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Brute's Little Black Book

Zoe Book2

By Zoe MillerPublished 3 years ago 10 min read
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Brute’s Little Black Book

I just got in from work, I know Brute’s tiny bladder is ready to implode. I throw on some sweats and never miss a beat, I scoop meat head up like an NFL running back recovering a fumble headed for the end zone. We arrive at the park and take a brisk stroll along the perimeter. The cool breeze is refreshing, we go around twice after settling on a lakeside bench. We love to people watch at least I do Brute just loves being outside, my favorites are the pet owners. An old woman once scolded her poodle for being constipated. The strangest so far has been a half-naked woman with a Boa around her waist. She seemed spacey borderline insane, the snake seemed more like a hostage instead of a pet. If it slithers it would not be my first, second or any choice of pets. Brute runs back and forth along the bench poking his chest out, barking at everything that moves. Like a soldier guarding his piece of the park, wagging his stub, slobbering on everything. Not a care in the world as he marks his territory over and over. The first time I laid eyes on him, I was tipsy. I wasn’t sure if he was a ferret, a dog or a weasel, he was all bone, no meat. Corrine was fed up with her career and our relationship. She was strong enough to end the charades always the realist I would have dragged things out. During our breakup she confessed that she wanted to fall in love but love would hinder her career. I think I loved her I do know I deeply cared for her. Obviously not enough, I never tried to salvage what we had. When she stormed out, it hit me a few hours later, she was not coming back. I felt something not sure what, guilt or a broken heart. Whatever it was I tried to drown it with three bottles of red wine. I had no desire to be alone or sulk all weekend.

On the way out I grabbed my little black book of potential girlfriends. Corrine was the one, at least that’s what I thought. I tossed my black book in the fireplace weeks ago, determined to set it ablaze. I never actually started that fire, deep down maybe I knew. My hand was shaking as I guzzled the second bottle sitting on the steps of the brownstone. I skimmed through a few names in my book no one popped out. The alcohol wasn’t calming me down fast enough, I was antsy I needed to walk to clear my head. I snatched the third bottle and started walking with no sense of where I was going. After eight blocks I opened the bottle, I savored every moment, I’d walk a few blocks take a sip. I repeated this until the bottle was empty I tossed it in the trash and headed back. My desire to meander was gone I bulldozed into the street luckily no cars were in sight. Once across, I had no idea what direction home was in. I stood their hoping a taxi would drive by. I rummaged through my pockets to call an Uber, no cell phone and a wallet with no cash. My breakup had me lost, drunk and no way home. I did a complete 360 nothing looked familiar, dam trees and endless brownstones. I even tried listening for a nearby subway. The Sun began to set, drunk and lost at night in NY not good. I picked up my pace and walked two or three blocks, still nothing remotely familiar. I stood there dumbfounded in front of a storefront, then I heard a strange noise behind me. I turned around to see this idiot staring at me. Blood shot eyes, clothes disheveled, it was obvious he was some drunk fool. I was about to whip his ass for staring at me, I put my finger in his face ready to explode on him, then I touched the storefront glass. He got lucky, I almost forgot about the noise until I heard it again.

In the lower right corner of the window, tiny, almost invisible and covered in shredded newspaper was something moving. This little thing poked its head up it looked worse than me, his soulful eyes drew me closer. It was a tiny runt of a dog, nothing deserved to be sad, ugly and imprisoned all at the same time. He big brown eyes peered through the glass, he chirped three times, he was glad to see me. He was good, the chirps got me, he tugged on my heart strings, I had to liberate him. I later realized that was his pathetic attempt to bark. I was drunk, he barked, I barked, I spent five minutes trying to teach him how to bark. His bark was weak but I understood it, “I’m yours come get me.” I stomped into the pet store to get my dog. Impulsive as I was the pain radiating from my bladder was greater, I succumbed and quickly followed the signs to the men’s room. My mission to liberate postponed for one minute. I emptied my bladder to resume project mutt liberation. I lumbered through endless dog food isles listening for that familiar chirping noise. A young sales clerk named Keisha came to my rescue she was ambitious to help with the mission. She was twenty six, with a cute freckled face attached to two long pony tails. A goofy animal lover, destined to own a chain of pet stores. I explained my desire to emancipate the thing in the storefront. I was the bright spot in her quiet, mundane evening she laughed hysterically as I failed to articulate my mission. My inability to form a complete sentences was hilarious to her. It took a minute for my brain to get up to speed so I could start making sense. Initially, she thought I was a vagrant looking for a pet to keep me warm. After showing her my business card, Zoe Duran, Senior Managing Director, Fixed Income, ZeFCore Corporation, along with three platinum cards she was convinced I was eccentric.

Mission to liberate cost me two grand, worth every penny. I purchased eight chew toys, a deluxe double padded doggie bed. A supply of organic dog food, biodegradable poop bags, doggie snacks. Not to mention a cool leather leash. Nothing was too good for by liberated pooch. Keisha had it all shipped for free to his new home. She went above and beyond wrapping my new doggie in a comfy blanket and calling us an Uber. She even gave us a free doggy scratch off lottery ticket on the way out. We rode with the window down, he enjoyed the breeze so much he pissed on me twice. The many different scents took time for him to adjust too, his first time ever leaving the pet store. I held my pooch close to reassure him. He burrowed in and out of his blanket to sniff around. The cool breeze and the mere thought of cleaning up dog shit slightly sobered me up. When we arrived home I remembered my new roommate needed a bed, his pet store bed was in transit. Still a little foggy I rummaged through the kitchen, found a large fruit bowl, tossed two towels in the dryer, instant doggie bed. My roomie hopped in his temporary bed with a few toys I stuffed in my pocket. He licked my face and chirped to say thank you. He scratched, sniffed and scanned his new environment. After circling a few times he passed out. Still slightly buzzed I hit my bed hard and heavy. We both slept through the night or at least that’s what I thought. A pungent smell woke me up from my deep slumber, the fog began to clear. I bought a dog, the horrific smell now made sense. During the night he got out his fruit bowel and shit everywhere. There were clumps of it in the hallway, the bedroom and the kitchen. I’m still not sure how something so small could shit that much. He sat up in his bowel stretched and yawned obviously refreshed. With his stub moving at a steady pace he started chirping loudly.

I’m no dog whisperer but this chirp was different. To be safe I scooped up the entire fruit bowel and hustled to the back yard. I placed the bowel in the middle of the yard, his little head slowly popped up. He tried to decipher all the unfamiliar scents, perplexed he cautiously climbed to the edge of his castle. He was hesitant to step into the tall grass, but true to his name he brutishly jumped in scurrying around to tame it. The yard swallowed his tiny frame, all you could see were the long green blades bending back and forth as he bullied his way through them. He explored every micro inch while he chased bees and hopped with the grasshoppers. He quickly learned the yard rules, you can only bully bees so far. He chomped at one bee too many times, this annoyed little bee immediately introduced him to his stinger. His bark was more pronounced, he was not happy. Like a tiny lawnmower he plowed through the grass straight to me. I took him inside and placed some ice on his bee sting. He was quite resilient after a minute or two he was ready to go back out. A littler wiser he left the bees alone and played with the grasshoppers while watering every part of the backyard. The longer he played the more confident he became poking his chest out and strutting through the yard pushing out his feeble bark as if to say, “Look at me, I’m not invisible anymore.” I named him Brute because he has always displayed a Brutish attitude even when he was just 2 pounds of fur. Life evolves in many strange ways, had Corrine not walked out on me I would have never found my Brute. I could not imagine coming home and him not greeting me at the door. After settling down I tried to go over my fragmented memory of the previous evening. I unfortunately did remember pissing all over the men’s bathroom floor. I later fedx Keisha the sales clerk a tip in the form of a five hundred dollar check.

I felt bad she had to clean up behind my drunken mess. Brute and I visit the pet store at least once a month, we spear head all their pet adoption campaigns. By the way Keisha now owns the pet store, the lottery ticket she gave me was worth $20,000. I used the money to from a partnership with her. Brute started humping on the neighbor’s cat last week. Keisha thinks she found him a girlfriend for him at least one of us has a girlfriend. Hard to believe he was that small, now he has an intimidating bark with sixty pounds of grade A beef behind it. He will never be invisible again, he’s a rock star at the park, and wherever we go out people are drawn to him. If not for Brute I might still be pining over Corrine, he has a heart of gold and a face only a mother could love. He’s afraid of his own shadow, pisses on the house plants, sleeps most of the day and he farts like an old man but he’s mine.

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About the Creator

Zoe Miller

New Jersey Resident

Writer, Network Eng, Entrepreneur

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