg bone snap. The blood that poured out was warm and sticky. I felt dizzy. The world spun around me.
Again, it bit me. The other leg this time.
I reached into my pocket for my cellphone.
I cried out as the dog jumped on top of me and gnawed at my abdomen.
I thought it was a joke. “Look out for the green poodle.”
ReplyDeleteMy sister's last words. Not an expression of endearment. Not a bit of wisdom for her younger brother. Not a life lament or longing. A warning. About a green poodle.
I thought it was a sick joke when, a couple days after we'd buried my sister, there was a knock on the door, I opened it, and found no one waiting on the other wise except for a poodle, its curly fur dyed St. Patrick's green. I rolled my eyes. I snorted. I called out to the prankster.
And then I shut my door on the poodle and walked back inside.
Barely a moment passed before I heard the shattering of glass, and looked to my side to see the green poodle leaping through a window into my home.
I stepped back. I held up a hand. “Good dog.”
The green poodle lunged at a floor lamp, twisted its head to the side, and took the lamp pole into its mouth. It didn't bother growling as it thrashed around and smashed the the lamp to the floor.
I help up my other hand. “Hey, now. I'm a friend. Good dog.”
The green poodle crouched low and stared up into my eyes. He was taking charge.
I stumbled backwards, tripping over my own feet.
Wood splintered and plaster reigned down on me as the dog threw its body against every wall in the room, breaking open holes and shaking the ceiling.
It barked once and began to growl as its claws tore through the carpet.
I tried to scoot myself backwards along the carpet.
I couldn't move fast enough.
My canine attacker's jaws clamped tight on my leg. I both heard and felt my leg bone snap. The blood that poured out was warm and sticky. I felt dizzy. The world spun around me.
Again, it bit me. The other leg this time.
I reached into my pocket for my cellphone.
I cried out as the dog jumped on top of me and gnawed at my abdomen.
I dialed my brother.
The dog's claws raked along my neck.
“Hello?” – my brother.
“Look out for the green poodle.” – my last words.