Old Dog and the Intervention

This free story of an old dog is a work of fiction. The events and characters described herein are products of the author’s imagination.

Thank goodness for that…right?

Copyright © 2021

by Thomas M. Watson

All rights reserved, including the right of reproduction of the free story in whole or in part in any form. This short story may not be copied or redistributed without the sole written consent of the author.

Old Dog, Old Dog and the InterventionOld Dog, Old Dog and the InterventionOld Dog, Old Dog and the InterventionIntervention from the Old Dog

The old dog woke up, winced and rubbed his sides on his blanket.

On, perhaps the coldest morning of the year, old dog Buckley crawled out of bed, yawned and scratched himself, shaking off the chills. Most likely, Woody didn’t turn up the thermostat last night.

Old Dog, Old Dog and the Intervention‘Look at that drunken sumbitch. Passed out and slept in his chair again.

Dammit, I’m hungry. Haven’t eaten since noon yesterday.’

Woodward Smith felt a sensation in his right leg. His subconsciousness assumed it was a dream. Slowly breaking from his slumber, he winced and rubbed his temples, too.

Another sensation, no…a nudge. On his right leg.

Damn. I slept in the chair again.

“Wake up, Woody! Rise ‘n shine, man.”

“Whaa… Who’s there? Who’s in my house?” he said, looking under half closed eyelids.

“It’s me, Woody. We need to talk.”

Woodward sat up straighter. Scratched himself, saying aloud. “How much did I drink last night?”

“Looks to me like you finished the whole bottle.”

Woody struggled opening his eyes much wider. “Who’s there?”

“Dammit, Woody! I’m down here.”

He looked down near his feet. “Buckley? Nah. Did you say something?”

“We gotta talk, Woody. ‘Cause I’ve about had it.”

“No way. You’re not really talking. Somebody’s trying to freak me out.”

“Calm down, Woody. You’re okay. Gotta lay off the sauce, man. I’d like to keep you around a while.”

“Buckley? I can’t believe it. You’ve never talked to me before now.”

“I’ve never had to. I’m worried about you, man.”

“Worried about me? Why?”

“Because you’re not taking care of yourself. Look at you, man. You’re a mess.”

“What do you know about it? You’re just a Beagle.”

Just a Beagle? Man, that hurt.”

“You started it.”

“Your behavior needs to be addressed, Woody. Your wife isn’t here. She left with another guy. Two weeks ago, remember? She told you, and I quote, “Get on with your disgusting life. I’m never coming back.”

“I know. So…what do you want from me, Buckley?”

“First, you gotta let me outside so I can relieve myself. I haven’t eaten since yesterday, so there’s that. Got to turn up the thermostat in here. It’s colder than a witch’s buns in here.”

“Okay, I…”

“Hold on! I’m not finished. I wanna start sleeping at the foot of your bed, with you in it. My God, man! Sleeping in that chair is gonna kill ya.”

“I suppose I have to start taking you outside for walks again, too?”

“Nah. We’re getting too old for that. Just let me out in the yard once in a while. On nice days, of course. Besides, you have other things to do.”

“Alright. I’ll let you outside for a few minutes. Get you some food and water.”

“Atta boy, Woody. And, you take care of yourself, too. You hear me?”

“Guess it’s about time I did.”

“Good to hear.”

As they walked to the back door, Woody asked, “Why’d you start talking to me now, Buckley?”

“Someone had to. You were sliding downhill pretty fast.”

“Who’d have thought my dog would come to my rescue?”

“Let’s just call it unconditional love.”

.     .     .

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