Yellow Mama E zine

The Writer’s Dog

by Dale Scherfling

           I wear my shapeless sportscoat, and Tortas wears his silly grin. If you’ve ever seen a French bulldog, you’ll know what I mean.
          He’s called Tortas because my daughter-in-law, born in Mexico, says he looks like a pancake. I would just call him Butch myself, because I can’t roll my r’s like a Latino. Tortas, on the other hand, rolls his zzzzz’s like a champ — right in the middle of one of my stories.
         He is very affectionate, like all French bulldogs, and likes to plop his head in my lap. Trouble is, he also plops his king-sized paws right on my laptop—on the z, of course.
         He has also been known to hit “Send” before I am ready.
         But I’m a writer and should be known to have a weird dog. It goes with the shapeless sportscoat. Part of the image, I suppose.

***

        He’s doing it again. Staring at the glowing rectangle with the tiny white click-clacks, wearing that coat that smells like old library books and ham sandwiches. It’s my favorite coat because it has enough wrinkles to hold a lot of my hair.
       He calls me Tortas, which I like because it sounds round, just like me. He tries to say it with a fancy flick of the tongue, but it usually comes out sounding like a sneeze. I don’t mind. Sometimes he calls me Butch, which sounds like a dog who guards a junkyard, but I’d rather guard his left knee.
        I can tell the story is getting serious because his forehead looks like a rawhide chew. This is where I have to help. Humans get too caught up in the click-clacking; they forget the important things, like the fact that my chin is heavy and his lap is empty.
        I wait for a pause, then I launch.
        I don't just plop. I execute a strategic landing. My front paws find the warmest part of the rectangle—always the left side where the letters look like little snacks. I feel a satisfying click under my toe.
         “Tortas!” he huffs, but his hand comes down to scratch that spot behind my ears that makes my leg go.
         He looks at the screen and sighs, something about “sending” or “Claude. AI” I don’t know who Claude is, but if he’s taking my human’s attention, I’m glad I stepped on him.
         The glowing box goes dim. The sportscoat moves. We’re going to the kitchen now.
         My work here is done.
         Writing is hard, but someone has to keep the author focused on the snacks.

         Dale Scherfling is a newspaper veteran of 30 years, serving as a sportswriter, columnist, editor, and photographer and a retired Navy journalist and photographer. His work has appeared in Third Act Magazine, Does It Have Pockets Magazine, Lost Blonde Literary, All Hands Magazine, Pacific Crossroads, Daily Californian, Naval Aviation Magazine, Propeller Magazine, and Buckeye Guard Magazine. He is the recipient of three U.S. Army Front Page Journalism Awards. He is also a college lecturer and photography and music instructor. 

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       It's well known that an artist becomes more popular by dying, so our pal Steve Cartwright is typing his bio with one hand while pummeling his head with a frozen mackerel with the other. Stop, Steve! Death by mackerel is no way to go! He (Steve, not the mackerel) has a collection of spooky toons, Suddenly Halloween!, available at Amazon.com.    He's done art for several magazines, newspapers, websites, commercial and governmental clients, books, and scribbling - but mostly drooling - on tavern napkins. He also creates art pro bono for several animal rescue groups. He was awarded the 2004 James Award for his cover art for Champagne Shivers. He recently illustrated the Cimarron Review, Stories for Children, and Still Crazy magazine covers. Take a gander ( or a goose ) at his online gallery: www.angelfire.com/sc2/cartoonsbycartwright . And please hurry with your response - that mackerel's killin' your pal, Steve Cartwright.