|Spot The Dog (standard:Suspense, 2798 words)|
|Author: Atticus||Added: Oct 24 2002||Views/Reads: 2889/1944||Story vote: 0.00 (0 votes)|
|Joe tries to get on with his life after a tempestuous relationship with Troy, unfortunately the past has a habit of creeping up on him.|
Spot the dog Joe opened the second to last of his many trunks, and took out a large, purple, embossed photo album from within. He sat down on the expansive window-sill in his new, exquisitely-designed bedroom (decorated with the finest Laura Ashley cushions and drapes), and opened the album with a sigh; already remembering the past, but eager to relive both his good and bad memories contained therein. He flicked through the first couple of pages - pictures of him and Troy on holiday in Marbella, his mother, Barbara, the old flat in York - and smiled; he had, largely, such fond memories of the old. Then, as he remembered what photographs were yet to come, he turned the pages even more eagerly, and anticipated his favourite snapshots. And there they were. Page upon page of Spot, his and Troy's old Daschund, now dead some five years, but still very much alive in Joe's fertile mind. Joe pondered upon the images of Spot leaping about on the beach in Scarborough, covered in sand one minute, and then soaking wet the next. Spot had been such an adorable pet; loving, extrovert, and loyal, and Joe had loved him like only a childless homosexual could do - with unrestrained adoration which, of course, was reciprocated by the typically faithful dog. If only Troy had been as loyal or as loving towards Joe, let alone Spot. No, Joe thought with a grimace. Troy only loved one thing, and that was sleeping around with anything that had a pulse; blondes, brunettes, tall men, thin men, spotty youths, and even old men in public lavatories when desperation struck. Spot wasn't like that though, oh no. Thankfully, Joe thought to himself. Spot adored Joe, and Joe adored Spot. Joe's comparison between Troy and Spot (not to mention the relationship between Troy and Spot; strained, misunderstood, and difficult) triggered a recollection of the mens' last days together. The violent arguments between them, despite the lapse of time - now 8 months - still caused bile to rise in the back of his throat, and bitterness to replace the calm engendered by remembering Spot. Troy was, in Joe's eyes, an unfaithful witch who deserved castration for the least of his crimes. However, although Spot was no longer with Joe, but up in doggy heaven with the other canines, the warm memories of Spot were with Joe like they were together only yesterday, and the affectionate thoughts of Spot helped, generously, to ease the pain of both the separation from Spot and, later, from Troy. As a tear dropped from his eye (ever the drama queen), Joe shut the album with a sharp snap. There was nothing else for it. Joe would, on the spur of the moment, just go out and acquire himself another dog by whatever means available to him. Being single and unemployed (thanks to Him), he now had the necessary time to care for another dog, and Troy's pay-off - nearly two hundred grand then, but liable to increase if the investments worked well - clearly meant he could afford a respectable breed should he need to buy one. The only problem was, which breed would Joe choose... Although Spot was a pedigree Daschund - and Joe did adore him - there were other breeds out there which would better meet Joe's needs. Yes. A Mastiff would be ideal, as would a Rottweiler. But then, if he could get hold of one, there were also Pit-Bull Terriers, and, without a doubt, one of those dogs would obviously fit the bill. The plan to buy and bring up another dog, in Joe's mind, formed itself remarkably easy once the momentum had begun. Within seconds Joe's excitement grew at the prospect of sharing his life, once again, with a dog; they could walk, talk, and sleep together, and without any interruption from anyone else. Life would just consist of Joe and the dog-to-be. And so what if Troy had never liked Spot, he wasn't around anymore to interfere, and Joe could do as he pleased. He was a grown up after all. Two weeks later (longer than anticipated, but not too long) Joe was dragged through the front door; excited, but a little drained, with his left arm hurting a great deal. At the end of the lead wrapped around his left hand was the dog he persuaded himself that he had always wanted - a great, big, slobbery Bull Mastiff. His name was Bruno, he was only 12 months old (so had a bit more growing to do), and his coat was Joe's favourite colour - oatmeal; this season's white. Joe ignored the 'phone which was ringing as he struggled to release Bruno from his lead - the dog would insist on resisting Joe's attempts at unleashing Click here to read the rest of this story (207 more lines)
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