Corgi

"So, what's the catch?"         

It was a dog who did it.         

A dog.

A gangster who was decked in a trench coat of soot-black and royal-blue mischief.

That dog, looking squinty-eyed out from under his Fedora, held two pistols in the alleyway.

Yes, it was an alleyway where they dueled it out.

A Weiner versus—      

A Corgi.  

No, the Corgi just wanted a homely life. He ventured out to seek some friends. But what he got was  

a chance to join the dogs in the alleyway.

A chance!

A chance not to be a normal Corgi anymore.

But he was a Corgi. That’s all he was.

And he knew it.

He ventured.      

A bunch of thieves cackled about their mischief around a crackling fire.

Yes, the Corgi could join.

But there was a catch.

The Corgi had to swear he wouldn't just go looking for friends, one of the Weiner dogs said.

Yeah, croaked another fool, chomping on dog food, it falling out of his mouth. You need to be a real thief.

But, the Corgi stuttered, I don't really know. I...

Stop excusing yourself. You see me buying anything?

No.

Then if you want to join, you must have the guts not to be caught.

The Corgi didn't know what to say.

He studied them all, black trench coats and brown coats of fur all being lightened by the light of the fire.

The Corgi stepped away from the heat.

What's wrong, laughed one. Too timid to resist the joy of getting what you deserve?

The Corgi didn't say anything. One of them chucked an empty bag of popcorn at him.

He whimpered.

One day, the police arrived.

They arrested the Corgi.

He was charged with second degree theft.

He was innocent, he protested.

Then why, interrogated one officer, did you steal?

The Corgi hung his head.

I... I couldn't help it.

It was just time.

I just stole--

Something precious to someone else.

That someone else could be your friend.

Yes, the Corgi admitted. He could've been.

Then I can't trust you anymore.

No, Master, you can't.

No, the officer said. Bye.

Driving away from the pound, the officer couldn't get his mind off his beloved pet.

He was seen picking up his Corgi.

Stupid officer, some officers snickered.

He was shunned by everyone.

Fired.

They walked along a street of their city towards a place.

Where, he said, they'd rescue strays.

The Corgi smiled.

No catch?

The police officer thought about it.

How about I give you an offer?

No, the Corgi retorted. No more pressure! I want to be someone.

The police officer shook his head. in time, he said goodbye.

“Master?” the Corgi waited by the door for hours. He never left his master’s police car.

Until it was nighttime.

And the alleyway dogs came out.

“Hey!” One chided. “How about getting over here and giving us some—”

“Some what?” The Corgi barked. Baring his teeth, he dashed.

No one’s ever thought of me the way you have.

He felt in his soul there was someone out there who wouldn’t just ‘yes, sir’ and ‘no, sir’ humans but also him.

The Corgi ran and ran, cars sometimes blasting their horns and people panicking—women screaming, men yelling and children begging their parents to get them that dog!—but the Corgi was free.

Free from confusion, anxiety, restlessness and control.

That police officer wasn’t really his master, at least not in the way he should’ve been.

Police officers don’t have Corgis as working dogs. They have German Shepherds.

The Corgi belonged to Queen Elizabeth, but the Corgi was in America. England was very, very far away.

The Corgi finally fell, exhausted, into a mud hole. Closed his eyes.

He woke up, blinking as rays of sunshine glowered at him.

Where am I?

He looked around. Bed sheets ruffled as if someone had kicked at them to get out of bed. A lamp on, but no one was coming to turn it off. The dresser lined with jewelry.

Suddenly, heat from what the Corgi could only assume was a shower emanated from the bathroom.

The Corgi got up, shook himself and then escaped out the bedroom door. Yes! There was a crack in the doorway. The Corgi pawed at it, and was gone, the sun being his lamp for the day.

At night, he settled next to some geese honking their way through life.

A pond of lilies was his only company.

“I wish the geese could show me the way.”

The Corgi sighed, laying his head down on his paws. He was tired.

He tried conversing with the geese, but they were too busy chasing people who ran with lighters—red things on bikes they called them.

Blinkers, the Corgi proudly remembered.

“Blinkers!”

The geese looked at him.

“How’d you get to be so smart?” One piped up smoothly, as if to test the Corgi. Another snapped at this smart-mouthed bird, but he cocked his head smartly.

The Corgi didn’t answer but just left.

I’m not a trashcan you can just throw your junky words into.

The Corgi threw up his head and let out a howl.

Where do I belong?

The Corgi traveled the city, the lights blaring but not as nearly as much as the sun coming in through those bedroom windows. The Corgi felt he needed to get away from the city.

Maybe a town will do.

The Corgi couldn’t see anything else but grass and houses for miles.

The farm? Not a chance. The country? Not much difference.

Children would love me, but I don’t like children.

The Corgi ended up in an alleyway with words spray painted onto the brick walls. Big letters that the Corgi knew he didn’t understand. Some big kids dashed past him, their sneakers splashing the puddles as they called to each other, and then caught up with each other, going away somewhere.

The Corgi sniffed and then sneezed.

Smoke.

People nearby were putting something thin, long and white into their mouths and then pulling it out a few seconds later. Smoke emanated evilly from their lips.

“What’s the catch?”

“Except you listen to me.”

The Corgi told Patchwork the friendly, smiley Weiner dog with the black and red plaid flat cap.

“Yes, sir!”

The police officer said sorry—he needed his dog; he needed his job. He just didn’t want to be different from everyone else. He knew he never should’ve left.

But he can’t find his Corgi.

He bought another Corgi.

But this one ran away, and he wanted a Corgi.

One day, the police officer dove into action—he looked for the Corgi.

The Weiner and the Corgi were at a bonfire.

They, or the Corgi, saw a man with a gun. With a knife handle in the belt. A badge on the side of his shirt. Short dark hair.

“Corgi?”

Barking, the Corgi ran around the fire and into the man’s arms.

“Corgi.”

But the Weiner was barking—growling!

The Corgi struggled to get out of the man’s arms, but he was strong. He bound the Corgi’s muzzle and paws, hogtying him and throwing him into a cage.

The double doors slammed. The Corgi panted, his eyes wide, his ears back, his tail tucked between his legs. Well, as close to his butt as possible. He was shaking. Finally, the man got out. Backing away, the Corgi’s eyes widened, but the man opened the cage and beckoned the Corgi forward.

Confusion drenched the Corgi’s disposition.

He…was he Master?

Then the familiar scent of gun smoke ran up the Corgi’s nose, and he struggled against the binds.

“Hey, I’m here for you!”

The Corgi sensed that the man wasn’t a bad guy—he was simply trying to find out his life.

The Corgi was freed and leapt with joy upon the man, the man cuddling—

A yell and then a flash of bare teeth.

Ankle! Blood.

The man yelled, but to no avail. He had to wince, limp and cry for help all the way home.

The Corgi stared at his friend, the Weiner. Somehow, he knew where they were.

He stared with bared teeth—bared fangs—but was lost.

The Corgi cried and barked, but the man snapped at him to stop it. He needed help.

The Corgi got so bad the man let him out.

Go! Run away or something.

But the Corgi charged for the Weiner. They talked.

No, the Corgi countered. I am with Master. It was him. He just…he’s lost.

The Weiner dog blinked, and looked down.

What’s going on? He demanded.

Look, Weiner—

Name’s not Weiner.

Then, look. Master’s here. He’s hurt—because of you—

I didn’t know he was your master. I thought he was someone—

Please! Just stay away.

But we’re friends—

Not anymore.

Wait—lead me to him.

The Corgi dashed off, towards Master. He cried, pawing at the door and barking.

Master let him in, straining not to get angry at him.

“My ankle! That stupid dog.”

The Corgi struggled not to agree. He felt they were still friends. He felt he would’ve done the same thing.

The Corgi watched as the man limped to the kitchen counter, grabbed the phone and then crashed to the ground, falling to the ground. He dialed 9-1-1.

He also dialed the Weiner dog.

But not in the same way.

The Weiner’s eyes went wide as he was cornered, gun to head.

The Weiner suddenly shook the hat off, and begged him to take it. Whining, the dog saw that the man got the message.

The hat cured the man—right in front of the wide-eyed, staring, jaw-dropping event. The paramedics were frozen with disbelief.

The magical hat saved Master.

Now, the Master saw, that the Weiner dog and the Corgi and he all had a purpose.

He returned to work months later.

With the Weiner and the Corgi.

Right by his side.

He soon lost his job.

But, the police officer smiled down at his new dogs as he sat the kitchen table, his laptop before him, he had friends.

The Corgi had a new friend.

He was happy.

He panted—smilingly.

“So,” the Weiner said, “We’re friends? No hard feelings?”

“No. No more hard feelings.”