Short Stories Dogs Novels & Stories

"Can I already consider this the cliché of the dog that bites everyone but the protagonist's girlfriend?” Flynn laughed. "Maybe he's too tired tonight to play the villain of the story.” "He looks very docile," I commented, rubbing behind the dog's ears. He opened his mouth, as if he were enjoying the gesture. "I think I'll like to describe his reactions. Animals are very sincere. They communicate with their eyes.” Flynn endured in silence for a moment, then asked: "In the book you are writing, is the cliché protagonist you?” I denied it with my head.

She stared at me until I finally looked over at her. I said, "What?" As I bit my nails. "What happened?" Kara inquired as I reclined in my chair and let out a deep sigh. "Well, would you believe it? A dog, yes, a four-legged furry creature that loves chasing its tail, suddenly turned into a human, broke a window, and went on a stealing spree. And just when you thought things couldn't get any stranger, the doggy delinquent transformed back into its original form and made a smooth exit through the very same window. Who says animals can't pull off a heist?"

Kathy's eyes widened and she moved a little closer to see what was going on. The undressed women were in several forms of rest—some sitting, some lying down—but they were all touching themselves sexually as they watched the dogs being brought in. Kathy noticed that one of the dogs was a huge German shepherd with golden fur. His head snapped back as he sniffed the air and then he growled low in his throat, as he leveled his eyes on the women. Kathy felt her body grow warm and discovered in horror that she was aroused by the growl of the dog.

It was a dark dark night that even with his dog eyes, he couldn’t see all that clearly. He found his way behind a thick bush. He circled a spot three times, as dogs would always do before settling on a place to sit or to lie down. He remembered the stories that his brothers would tell him about monsters and ghosts that come out in the dark. He covered his eyes with his paws, not wanting to look around. But his ears! His ears could hear almost everything and he wanted to cover them, too. His head was filled with thoughts of monsters that kill dogs, monsters that eat dogs, monsters that dress up dogs - oh, monsters! His head screamed.

Story written with a randomly generated story as the base. Street Dog looked at the delicious sausage in his hands and felt hungry. He walked over to the hole in his cardboard box where the snow-wet street reflected his dangerous surroundings. He had always hated the dark Slum with its disturbed, dull dirty. It was a place that encouraged his tendency to violence and always let him hungry as if no amount of sausage would ever fill the hole in his belly. He was a mut, he was street dog.

"I... I have them. If you don't believe her, I can—" "No!" Tracey screamed, lunging to stop him, but it was too late. The sharp click of the car unlocking sealed her fate. I threw open the trunk. The stench hit me first. Then I saw it—a small, lifeless dog, its body limp and decaying. Puffy. Peter stumbled back, his face white as a sheet. "Tracey... Puffy... why is... why is Puffy here?" The live stream exploded. Comments poured in, furious and relentless:

A small photograph of Celeste on her desk — the one from the garden, the one where she was laughing. "I miss her," Iris said. "Me too." "Even though I never really knew her." "You knew her through us. Through the stories. That's not nothing." --- Hana asked about the dogs again. Not the ones under the fig tree — the ones in the stories. Orwell, Pippin, Fig, Oak. He wanted to know their names, their personalities, the way they'd looked when they were young. "They were all good dogs," I said. "They were all loved."

And still, I do. When I woke up in a hospital bed not too long ago to Travis sitting right next to me looking practically half-dead, I knew it. He had reminded me of a story that he had read when he was younger. It was about a boy and his dogs, but I always remember dogs. They were a boy and a girl and when one of them died, the other lost the will to live and died shortly after. When the boy went to visit the graves of his dogs, he found a red fern growing over the graves. The story was called Where the Red Fern Grows.

I asked. She nodded, “Come, I’ll show you.” As we approached the kennel, the racket became ear-splitting. I stared in fascination at the majestic beasts- a St. Bernard, a Labrador, four Russian Shepherds and a pair of German Shepherds. Kneeling down, she put her long, beautiful left hand through the bars and stroked their throats, one by one. “See, Alexei has come,” she told them in a calming tone. As they became quiet, I couldn’t help but wonder how the seemingly illiterate dogs had figured out her statement. A reasonably literate Alexei had no clue.

“She’s five months old now. Easy to care for. Very loyal. Likes belly rubs.” I nod, listening, but my eyes are scanning the room. We move from one dog to another—Pugs, Terriers, a Maltese, even a French Bulldog. Each comes with its own story. Then I see her. She’s curled up near the corner of her cage, her fur a soft blend of brown and grey with tufts sticking out like a stuffed toy that’s been hugged too many times. She looks up at me with big, glassy eyes. “What about that one?” I ask, pointing.