Her family, if you want to call them that at this point, called her 'goddamn annoying' back in the day, though her real name was Moxie of course. Moxie had no idea what that meant, really, though she was a smart little pooch of whom took great care in making sure that those she loved all were happy. The poofy ball of fluff also took pride in her pretty black fur, too. Unlike what people commonly consider Pomeranians to look like, the breed standard, if you will, Moxie's fur was a jet black, aside from a tiny splash of white in the shape of a teardrop right on the center of her chest.
At this moment in time, however, keeping her fur absolutely perfect was not a priority. No, right now her only goal was to get through today, and maybe even tomorrow.
Moxie never could figure out why they left her to the streets. She had thought the car ride a nice one, to the park, perhaps? Back to the vet, maybe? Most dogs that she barked to tended to put the vet down, citing the fact that it provided a hell of anxiety. She herself didn't like the prick of the needles, or the way the vet pressed a bit too hard on one leg. Anyways, the car ride wasn't to the either the park or the vet, and right now she would accept the vet in a heartbeat.
The car ride had been to the side of the highway, at least for dear Moxie. They dropped her off in a ruddy box, of which had a few holes here and there. The cars that drove on by made her wispy dark fur fly around unevenly. Her pointed ears flicked, though they were flat against her skull, every time a screeching car drove on by and made the box shake. She twitched her nose, her tail tucked nice and tightly between her legs. Tortured whines rang out from the box, though of course the humans in those giant machines wouldn't be able to hear her. Still, you miss all the barks you don't howl, am I right?
A messy mixture of snot and mucus poured from Moxie's nose every time she took a deep breath to give yet another cry of help. Every so often, she tensed and scrabbled toward the back of the box, lifting her head ever so slightly and letting loose a loud cough or sneeze. Something was wrong with her, but Moxie herself had no idea. Just that right now in a world so big, she was alone, and she was missing her 'family'.
Maybe it was something she did. It wasn't her fault that squirrel outside gave her the finger when the people weren't looking. Or what about that cat who she could have sworn heard cuss her out, though of course she can't speak feline, the intent was there? Seriously, Moxie couldn't ignore the urge to stand up for herself and bark her mind. And then there was that kid. The neighbor's kid, of whom frequently visited the toddler of the mister and missus. The one who enjoyed pulling Moxie's tail, and ripping the fur out of her back. Yes, that kid. That behavior got old after the first time, so you can imagine after the twentieth or thirtieth, Moxie was on her last paw with it. On about the thirty-second time, therefore, Moxie decided to do something about it. A sharp nip to the hand should do the trick, and it did, the kid stopped. Moxie hadn't even bitten hard enough for the child to bleed, but damn did he cry for what felt like hours. What happened the next day, then? The car ride, of course.
So here Moxie was, and the golden hues of the sunlight were fading fast. The beautiful orb in the sky had been hanging in there right above Moxie's head, but as it began to dip down to vanish under the horizon, Moxie realized how alone she was. After giving several more sniffles and sneezes, the Pomeranian circled once, twice, three times, before curling up and touching her nose to her tail. The task was rough, but despite the wailing automobiles, Moxie was able to drift off into a troubled sleep. Throughout the night did whimpers pour from her muzzle, unheard by anyone or anything, or so she thought. You know that phrase 'out of the frying pan and into the fire'? If Moxie had known it, she would have used it to describe the next series of events.
You see, during the quietest hours of the night, when not many cars pass along the highway, monsters like to stalk the streets. Monsters different from the people who had abandoned Moxie here, anyway. All of them the same species, yes, but still monsters. For someone finally took notice of the box.
YOU ARE READING
The Patchworked Short Story CollectionShort Story
A random assortment of short stories I happened to write, usually over the course of a few hours to a few days. Some of these are edited, and some are not. You be the judge of the ones you like or dislike. Also, if you think one of these can be a no...