Uncommon Pet Tales: Read on the Run

Uncommon Pet Tales

Read on the Run

Anthology

Amanda Bergloff

Ed Burkley

Roxanne Dent

Sarah Doebereiner

Laurie Axinn Gienapp

Meagan Noel Hart

June Low

Mary E. Lowd

R. J. Meldrum

Michael Penncavage

Jonathan Shipley

Ginny Swart

This is a work of fiction. All the characters and events portrayed in this book are either products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously.

Uncommon Pet Tales

Copyright © 2017 by: Laurie Axinn Gienapp, Jonathan Shipley, Richard Meldrum, Ginny Swart, Sarah Doebereiner, Mary E. Lowd, Ed Burkley, Amanda Bergloff, June Low, Michael Penncavage, Roxanne Dent, Meagan Noel Hart

Cover design by Elle J. Rossi - http://www.ellejrossi.com

All Rights Reserved

No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or by any information storage and retrieval system, without written permission from the publisher.

Smoking Pen Press

PO Box 190835

Boise, ID 83719

www.smokingpenpress.com

ISBN-13: 978-1-944289-09-6

First Edition: May 2017

Table of Contents

INTRODUCTION

A Walk In The Park  Laurie Axinn Gienapp

Silver Lining  Jonathan Shipley

Patience  R. J. Meldrum

Adopting Cathy  Ginny Swart

Burning Bridges  Sarah Doebereiner

Katelynn The Mythic Mouser    Mary E. Lowd

The Littlest Werewolf  Ed Burkley

Hellhound  Amanda Bergloff

The Locket  R. J. Meldrum

Prince Of Persian  June Low

A Dog Called Alfred  Ginny Swart

Dog Day         Michael Penncavage

Schrodinger’s Other Cat  Laurie Axinn Gienapp

Mr. MacCawber’s Christmas Tradition  Roxanne Dent

A Silent Truth  Meagan Noel Hart

ABOUT THE AUTHORS

OTHER TITLES PUBLISHED BY SMOKING PEN PRESS

INTRODUCTION

FIFTEEN SHORT STORIES involving pets.

But don’t think for a moment that you’ll See Spot Run, or that Lassie will save her master who’s fallen in the well. Those are common pet tales, and these are Uncommon Pet Tales.

Within this collection, you’ll find a little bit of romance, a little bit of revenge, a few ghosts, and some fantasy and magic. You’ll find some uncommon pets such as Katelynn, and Mr. MacCawber, and you’ll find some uncommon stories, such as Patience, and Schrodinger’s Other Cat. You’ll find stories of man’s (or woman’s) best friend, and stories where the animals are far from friendly. And you'll find some stories that simply refuse to fit into a category.

As always, each story in the Read on the Run series of anthologies is short, to suit your busy lifestyle.

A Walk In The Park

Laurie Axinn Gienapp

IT ALL STARTED WHEN my dog ran away—well not ran exactly. The best he could manage at 12 years old and 20 pounds overweight was a purposeful lumber. But inasmuch as I was 82 years old and had arthritis in both hips, a purposeful lumber was the best that I could manage as well. I imagine the two of us made quite a picture that August afternoon, what with Rusty's long basset ears flopping, and my cane adding a third, off-beat accompaniment to the sounds of my footsteps and his toenails tapping on the sidewalk.

I was wearing my glasses that day when I clipped the leash to Rusty's collar, but apparently I'd missed the metal ring on the collar, or perhaps the clip stuck and didn't close all the way. There was nothing amiss as we walked down the path to the sidewalk, and there was nothing amiss as we walked down the sidewalk to the corner, and there was nothing amiss as we crossed the street and walked down the next block to the park at the end of the street.

The problem began once we entered the park. I had my eye on the shaded path at the west end of the park, and accordingly I turned right. Rusty— well, I don't know what it was that caught his eye, but whatever it was, he turned left. And I found myself holding a dog-less leash, watching my aging, overweight basset hound lumber away. So of course I followed.

There we were, Rusty running away, and me chasing after him. At least that’s how it was in my head, and Rusty’s head as well, I think. Except that to the casual observer I suppose it probably looked like I’d brought my dog to the park and unclipped his leash, and we were both strolling along at approximately the same, slow pace, with the dog staying just a bit ahead of its owner.

We passed some children playing ball and I recognized a couple of them. Apparently they recognized us as well, for several of them called out Hello Mrs. Tinsley, hello Rusty, as we lumbered by.

I briefly worried that Rusty might leave the path and join them in their play, and I’m not as steady as I once was on uneven ground. But fortunately he kept to the sidewalk. We passed a young couple sitting on a bench and holding hands. They seemed to be in the middle of a serious conversation, but they stopped to smile at Rusty and nod at me before they returned to their private discussion.

And still Rusty lumbered on, and I lumbered after him.

Two teen-aged girls, sisters perhaps, were going the opposite direction. One of them was holding a leash with a little white poodle at the other end. As they passed by, I heard one say to the other "Look at her dog. He just stays right there without running away. I sure wish we could train Topsy to do that."

I smiled to myself. If only they knew that Rusty was running away. Every now and then my chubby basset would pause and look over his shoulder at me. I understood that he was checking to see if I was still hot on his trail, although I imagine those who saw us just thought it was cute to see the dog looking back to make sure his mistress was still there with him. After all, since we both progressed at the same pace and Rusty had been on his leash until we entered the park, dog and owner were separated by the same distance we would have been had the leash been attached to his collar rather than dangling from my hand.

Truth be told, I’d been enjoying this walk. And I’d been enjoying having someone else in charge for a change. Yes, it might have seemed like we were just following the path, but it was Rusty who decided where we went.

I was starting to wonder when our little journey would end. I was getting a bit tired and we were just barely halfway around the park. We had passed several empty benches, two of which were in the shade, but Rusty didn’t give them a second glance. He did pause to sniff at a bench near a bed of irises, but to my disappointment he didn’t stop. He continued on his journey, or quest, or whatever it was that we were on.

I’d been distracted by the hopes of stopping to sit on the bench near the irises and when I returned my focus to the path ahead of us I was surprised to see a gentleman approaching. I didn’t recognize him. He looked to be around my age. He was wearing gray slacks and a blue polo shirt. His walk was slow but sure, and I was momentarily jealous that he wasn’t using a cane. As he got closer, I noticed that he had sparkling green eyes, and a charming smile. And when he was close enough, he bent down to pet Rusty, scratching him behind his right ear. As I approached, he stood up and put out his hand.

Good afternoon. That’s a fine dog you have, although I see he’s trying to run away. Would you like some assistance?

And I realized he was holding his hand out for the leash. Gratefully, I handed it to him and watched him clip it to the ring on Rusty’s collar.

Thank you. Would you care to join us?

I’d be delighted, he said. He turned to face the same direction Rusty and I were heading, holding the leash in one hand and holding his other arm out for me to take.

Feeling particularly bold, I said, I’m Suzanne.

And I’m Alan.

That was seven years ago. Rusty is no longer with me, of course, but I still think of him each and every time Alan and I go for a walk in the park. I miss Rusty, but overall it has been a wonderful seven years. And to think it all started when my dog ran away.

Silver Lining

Jonathan Shipley

THE MAIL WAS A DISASTER. A threatening notice from the bank about my mortgage in arrears and a gloating note from Alicia’s lawyer confirming the huge alimony payment they had extorted from me. For a writer barely making ends meet, it was a lot of money.

And then there was a postcard—Peruvian with a Moroccan stamp. No message. Just a big K scrawled on the back. Kirk. That surprised a smile from me. Was this notice he was returning home? I could only guess. Appearing out of thin air had always been his style. Kirk walked in strangeness—that’s the only way to describe him. But he was always wildly entertaining, and I could use some of that.

I heard a shrill howl. As I turned from the mailbox, elderly Mrs. Mallory waved from her porch next door, a mangy gray tabby pacing the railing beside her. This was a rare event. The old, pathetic excuse for a cat I often saw creeping around the yard and howling miserably, but Mrs. Mallory hardly ever. I waved back. She was a strange, standoffish neighbor in an old, rundown house, but this time she beckoned me across the yard. I went with trepidation. She might be comfortable on a porch with rotting decking and broken railings, but I preferred to live. I halted a couple yards away.

Such a shame about the mortgage, she called in a hollow, raspy voice.

I felt an instant of culture shock that a housebound neighbor in her eighties knew all about my finances, but that was a small town for you. If the bank was about to foreclose, apparently everyone knew.

There’s always the hidden treasure, she called again. I’ve decided to help you find it.

I wasn’t amused, not with a big mortgage payment staring at my empty bank account. I’m not in the mood for jokes, Mrs. Mallory.

I’m quite serious, she persisted. Old Mr. Selby had a fortune in Colonial silver with hiding places all over the house—your house. When he passed on, his son nearly took the place apart looking for the silver.

Did he find it? I asked, interested in spite of myself.

"Just an empty hidey-hole or two. Several owners have done their share of knocking on walls, but nobody’s found anything. Of course, nobody really believes in the treasure