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“To fulfill your parenting fantasies, get a puppy.
Don’t bring another life into this world for all the wrong reasons.”
----
Geez, I never thought I could think of a better line than that of Anne Rice. After reading her paperback, “Servant of The Bones”, in use now as stand in front of a full size mirror, all I could think of is enact the draft pertinent to my sudden existence out of darkness.
Now, why read “Servant of The Bones” by Anne Rice, you may ask. Well, because of my sudden existence out of darkness.
I crept on this one clammy, underdeveloped tomboy’s book collection to see if I could find some answer on my bubble subsistence. Like the main charmer of the book Azriel, I don’t know why I just came about. I don’t even have the slightest idea where I spring from or what had been, if I’m a result of some animal testing or cause by some nuclear warfare or catastrophic phenomenon. It’s just that, without prior notice, my sense of sight ajar and what filled it is a ceiling with holes made for rain leaks, and my sense of touch feels and it’s lying on a cold rough uncarpeted floor surrounded with unorganized things spread all over a matchbox of a place I just frothed in.
Well initially, I painstakingly stood up with the use of two short legs with paws, the ones on my head part, followed by another two short legs with paws on my tail part.
That’s what I first noticed, “Wow! Four legs!”
Soon after, I became aware of the fuzzy coat or hair (my own set of mind corrected me as fur) all over my body and its like highlighted with brown/black coloration and something in my overly-confused head tells me that there’s a right term for it and from that I could call back to mind (and heart) something, or a lot of things, about ME.
Hmmmn. Let’s leave that for later for some unearthing.
Shortly, I was walking around the place with my four furry short legs with paws like in exploration.
In exploration, I stepped on this wet liquid my right mind tells as like my pee? from this clear brown long bottle and as if it’s the natural thing for me to do, I licked it with my tongue. I don’t know what that taste is but I knew I didn’t like it especially when my right mind already told me that it’s like my pee?
I continued walking, my nose like a gold detector sniffling at the ground trying on every items that has a smell, taste, or form. Some of it were tasted and made me either choke or sneeze unstoppable; some were swallowed giving my tummy a feeling of hunger and auditory hallucinations of, “Food, food…”
I couldn’t find ME a bowl of food and I knew, even there’s a kitchen within the perimeter of this matchbox, there’s no way I could serve myself with what I’m craving for. It’s like I’m not meant to prepare a meal for myself. I could maybe sneak into some open pans or containers because it’s like more of my gift but for me to prepare an edible buffet? Impossible. What, with my four short legs with rubberized diminutive paws and all, what do you expect?
I learned right there and then that I am a master to be arranged of food and drink and I would soil anywhere and I won’t have to clean it and it’s pardonable. For some ‘others’ would do that for me.
That ‘others’ I happen to glance on a wall where I saw a poster of a two-legged creature in skimpy blue scales (there’s no hair on that three triangles covering some part of its body so I gather it’s not fur but scales) with two short legs on the coat-hanger attached to her head part.
Yes, there’s no doubt that is the form of the one that dishes up my needs ---> Luscious. Err, Human.
Human? If it’s human then that made me a… “Dog”?
“A DOG!”
(Not to confuse you as it confuses me, particulars or major facts just started registering onto my head. That next to human, dog it seemed is the next best living thing to be targeted by aliens for total eradication, which means they are indeed special, that explains why I mentioned it for my second choice to be my form.)
“I’m a dog. No, it can’t be true. Because I can’t be a dog. I’m no dog. How can I be a dog when I write better dialogue than Anne Rice?” Subsequently that’s my redundant stream of thoughts until…
“Nyaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaah!”
I saw my total feature in front of a life-size mirror.
“I am a dog!”
One brow arrogantly rose with a twitch of a flashy smile, “Hell-o, handsome.”
Then, jaw dropped.
“But, an undersized Dog?!”
That. That inquiry single spaced above initiate that I began fumbling on books.
Books are no doubt the most intelligent thing in the world. However unpalatable the pages are, it can provide you just the right information you needed.
With it I found out what I really am ---> a dog. A child dog. Or a grown-up trapped in a young dog’s body. Ok, in no pretense mode ---> a puppy. But I rather label myself a dog, sounds full-fledged.
I also learned that a dog is human’s best friend. No wonder they serve us our meal and clean our own mess. But hooold it. In turn, these humans became our master to guard and save from harm. So we’re like wedged in a give and take cycle.
I discovered from what breed I rooted as well. And it’s really from such popular breeds and mentioning it might make you think I’m bragging so let’s just leave it unsaid.
Now, as to who/what I am and how I came about (err, let’s leave the sex part out of this for it’s kind of a methodical explanation of my being), err, it’s still my foremost concern until now. That’s, actually, what lead me to reading more books (insanely available in the refrigerator) and finally, made me finished the angst of Anne Rice’ “Servant of The Bones” because I remember the BLACKNESS, where also Azriel originated.
But I can’t picture myself as coming and going to bones like him although my day may begin and end with bones like a spouse to his better half. Dogs love bones so much that it would make them propose on it at a sight. Goooood topic for inquiry. As my memory progress I’ll find out why is that. Authoring a book about it might put my name amongst the bestseller. Harharhar.
The owner of the books, by the way, is right there comatose on her bed unaware of my presence. And I mean seriously, I couldn’t imagine her being my best friend, or master. What an irresponsible fluke she looks like (Tsk, tsk. ‘Looking totally wasted). Then it might be possible that this maggot is liable for my… err, amnesia?
Whatever, it’s already dark outside which means it’s time for sleeping. Besides, I feel hungry and there’s no food to eat so sleeping is the best tonic to forget the ‘krrgling’ of my wiggly intestines. I only have to dream to fill its emptiness. Or maybe I’ll light a matchstick like in “The Little match Girl” and hotdogs and sausages will pop up. There may even be barbecued turkey and king size fried elephant with every matchsticks that I’ll burn.
Sigh. What a hunger could do – crazy thoughts.
Now, if only I could find a match in this place – Groan.
Fat chance.
I walked to the side of this sweaty, underdeveloped tomboy’s bed. I stood up to her bed side to see if she’s still alive.
“Hey, wasted maggot, wake up. (In a singsong) It’s time for bee-ed.”
She didn’t stir. Maybe because that line is heard of already.
I looked around for a bulb to light me with a catchy line when again I sight the wet gooey by the ground. Hmmmn.
“Hey, scatterbrained, you forgot to wipe your pee! You’ll slip on it right when you get out of this cot.”
“Ngoooooork!”
Pathetic. She only answered with a ‘Little Nicky kind of’ snore. You know ‘Little Nicky’? Luci’s good son with a talking wrinkled dog? It was showing in Star Movies awhile ago. This scatterbrained left her T.V. on. She maybe has illegal cable and power connection that’s why she didn’t bother shutting it.
Oh, well. What’s important is she’s still alive and there’s no need to worry about getting rid of a dead body or being accused of slaughtering someone.
I laid in fetal position and closed my eyes. Err, without my control, I scratched some of my itchy portions. Its part of my bedtime ritual I think and it’s “Oh. So good, so good…”
(“So, you still don’t know about the freeloader’s invasion eh. Ik, ik, ik!” – Tics)
BLACKNESS
