Word Count: 370
The black dog was out of a gothic romance, long-haired and long-limbed and silent with eyes red and glowing. Carrie remembered his name from the novel: Damascus.
It wasn’t black when she got him; she used Clairol Irish Rose #3. He was good-natured and barkless so she taught him to growl and snap. She used his inbred fear of not pleasing his mistress against him.
But she fed him the choicest cut sirloin and between the spikes on his collar were genuine gems. Damascus was the perfect protector, reading companion, child, and lover. He was quiet when quiet was what Carrie needed. He was rough when she felt a bit kinky and wild. He liked the same brand of Cabernet and never got drunk.
The one thing that Carrie had not considered, even after she got used to the routine of the dye, was that the dog would not live as long as she wanted, though she kept him in the best tip-top health.
The vet raised an eyebrow when he discovered the hair color was not natural, that the contacts were not only corrective but red. He hid his sneer at the collar; there was just so much else going on. He listened to her list of symptoms, felt the dog with his hands. Age was the problem he knew that, but he sent them home with a a large bag of pills. As they left, he patted Damascus on the head, his sympathy hidden within this small gesture for the large, silent hound. Damascus worked up a snarl and a quick snap and looked to Carrie for her approval.
Damascus died in his sleep one night, curled up in front of the fire, at the foot of the couch where Carrie sat reading. She didn’t realize at first he had passed. She slept on the couch for the rest of the night and called the vet in the morning. He took care of all the arrangements, even the stone. And he gave her the good news of a puppy that would be ready to pick up in two weeks. A Labrador Retriever, he said, and it was the pick of the litter. And black.
