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Doghouse
By
David Peak, May 01, 2009
She walked me around the red-curtained basement, her dungeon, dragged me along by the choke chain around my neck.
Her ass cheeks were pale, rippled with cellulite, red and irritated where they rubbed against her leather chaps.
I paid her 300 dollars to let me call her Ilsa—
“Heel, boy,”
—and this was the first time we’d played pets.
I stopped crawling, knelt, and barked.
She yanked on the chain. “Shut the fuck up. You’re being bad.”
My vision blackened. I saw Emily’s dead Irish Terrier in our driveway—the driveway that used to be ours—a reddish
pink streak smeared on the pavement, intestines wrapped around the tire of my Jeep, remembered her saying, “How
could you possibly take care of a kid if you can’t even take care of a pet?”
Ilsa started walking me again. “Bad boy,” she said. “You’ve been very bad.”
We were gonna name the kid after me.
Ilsa’s stilettos clicked against the cement. I kept up with her just enough so she’d have to tug on the chain
every few seconds. I wanted to please her just like I wanted her to tell me how bad I was.
David Peak’s writing has appeared in Lamination Colony, Dark Sky Magazine, The Corduroy Mtn., Titular,
Willows Wept Review, Hair Trigger, and others.
davidpeak.blogspot.com.
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