I looked at a picture of my father from World War II. He was kneeling by a German shepherd in front of a row of dog houses somewhere in Alaska. That’s what he did for a while during the war: train dogs for battle in a cold climate so they’d be ready to go Germany. Dad looked very happy; the dog, not so much. So I let my imagination go wild and wrote what I guessed the dog was thinking.
My bladder is about blast open, the dog thought as he tugged gently against the harness held tightly by the man in uniform. I can see from here the perfect tree to lift my leg on but this idiot just won’t me go.
The man stroked the German shepherd’s thick coat. “That’s my big boy. Sit still a little bit longer so the nice man can take our picture.”
Your big boy my ass. I’d turn around and take a nip at you, but Mama always said never to bite the hand that feeds you.
“Do you want another picture, maybe over there by the dog houses?” the photographer asked.
Oh, hell no.
“Sure, that sounds like a great idea,” the man holding the dog’s harness said.
Where did I go wrong? I was a good puppy. I never strayed from Mama’s side like my brothers and sisters did. All she had to do what give out a little woof and I was right there. Then this man in uniform one day and picked me up and looked into my eyes. He seemed like a nice enough fellow. He fed me well, taught me all sorts of new games and gave me my own little house to sleep in at night. It gets cold up here in—whatever the name of this place is. But he seems to think I can hold my poop and crap all day. Doesn’t he know this stuff has to come out eventually?
“How about that one over there?” the photographer said. “Make it look like he’s just coming out for the day.”
This isn’t even my house. My house is down the hill. The stupid husky lives here. He doesn’t know any better than to shit in his house. It smells like hell.
“Come on, boy,” the man in the uniform said, “let’s jog on over there for another picture.”
No jogging. Do you know what jogging does to my bladder?
“Hey, big boy, cooperate,” the man said, tugging at the harness. “Just a few more shots and then we’ll play games again.”
Play games? I like playing games. But I have to lift my leg on that tree first.
“You’re going to make my family very, very happy. They’re going to get to see me, you and the great scenery here in Alaska. For years to come, my family can pull out this picture and talk about how I served in the Army during World War II in Alaska.”
Don’t you know I didn’t understand half of what you just said? I know your basic human talk—food, play games, time for sleep, sic ‘em—you know, all the important stuff.
“Okay, that’s all the film on this roll,” the photographer said. “Do you want one print of each shot?”
“Yeah, that sounds good.”
Dammit, I can’t hold it any longer. Oh hell, I’ll just lift my leg and piss on his shoe. I hope I still get fed tomorrow morning.