Alfie

Do therapy animals have a place in your life? Would you like to have a therapy animal? Do you think it would help?

I don’t have a therapy animal, and I’ve never had a therapy animal. In terms of physical capabilities, I don’t need one. I’m not really sure how they would help me mentally. I guess, the main way is through relaxation and reducing anxiety. Perhaps, through being a companion when I leave the house.

So, with that in mind, I have to mention my (not so little) scallywag, Alfie. Here is a picture of him that sums him up pretty well.

Alfie is the best friend ever. He’s a very cuddly dog; the most cuddly I’ve ever known. He’s also the funniest dog (and the naughtiest, but I won’t go into that!). Just stroking his soft ears and rubbing his tummy always soothes my mind at least a little. I also find leaving the house easier when he’s by my side. So, he’s kind of like a therapy dog. Apart from the fact that he’s desperate to say hello to everyone he meets and always wants to play with every other animal he meets. And he really doesn’t like to listen when I tell him no. So, he’s not the kind of dog who could steer me through the trials of a panic attack while away from home. He’d probably leave me in a heap on the floor to say hello to that hedgehog that pricks his nose every time he sees him. Although, to be fair to him, the last couple of times he’s pulled me over, he has stood over me, sniffing my face and sneaking in the odd lick for good measure. That’s an improvement because he used to run off with gay abandon whenever I fell over (I’m quite a clumsy person).

So, I feel I’ve gone off on a tangent with this topic. To summarise, I have no experience of therapy dogs. But Alfie sure does help me a lot.

That Darn Diggin’ Dog

Digging Dog

For today, I had a prompt to write a piece of flash fiction under 300 words. I love the challenge of restricting the word count. It’s not easy, but it is enjoyable.

 

Introduction: It’s the Kennington’s 16th decade, birthday celebration! The whole town is invited to the events. Detective Hall, was just about to “close shop” for the day and leave a skeleton crew on to answer phones and 911 him if an emergency arrives, then, suddenly his phone rings …

Prompt: “Yes, this is Detective Hall, speaking. What! You found a gun buried under Elmer’s sycamore tree? How did you think to look there? Oh, his neighbour’s dog dug it up. Yes, we’ve had complaints of that dog digging in yards all over Kennington. Wait, what’s that you say? There was a metal box with lots of cash buried with the gun?”

 

That Darn Diggin’ Dog

The detective yawned as he pulled his old Plymouth onto Elmer Ryland’s driveway. It had been a long day, and his bones ached for his bed. When Elmer met him on the porch, the eighty year old’s blue eyes sparkled like diamonds.

“You better come on in, Jimmy, you’re gonna need a drink when you see what that dog unearthed this time.”

Detective James Hall sighed. Nobody called him Jimmy any more, not since he was twelve, but he didn’t have the energy to explain that. Instead, he simply said, “Okay, show me where it’s at.”

The old man led the way through his worn out house, to the large kitchen at the back where a metal box—that was caked in dirt—sat on a rickety pine table. The detective gasped and steadied himself on the table. His eyes widened, and he turned to Elmer and said, “Is this what I think it is?”

“You see them faded initials as good as I do, sonny—T.C. That’s what it says, and we all know who T.C. is.”

Hall took a step closer and traced the letters with fingers that shook. “T.C., Top Cat, the cat burglar of Kennington.” He prised open the lid, barely daring to breathe from the weight of possibility.

Sure enough, this crazy digging dog had dug up the famous ‘Top Cat Stash’: the one the cops had been hunting since before he was born.

When Detective Hall turned to Elmer, his jaw dropped as the old man said, “I knew it’d be found in the end son. Tell the truth, I’m glad my secret’s finally out.”