Hot Dog

by my sister


Hot Dog

One time a neighbor boy with disproportionately-sized ears came over and wanted the dog to ride his skateboard, but the dirt-nosed boy screamed and yelled and told the big-eared boy that he was the boy with the skateboarding dog and that’s that. The dirt-nosed boy took the intruder’s skateboard and pushed it down the hill. It went in a crooked way and ran aground ten feet later. Then both of their faces scrunched like people say it’ll get stuck that way if you keep doing it. The big-eared boy grabbed the dog and pulled her leg so hard the bone came out of the socket.

The dog wasn’t usually on the skateboard for very long. Down the sidewalk, run back. The dirt-nosed boy kept microwaved hot dog slices in his pocket which made his pocket slimy and lovely and full. One for me and one for you. His hands were always almost sticky in a way that only pig fat can make them. He always wiped his nose snot off with the palm of his hand. Sticky Hands made friends with Dirt which made friends with the little boy’s face all scrunched. Of course it won’t get stuck that way, but he exercised his flat-face in the mirror at night just in case.

The dirt-nosed boy couldn’t ride the skateboard down the sidewalk, not even for hot dogs. He rewarded himself with snacks for being a good agent and publicist of such a star. He took full credit on his block for the famous skateboarding beast. The dog did not care. Credit is not useful if it is not edible. The boy thought the dog was stupid to work for hot dogs. The dog thought the boy was stupid for leaving hot dogs unattended in his pockets when he went to sleep. The dirt-nosed boy would wake up and find empty pockets and think he must have done a good job managing and publicizing to have paid himself such a high hot-dog-salary.

The boy would ask the grown-up to make more hot dogs to put in his pockets while he paid himself a bonus in cookies. The dog did not get a bonus. I do all the work around here, the boy told himself. But he did not own the skateboard; he did not own the dog. Little boys that say ‘mine, mine, mine’ do so in the most irresponsible way. All they hear is ‘yours, yours, yours’ and so they horde what they can in their closet. What’s he got in his closet? I don’t even know.

The dog’s yelp scared the big-eared boy and he dropped her. The dirty-nosed boy did not believe they made casts for dogs. The dog was not worthy of a manager or publicist anymore. No more hot dogs either. The little boy kept them in his pocket anyway to make a point. The dog went in circles and in circles on the skateboard and never again down the sidewalk. No one was allowed to come see her and be impressed. A new dog came. One with pretty, clean fur, and that dragged a new skateboard with fancy wheels around because grown-ups had tied it to his neck with string. The boy appointed himself the new dog’s agent and waited for fame again. The old dog went in circles, and the new dog just stood still.


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