survival

The Weiner dog with the dark blue and black plaid Beret cap stopped his little journey from his trashcan of a home on the streets of New York City. When he stopped, he looked up at the glaring sign. It was neon blue. But it was night out.

He sighed. “Maybe in another life.”

Fame glared at him as he had walked past.

He kept walking, and smelled the air. Tail wagged incessantly as he reared up and charged towards a man selling hot dogs on a cart. Barking, the Weiner leaped up and licked the air. “Whoa, hey there! I’ve seen you before.”

The man’s large hand disappeared and then reappeared with a hotdog, steam escaping from it. “You want it? Go get it!” He threw it across the sidewalk where several people yelled and scolded, and, laughing, he turned back to his work, mumbling about annoying animals stealing. The Weiner’s eyes, however, were locked straight on that hotdog sitting on the gravel. Steam still rose from it, but the Weiner lunged, almost hitting someone’s stroller. A scream escaped some girl but then vaporized as soon as the Weiner shut it out of his life as he gobbled down the treat, saliva dripping from his mouth. He turned back to see whether the man had any more; he usually gave one. Maybe this time, it’ll be two or three.

He turned back, barking.

“Get lost, dog!”

More barking—

“Get lost!”

This time, the man wasn’t laughing. He brandished a large pair of tongs, and anger flamed in his eyes. The Weiner backed off, whining, and then ran down the alleyway, away from the thousands of people walking to and fro, the carts, sellers and lights glaring and cars honking and sirens screaming. The Weiner just wanted peace and quiet.

“Where’s a good place to curl up and enjoy a nice bed?”

“How about you make one?”

The Weiner jumped. Oh wait—his hat. But the creature—which turned out to be another stray animal like he—had it in its mouth. The Weiner tried snatching it back, but the creature flicked its long, slim tail and gave the dog a long, cool look. Its mouth curled up into a snarl.

“Give it, and I’ll tell you how to get the other hotdogs. Steal them all the time.”

A paw extended, and the Weiner’s mouth dropped open at all the half-eaten, not eaten and quarter-eaten hotdogs he could feast his eyes on. They were all in a pile, like the cat had just invited him to a dinner just for the two of them. The Weiner didn’t dare attack the pile, but he looked at the cat, trying not to even look famished. “Look,” he said, “I live on the streets, but I want you to know I can help you get a family or at least something to call home.”

“I don’t mean to pry, but do you have any idea how that tower looks? It’s a mansion—an edible mansion.”

The cat nodded indifferently, walking over to curl up in front of it like a dragon with its precious but stolen treasures. “You see, it’s all mine. You want it, and you’ll have to—”

“Yeah, yeah, I’ll have to fight you.”

The cat blinked. “Oh no! That’s not who I am. I’m no aggressive animal.”

“Where’s my hat? I sleep with it every night!” The Weiner looked in the direction of the cat’s flicked paw and stole the hat back. It had dirty water dripping from it, but it was now safely flipped up onto his head. “There—I can—”

The cat was looking at him with half-closed eyes.

“Yeah,” the Weiner dog bowed his head. “Never mind.” He averted his eyes. “I—”

“Can tell me what’s going on in your life.”

“Well,” the Weiner started happily, “I was walking along the sidewalk, and I saw a blue sign called Fame. I didn’t want it.”

The cat burst out laughing, and rolled onto its back, its legs kicking. When it was done pounding a paw in a mud puddle, the cat got up on all fours, deadly serious. “Fame isn’t allowed here.”

The Weiner suddenly grew brash. “What—own this city? It’s full of people. Too bad you’re not one. You act like you bought this place!”

“Just because you have a cap on doesn’t mean—”

“What? You can boss me around? All I need is a warm bed and some dog chow. Don’t see how that’s so difficult. Can’t a dog get some family around here?”

The cat blinked and then looked down. “Well—I…” It looked surprised that it was stuttering. The Weiner jerked a nod, and departed from the cat.

“Bye. See you soon…” The Weiner ran off, albeit the cat’s calling after him to stop and “smell the flowers”, as he called it. But the Weiner was back out on the sidewalk, dodging people. Where’s a nice grassy place to curl up and go to sleep? He looked and looked, and finally, across a small stone bridge, a place to rest. Yes! The Weiner sprang among geese, who, startled, burst into a speedy run and honked their way over to another area. Laughing, the Weiner barked and enjoyed his grassy place. But the next morning, he found himself blinking. A tear escaped his eyes.

He decided to do something.

“Hey.”

He poked the cat. The cat’s eyes opened, and it looked over and up at him.

“Yeah?” It chose.

“Well, I was thinking this morning, and I thought maybe we could go look for a home somewhere. You know, somewhere where someone would pick us up.”

“Tried that.” The cat stretched and then rolled over. “No one’s able to get us.”

“Don’t give up.”

Grumbling, the cat rolled over and got up. Shaking itself, it blinked. “You sure?” It would never admit it, the Weiner knew, but the cat always gave the Weiner looks like it wasn’t sure why the Weiner had a smile on his face when the cat always wore a frown.

“Well, come on! It can’t be that bad!”

“Okay…”

The cat reluctantly followed the Weiner, the Weiner talking and the cat just listening. And nodding. And agreeing at times. And disagreeing. But never disrespectfully like last time.

But the Weiner wasn't annoying. He just lead jollily along.

The End