The Wet Dog – Chapter 2

FICTION

The world stopped shifting; I expected to be back at my desk, confused and stared at by my cats. Have you ever noticed that cats have this way of staring at you that makes you feel like an idiot? They seem to do it when you have done nothing deserving. Yet, you pause and check your shot group to ensure
everything is tight. However, this time, I was in a different place. “Where am I?” I shout as if expecting someone to answer. They don’t, and I realize where I am.

It’s been too long since I traveled the luminescent pathways of my mind. So long it seemed like a fairytale or bedtime story, my mother whispered to me in the stillness of the night. She said this was the best time because the voices were quiet then, and I could hear her tale. Eagerly, I would await her prose
and drift to sleep.

“My sweet Mangus, you know storytellers are sorcerers, and the stories they tell are nothing more than spells they cast on the listener, hoping they will last. Are you going to be a storyteller?” My mother would ask.

“Yes, ma’am. I’m going to be the best!” I foolishly boasted.

My mother looked at me sternly, and it was a moment before she spoke as if trying to find her words. I shifted in the bed, awaiting the pending scolding. I knew that look all too well. All I wanted was to make her proud, to show her I appreciated the magic of her stories, and to pass them on to my children one day.

“Don’t be foolish,” her tone was harsh, but I felt a tenderness. “Too many, far too many of our kind, squander their gift trying to be the best, just asshats! Are you an asshat?”

I didn’t know what an asshat was, but by her tone, I figured it couldn’t be good. I shook my head no. We both smiled, and she continued with her story.