I’ll Drink to That
The dog chased after the one legged man. The drama was unfolding slowly; it really should have been over much quicker, but the dog had managed to entangle the remnants of his leash on a variety of his obstacles and the one legged man had terror driving him as he hopped along. When the final battle took place, the dog had been dragging a wheelbarrow.
She’d watched the spectacle go past her window; but Martha had been more or less in denial about the whole thing. She’d eyed her tea nervously after the strange parade had gone by, wondering if it’d slipped her mind that she’d already slipped something into it, and if not, perhaps it was time that she did. She’d been tipping the bottle at her tea with some regularity back then, trying to come to grips with the fact that her life had wound up as it had.
Of course, that idle speculation was before the screaming began. Martha had gotten so far as to lay hands on the bottle of whiskey that she had hidden in the back of her cupboards before that screaming started. Once it did, she snapped right out of her prim and proper self. After the mess was all over, she would find that bottle on the floor and be unable to place how it had gotten there for a moment or two; then she’d remember, and with a nervous little giggle pour a couple of drinks.
When the screaming started, Martha immediately knew that she had in fact seen someone being pursued down the dirt road outside her house. Now as to whether the pursuer was in fact an enormous dog dragging an overturned wheelbarrow; and whether the person fleeing that dog had in fact been a one legged man carrying his own prosthetic limb in his arms as he fled; would have to wait for confirmation.
Martha headed for the door, snatching up a broom as she went.
Outside, she followed the sounds of the screaming to a spot in her flower garden and found all the confirmation she would ever need. There, as he lay sprawled amongst and atop her prize winning begonias, was a one legged man, attempting to hold an enormous dog at bay with his prosthetic leg.
Martha didn’t think, she just swatted. She thumped the dog resolutely on the butt with broom, inciting near identical looks of shock from attacker and victim. As the looks of shock faded, the one legged man had smiled and the dog had snarled; Martha fled.
Later, the one legged man would explain to Martha that he almost hadn’t made a grab for that wheelbarrow the dog had been dragging, as he had been positively mesmerized by the way she had fled. The one legged man would claim that she’d been flapping her arms as if to fly and emitting an odd warbling tone of terror that almost, but didn’t quite, resolve into the phrase ‘Oh shit, oh shit, oh shit.’ The one legged man had known what she meant regardless.
Fortunately for all involved, the one legged man had managed to get hold of that wheelbarrow, and more incredibly, had scooped up Martha’s discarded broom as he was dragged past it by dog and wheelbarrow both. That broom would prove to be a fine weapon when the dog gave up on the fleeing, flapping, warbling form of Martha and returned its attentions to him.
Watching the fight from her porch (where she had managed to alight, gaining control of herself and ceasing her flapping flight), Martha couldn’t help but think of the tales of chivalry. She watched in awe for a moment or two as the one legged man did merciless battle against the huge dog, swinging and parrying with broomstick and prosthetic limb.
He had an odd grace about him, and his voice was lovely as he grunted and lunged, hopping about upon his one leg, he’d cry wordless victory when he landed a good shot with broom or leg. His voice was even musical when he sang out in profanity as the dog’s teeth snatched the false leg from his hand and would have dragged him to the ground had he not managed to brace himself with the broom.
After her moment of voyeurism, Martha came to the one legged man’s aid with a set of flowerpots; the first one sailed wide, but the second landed squarely on the beasts head. When the one legged man followed flowerpot with broom handle, the dog fled down the road, the wheelbarrow raised a cloud of dust as it jerked along at the end of the leash.
Once she was satisfied the dog was not returning, Martha picked up the prosthetic leg from the ground, wiped the dog slobber off it with her apron and handed it to the one legged man. A sudden shock of color came into her cheeks as their eyes met.
I was born nine months later, and only heard the story at my mother’s deathbed, which is a shame, as I would have loved the chance to have tracked my true father down, but she told me she knew him only as Henry.
I never got along with the man who raised me, and for all I know, the story of the one legged man being chased by the dog was just a story my mother told me to ease the hurt I’d always felt at my inability to get along with my father, but I don’t suppose I’ll ever know for sure.
At any rate, it’s a hell of a story and has won me more than a few drinks at various bars, which would be why I’m telling it to you now.
I really haven’t the money for another pint.
- finite
This one goes out to my good friend Z, who was there to reply with the first sentence of this story when I sent him an instant message asking for a strange sentence. The rest of this is belongs, but if you don’t like that first sentence, complain to him, because that’s really not my fault. One legged men being chased by dogs indeed.
hahaha
until next time . . .