Flash Fiction by Graham
Poochie was watching TV with Marie. They were watching the Bachelor. That one girl was picked over that other girl for that thing.
She cried. So did Marie. It was touching, so Poochie cried a bit too, out of obligation.
He then stared into the abyss of his television set. He couldn’t feel Marie’s paw rest on his own; it was appropriate, because he didn’t feel much anymore anyways.
He took a deep breath inwards, and then outwards, and then inwards again, like a ceaseless accordion, marching on out of obligation.
Poochie didn’t say anything, because he is a dog. Marie did likewise. They both barked, out of obligation.
Poochie’s cell phone rang; it was a shrill dog-whistle, because these are the kinds of things that get a dog’s attention. He did not answer the phone, because he is a dog, and so he simply barked at the phone as it continued to cause his ears immense pain. He supposed these were Dog Problems.
Poochie’s life sucked.
Poochie was named after the universally loathed simpsons character; like this character, Poochie was universally loathed, and his owner had only adopted him in order to pull off this pop-culture joke. Well played, Mark Stellawitz. Well played indeed.
Poochie sprawled out on the floor, and Marie curled up next to him, out of obligation.
Their eyes didn’t meet, and Poochie simply stared out into the creme-colored walls, waiting for something to change. Then he went to sleep, out of obligation.