Glory Rules

I pledge to donate 50% of the SDB income of this post to Tazewell ARC to support the dogs who inspired the dogs in the story and others like them.

All photos in this post are used with expression permission of the owner. I created the header image using the photo with permission (and have received confirmation that this header is acceptable).

I am additionally entering this piece in the Art Explosion Animal Theme Contest.

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The female raccoon fastidiously groomed the pudgy folds of her belly. From her perch on top of the crates, she raised her head to stare at the grey and white pit bull mix. "You will tithe me one tenth of your kibble every meal."

Peony the pittie scratched at the recently healed chain scars on her neck. "I dunno, Glory." She whined and looked at her rumbling tummy.

"You will!" Glory rose up from her preening and puffed out her coat and ringed tail for maximum effect. Standing on her hind legs, she gestured with fisted hands. "You will obey me or you will regret it."

Peony stood up and growled at Glory, baring her teeth. She raised the hairs along her spine around the mangy bald patches. "I not obey puffball."

Glory adjusted her fat rolls as she hopped down to the ground. Smoothing the ruffles from her coat, she walked over to Peony's water bowl then washed her hands in the dish. After inspecting her hands for any lingering dirt, she casually flipped it over. She chittered as the water soaked into the bedding. Without another word, she turned tail, climbed up the crates, and sauntered out the window.

Despite her royal rolls, Glory had no issues silently climbing to her favorite spying blind in the giant spruce beside the window. Adjusting the pudge for optimal padding, she settled securely onto the tight ring of branches. Glory's servant, Rhonda--who insisted she made the rules around here despite constant evidence to the contrary--maintained a routine in dog care and it was soon time for the mid-afternoon potty break. Why did this woman take in so many scroungy, mangy mutts anyway? Drooling floor mats. Noise makers. Stinky flea shelters. Keep me in kibble and stay out of my way.

The door to the dog room creaked open. She sat up quickly and rubbed her black and tan hands together. Rhonda greeted the dogs in that silly voice she used and began opening crates to let a group of them out. "Oh, Peony! Can't you leave your water be?"

Then the sounds of the hamper opening and closing. Glory chittered happily. Stupid dogs actually cared what Rhonda thought of them. Tomorrow Peony will tithe to her queen. Mangy mongrels.

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Behind the boxes in the hot attic, Glory carefully counted and sorted her growing collection of kibble. The time had come to prepare the next stage of her plans for the Autonomous Raccoon Collective. Rhonda still claimed ARC meant Animal Rescue Coalition, but Glory knew better.

Raccoons were the future. Based on what she heard Rhonda saying, Glory already dominated Steem, YouTube, and the other other social media sites. She had more kaa-ching power than even mangiest abused dog. Silly Rhonda just hadn't caught on. But once Glory got into Phase 3: Reproduction, Rhonda would realize baby raccoons got more upvotes than miserable puppies. People wanted to worship a regal raccoon, shining with a perfectly coiffed coat and glowing with healthy roundness, not pity a pup with a butchered tail.

After securing her kibble hoard, she crawled out the broken attic vent, shimmied down the giant spruce, and headed towards the woods. Time to invite her party guests to evaluate who was worthy to join her colony. Most of the locals were far too hick for Glory. But some exceptions just had to appear, or even just some who seemed trainable to a point where she could stand to live with them.

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The day finally arrived for Glory's Coon Bash. Peony had joined the rank of dogs routinely tithing. Only the young puppies and those in their first week of recovering from neglect were exempt from the payments. Everyone else soon realized that resistance was futile.

The routine payments had enabled Glory to improve the impressiveness of her power rolls of fat and to stockpile more than enough for the expected guests. She couldn't trust those hillbilly coons. They'd show up to pig out and make a mess, so Glory chose the goat shed for the party. Rhonda had just changed the straw, making it acceptably clean for refined raccoon tastes. Now to make sure Joon didn't poop in the big tub of fresh water. The goat would be disposed of along with most of the canines when she got to phase 4. In the meantime, she could count on stupid goat antics of goats, like those of dogs, to keep Rhonda's attention away from Glory's devious plans.

Glory carefully transported the first portion of her kibble hoard to the shed and buried it in the cleanest straw along the walls. Fishing for food made a popular party game and this helped keep the goat from devouring the party supplies. Before she went to get the next batch, Glory used a leafy branch to entice Joon into the unused tether until the stupid goat tangled her back leg. Then Glory climbed onto the garden wagon and continued her teasing with the branch until the tether was wrapped around the wagon a few times, securing the goat. That kept Joon from defecating in the clean water. Unfortunately Rhonda kept coming out to rescue the goat, so Glory had to repeat the process several times.

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The light of the full moon streamed into the open door and windows of the goat shed. Glory perched on the hay rack, looking down on the hilllbilly coons hoeing down. The shed was crowded with them, all shapes and sizes, along with a few possum and a single porcupine, who'd somehow picked up on the gossip. At least no skunks had shown up. The stench was already bad enough.

Several families of skinny, grungy coons crowded around the water trough. They washed their food in proper coon style, but likely hadn't cleaned themselves in a coon's age. Other more sedate groups chittered and chattered, catching up on all the gossip--births, deaths, where to find the best garbage. In one corner, a group of young males chowed down on fermenting apples they'd snuck in from the neighboring orchard. Their female counterparts bunched across the room, preening and puffing out their bellies while sneaking glances at the males.

Then on the window ledge opposite her perch, Glory spotted a male coon sitting above the rest and watching the party. A bit on the skinny side, but his coat was pristine and glistened in the moonlight. Their eyes met. Her stomach wobbled inside her glorious fat rolls.

The room grew dark. And silent--oddly silent. Glory's fabulous prospect turned his head towards the open door, breaking their contact. She turned her own, following his gaze.

A row of coons spanned the door. In the middle, a smaller one, old. His coat was patchy and dull and a scar traversed the left side of his bandit mask where an eye should have been. He was flanked by full adult males, bulging with muscle and crisscrossed with battle scars. Glory resisted the urge to shrink down into the hay and hide.

The old coon rose up on his haunches shakily. "Y'all git. The Mountain Mafia ain't signed off on this here shindig. Ain't no respectable coon gonna carry on like Glory does." He spit in her direction. Mothers hurried to collect their young. "Actin' like she all high and mighty, too good for the rest of us. Like livin' in a tree is somethin' to be 'shamed of."

Glory snuck a look at the male in the opposite window. He was watching her. Eager to impress him, she climbed down to the floor and approached the mafia. "There's plenty of food for you gentlemen as well." She tried to sound inviting although her heart was racing.

The largest of the mafia males grabbed her and pinned her to the ground. "It's going to cost you far more than food to get approval," he growled. Now that the mafia line was broken, the coon guests flooded out, except the drunken young males who gathered in a circle at a respectful distance from the mafia.

The old male approached her. Glory struggled to get away, but a second coon thug helped hold her down. Glory fought harder, trying to get her teeth onto one of her captors. Failing, she screeched, "Paws off me, or you'll regret it!"

The mafia cackled as the old male prepared to mount.

Then she heard it. A hound baying just outside. She recognized the voice of Houdini, the escape artist coonhound who often found his way out of crates and runs, sometimes with her help.

The large pup bounded into the shed on his massive paws, giant ears flapping, baying at the scent of all those stinky coons. The returning moonlight made his white chest and the white on his nose glow.

The mafia scattered.

Houdini gave chase, treeing the old male a short way up a scraggly oak.

Glory pulled herself together and surveyed the party. Only the porcupine remained, snuffling kibble out of the straw. The straw was scattered all over, even in the water trough. The stench of garbage, carrion, and feces lingered in the air.

Rhonda emerged from the house, yelling for Houdini.

Glory climbed her spruce to the window. Rhonda collected the dumb hound, clueless, as always, about what went down in the goat shed. Shaking her head, Glory glared at the screen now blocking her window. Ping, ping, out came her claws. Glory took a regal swipe at the screen and satisfaction filled her soul as the wire mesh split at her touch. She crawled into the room and settled onto her favorite pink blanket in the crate those worthless cats would never set paw in again. Not on her watch.

Glory began the laborious task of cleaning every speck of dirt and any odor of other creatures from her sleek, beautiful coat. The moon sank lower in the sky as dawn approached. A new day. Her day. Maybe the day she would track down that tempting male with the glorious coat. Glory chittered eagerly then settled down for her beauty sleep.

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