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This writing prompt was really fun, but I had some trouble with recording! I'm trying to figure out mic placement, and I think I might have missed the mark this time. The writing prompt for this one read:
You wake up to find that all pets around the world have reverted back to their primal/prehistoric selves but have kept their fur/feather color and characteristics. Dogs are dire wolves, cats are sabers, birds are velociraptors, etc. To your surprise, though, they've kept their loyalty.
~u/ACowInTheBarn,
originally found on /r/Writingprompts
I remember when we first laid eyes on him. He was this tiny, extravagantly fuzzy, slobbery little mess in the corner of the humane society cages. You could tell right away that he wasn’t like other dogs. While all of the other dogs were either barking or howling or whining, this little guy was stone quiet. He had ears that were each as wide as his entire head was, with little gray tufts of hair sticking off the end. It really made him look more like a house elf than a dog.
Which, perhaps, was fitting, because he didn’t know how to do anything doglike. He knew no commands, didn’t come to any name they had tried out on him, didn’t lick, didn’t show any sign of play behavior. For all intents and purposes this was just some sullen being in a dog suit.
My wife was in the other room when I began my approach. It wasn’t that he was unfriendly, just that he was nervous. I reached my hand out and he flinched away a bit. I decided to take it a bit slower. It took several minutes of calm voices, bribery with treats and displays of non-aggression to make the dog understand that I wasn’t going to hurt it. Finally, I was able to gain enough of his trust to furtively pet him.
He was much warmer with my wife, who had finally been able to join us from the other room. I say much warmer, but what I mean is that he just didn’t flinch with her. Still had the same judgmental, almost panicked look on his little fuzzy face. We were a little surprised when he seemed to be, not only curious, bet happy to see children come in the room. He went over to sniff them, but ducked away any time they tried to pet him.
We didn’t come for this little dog, and so we moved on to another dog about the same time the children did. They brought us papers for the other dog that we had planned to see and something very curious happened. I don’t know if he thought they were adoption papers, or if papers signified some time of release for him, or what, but he began to wag his tail. My wife and I looked at each other, and back to the dog, who began to wag his tail a little faster and look up at us with hope in his eyes.
My wife is a total softy. Of course, when it comes to dogs, so am I. We glanced back at each other to ensure that we were on the same track.
“We’ll take him” we both said at the same time.
Frasier, as we came to call him, didn’t like cars. My wife had to pick him up and hold him on her lap while we went home.
He also didn’t like steps. This was a real problem because we lived in a building with no elevator, and our apartment was up three flights of stairs.
Frasier did like food. He wasn’t even picky. We gave him the same dog food that people donate to homeless shelters, and he acted like it was the most delicious thing he’d ever seen in his life. We could have named him Oliver, because this poor little orphan dog just looked at us with big eyes that seemed to exclaim “please sir, I want some more”.
He was a funny looking, fussy little dog. But my wife treated him like he was our child.
My wife and I had lost a pregnancy about a year back. It took counseling, several week-long crying sessions, and a short bout of alcoholism on my part to get us through the mourning process. I wasn’t sure my wife ever made it out of the mourning process. She had closed herself of from everyone, including me. But when she held little Frasier, I could see a spark behind her eyes.
As time wore on, we lost many disciplinary battles with Frasier. Originally, he was not going to be allowed on the furniture; upon finding him there snuggled up to one of our dirty shirts, my wife changed her mind. He was going to stay in the living room and kitchen, and was not to be allowed on our bed. My wife was ill and the dog would not leave me alone until I let him in the room and on the bed to be with her. He would snuggle up with her at every single opportunity.
He wasn’t just a momma’s boy though. He came to me to play. As I mentioned before, he didn’t play like a normal dog. He didn’t do anything like a normal dog. He would do the pouncing, butt in the air, “come and get me” thing, yes, but as soon as you caught him, he looked up at you like he was begging not to be dinner. He didn’t like being chased, he couldn’t do tug-of-war, and he didn’t do play-biting.
No, for Frasier the only game he liked to paly was fetch. But only with certain of his toys. If you threw the pull rope, he was fine with that, but if you threw one of his adopted toys, like Mr. Owl, he would give you looks that ranged anywhere from hurt and confused to dirty and vengeful. Eventually, he learned that we meant his little friends no harm, and would bring them to us willingly. He would let us know when it was no longer time to play with them by flopping dramatically on the floor and sighing heavily.
He had a very large personality alright, for such a small little dog. It wasn’t that I didn’t like Frasier due to his size, it was just that I grew up with Labradors, my neighbor had a Great Dane. I used to make fun of dogs around Frasier’s size. It always seemed to me that the personality of smaller dogs left a lot to be desired, and they were always frightful, and; well, prissy.
But this little ball of fluff wormed his way into my heart too, and morning snuggles had become routine. When he first heard us wake up, we would hear him do his morning shake out and stretching in the kitchen. Before long, we would hear the patter of his little paw-pads coming at us, followed by a soft jingling of his tags as he jumped on the bed.
He didn’t even snuggle up like a normal dog. He instead would lay down and wiggle, nose first, until he was in the position he desired. We called this maneuver ‘the snuggle snake’. We would tease him, asking if he was a snake or a dog. I remember commenting to my wife that it was hard to believe that this little thing could eve have been descended from the mighty wolves of prehistoric times.
It’s a lot easier to believe it this morning, though.
When my wife is out of town on business, the dog sleeps with me. He takes her spot in the bed, and for a little guy, does a surprisingly good job filling up the bed. He may be short, but he’s incredibly long in the ribs and stretches out as if he were attempting to run the same way a cheetah does, and takes nothing short of an impressive amount of space.
I woke this morning at the dim light of dawn. I reached behind me put my hand over to Frasier’s side of the bed. I hit fur and start to scratching, which is another part of our morning routine. In the past few months, Frasier has taken to licking my gently when I pet him behind the ear. It’s like he’s trying to pet me back; either that or he thinks my forearm is delicious. What I feel is not the little tongue of my little dog, though; it’s a nasty, wide, wet, fleshy slap that feels like it’s trying to take my skin with it.
“Ew, Frasier! What have you got?” I roll over to look and WHAT IN THE SEVEN HELLS IS THAT THING?!
I let out a scream that would do Wes Craven proud and fall off my side of the bed. The thing follows me and cocks its head to the side. I let out another terrible sound and smear my way through what I am now discovering was the contents of my bowels on my way to the bathroom. I slam the door shut with my foot and try to lean up against it.
I can hear the thing, breathing heavily on the other side; it feels like it’s close, like just by breathing it’s making the door move.
How did that thing get in here? I can’t even think straight, but then, like a lightning enema I think of my poor little dog.
“FRASIER! WHERE IS MY LITTLE BOY! FRASIER” I hear the giant thing jump off the blood, and what I can only assume was its head hit the door, pushing me back slightly. I try to slam the door back and find it well stopped by this things head. It lets out a yelp and groan. For some reason I feel slightly bad.
I can hear my phone ringing in the other room, on the other side of the door. I feel another push, and a whine.
This thing does not seem like an apex predator.
It seems clumsy. Friendly?
With my phone in the other room, my wife not due back for another week, and god only knows who else in the building I’m not sure if I’m ever getting rescued. I gently pry open the door and peak around, where I am met by a giant, rubbery, wet nose on my nose.
I hear the thing pant, happily.
We played this game with Frasier all the time. We called it the boop game.
Could this thing be Frasier? I open the door and look at the giant thing, inspecting from as respectable a distance as I can. Frasier hated bathrooms, and this thing seems to hold that in common. It jumps up on the bed and looks at me through the door. This just seems like a normal day to him. Well, its fur is the same gray as Frasier’s. It’s got the same muddled spots on its face and body.
“Frasier?” I call, very quietly. The thing lifted its ears and looked at me, waiting for a command, or some verbal interaction.
Frasier knew very few commands, but he did know his name.
“Who’s a good boy?” I whisper, and the thing’s tail starts thumping the mattress, drumming away at the comforter and sending his own hair flying. He lays down and groans loudly, putting his belly towards me and stretching the same stretch that Frasier used to do.
Oh my god.
This thing is Frasier.
I stand up and realize how disgusting I feel. This thing has literally scared the crap out of me. Maybe a shower will help me snap out of this. Maybe I’ll wake up and this will all be a dream. That’s it. A shower. I’m going to shower.
I get into the shower, clothes and all and start trying to think of ways to handle this situation. No matter what I do, or how I try, I can’t seem to wake up.
This is… real?
I’ve rinsed out my clothes as best as I can and have managed to clean myself up too. I’m having trouble breathing. I realize that my allergies must be going haywire due to the… growth spurt, of my dog.
My next-door neighbor works nights, and was just came home to her four cats.
I know this because I hear a blood-curdling scream that threatens to break the dam of my bowels again.
Frasier only barked for three things: being woken suddenly, someone knocking on the door or ringing the doorbell, and playing with dog friends.
A combination of one and two occurs, and I’m fairly certain that I’m having a mild heart attack. This isn’t a polite knocking, but a panicked beating of the door.
I wrap myself in a towel and make my way to the front door. The thing follows. I open the door to find Karen blubbering hysterically in tongues and shoving her way in the door. Frasier always liked Karen, and would jump when he saw her.
The New Frasier jumped and came at her. There was a scream that could have shattered glass, and I think cracked my tv screen, though that could have come from any of the following chaos. Karen faints on the floor and immediately vomits. I roll her over into a safer position just in time to see New Frasier try to hide under the table, a feat that used to be quite easy.
The table is now too short for him, and he has knocked it sideways, knocking a few weeks’ worth of mail and other gathered debris from daily living onto the floor. This surprises him, which causes him to run full speed across the room, which is now, functionally, much shorter than it used to be. He tries to skid to a halt, but his claws find too much purchase in the carpet, and his top half flies forward, sending his head through the screen door of the porch.
This reminds him of the cone of shame.
He does not like the cone of shame.
He begins to shake and pull against the screen, dislodging the door before managing to get his head free. He is used to hiding behind me when something scares him, sometimes running in between my legs to get there. He tries, and his backbone hits my crotch with such force that I think my singing voice has forever moved up an octave. I can’t breathe, I wish I couldn’t feel anything from the waist down, my towel has flown off somewhere, and my neighbor is beginning to come to in a pile of her own vomit.
I roll over on my side, in a painfully inept attempt to cover my privates from the eyes of my neighbor, who in no way asked for any of this misfortune. I try to talk, but I can only wheeze. I feel like I’m trying to hold my nethers together with my bare hands. I’m pretty sure the only reason I’m not actively puking is because it’s all gone from my earlier systemic purging.
New Frasier is now snuggle snaking himself beside me in an attempt to comfort me.
In the distance, sirens.
Karen screams again and I try to wave her off of screaming. Frasier at this point is cowering behind me.
It does very little good, as his size is now almost double mine.
I feel a vibration though the floor boards. It sounds like… purring?
“Karen” I finally manage to say. I sit up and cross my legs in a feeble attempt at decency. “Karen, they’re still your cats.”
Tears are streaming down her face, going over and through the vomit stuck to her face. She is red eyed; her hair looks like she just stuck her tongue in the toaster. She is completely without words that match the human tongue. All she knows how to speak at this moment is the language of terror.
Her nouns are screams, her verbs are a sobbing blubbering noise that is equal parts endearing and pathetic.
“Karen” I find my towel in the mess, as she is busy with her face in her hands. I wrap the towel around me again and sit gingerly next to Karen. I put my hand on her shoulder and rub in a back and forth motion.
“Karen, they’re still your cats.” Frasier comes over to my side, opposite of Karen, and lays his huge head on my lap.
She brings her head out of her hands, and looks over at Frasier’s head on my lap. I can see her working to stifle a scream. “Frasier?” she asks of the dog. A giant thumping response from his tail sends giggles through Karen suddenly. “I’m sorry little buddy.”
Frasier has always been gifted at sighing, but with his newfound size it’s almost its own weather event.
Karen suddenly starts crying again.
“Hey” I rub her shoulders gently in the same consoling manner as before “what’s wrong?”
Through sobs, I understand her words.
“How… how am I gonna feed them?”