The Mongrel by Michael Arnett

The mongrel shows up in town, just, just shows up, you know? Where the fuck does he come from? He’s in the street at noon, after spending the night in the gutter or behind some dumpster in the alleyway. His coat is almost nothing, chunks and patches missing; you can see his flesh and the fleas.

He has no shame.

He does not like other dogs; other dogs do not like him

A few kind-hearted people have tried training him, throwing sticks and telling him to fetch. He just stares at them, as if to say, What for? You fucking threw it.

Passersby tell him to sit, to heel. He won’t. He scours the town, looking for scraps of meat or whatever else. He snarls. He scares little children. He is no guard dog. He has no loyalties or allegiances. He comes, takes, eats, rests his paws for a while, and then he goes.

He is the mongrel, and we don’t know what to do with him.

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