Writing Resources from Fifteen Minutes of Fiction

I am Iams

Keep your Andrea Bocelli. Even George Strait. Shhhh. Listen. There’s the world’s sweetest sound, I think as the patio door slides in the track. Slides, humpff. It skips and rattles over spilled seed. My old man feeds the dove and squirrels, too.

I’m tense, alert. My ears are up, my nose is thrust forward. My back, all the way to my tail, is a straight line. I’ll wag and twist after he negotiates the step. Those big feet that carried him so well for almost twelve years, oops, hang on, gotta convert—that’d be eighty-seven years, have grown heavy and clumsy. Easy, easy. Put the cane out. Alright, follow me. Have a seat.

After he’s settled, I put my nose on his thigh. He’s holding my bowl. This morning’s Iams (overweight variety-the—what’s that word? Is it irony?) with a dome of grits and bacon is still sitting like an old boot in my rotunda. Rotunda, that’s a good one. Wish I could tell the old man that one. I eavesdropped enough years to know he’d like my effort at cleverness. “Rotunda,” I think once more, out of respect for what he’s taught me.

I look at the bowl he extends. More Fat-dog Iams, but this time, the topping is stew. This is going to be a challenge. I eat all I think I stuff in my rotunda. And even, my portico, foyer, and parlor, too. Can you tell the old man’s an architect? And he’s tired. I know. Not well. As soon as I quit eating, he’ll go inside. I wag some, clear a cranny and eat again. I feel his heavy hand scratching my head. For that, I eat.

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