The Adventures of Buster and Buffy

Forward: this is an unedited version of my dogs' story. Please disregard spelling, syntax, etc. It is a work in progress and all feed back will be appreciated. It is the story of my two beloved Rottweilers Buster and Buffy who are sadly no longer with me.

Number 9

Number 9 knew he loved his mother the minute he was born. He could smell her rich milk and feel the warmth of her body as she licked him clean. Her wide nose nudged him toward her belly. Before he could reach one of her swollen teets, gentle hands -human hands rough with the smell of disinfectant- cradled him and turned him over. Number 9 could feel the vibrations of voices in hushed tones discussing him though he could not understand being only seconds old.

(a beaut, ain't he? gonna be a great dog. lookat those feet. nice disposition)

Number 9 yawned and snuggled into the thick palms that held him so tenderly.

A gentle, human kiss touched his bully snout and Number 9 heaved a sigh. He was lowered to his mother's belly and drank deeply.

Number 1

Number 1 was enthusiastic about being born. If her ears had been open she would have heard whooping and hollering amid loud music and party sounds. She sensed a great deal of humans in the room and the outrage of her mother for not being provided the dignity of a private birthing room. As she was picked up from the whelping box floor she felt a low, sustained growl emerge from her lithe mother's body. The bitch was laboring hard and through the magic of dog sense she knew her mother was moments from laying a heavy bite on the next pair of hand that stile one of her puppies. The human hands stripped away Number 1's birth sac and tossed it to her bitch mother who gobbled it with the whites of her eyes showing as she scanned the room eager to let all the instinct of a whelping bitch come to the surface. A second pup, a brother, popped out quickly and more whoops filled the noisy room.

Number 1, opened and closed her mouth, gulping air that was pregnant with the smell of smoke and stale beer. One finger tip found its way into her mouth and she tried to suckle it only to find a bitter taste. A low pitched growl, one she learned only moments before from her tough-as-nails mother rolled out of her chest naturally and was met with raucous laughter.

(she's gonna be a doozie, eh? just like her mother. kinda small tho. don't matter much. her mama's a tough bitch and she ain't that big. pretty girl. i guess she's gonna be franklin's girl. he called first girl. franklin's an asshole. don't matter. I owe him one.)

Number 9

Number 9 was happy. Warm light bathed him and his mother was tender and sweet only leaving for short periods. The human hands that held him were kind and stroked him in the same manner that his mother licked and groomed him.

About this blog...

I will be posting short fiction on this blog. It will probably not be kid friendly and may start a huge hullabaloo. Please read with a sense of humor. All stories, anecdotes and characters are purely the creation of the writer and not intended to insult, defame or otherwise disrupt the lives of others.

Please enjoy and disregard spelling errors.

Annabelle Ward