A few years ago, I was at a local fiction writers group where the moderator issued this writing prompt:

The big dog is arrogant

The task was to write a story based on that prompt. What follows is that story, or fragment of a story.

Image from Pixabay.

Get Mugsy

I stepped out of the cab in front of Top Dog Saloon and fingered the brim of my fake fedora. I was well aware I looked too good the part I was playing, but those are the breaks when you get your mission from Big Iron Joe.

Joe had handed me a corner of a piece of paper just small enough to fit the palm of my hand. On one side of the paper he had scribbled “Mugsy.” On the other: “Small, red, border collie.”

That was my only lead.

“Get your dog or don’t come home.” His words were embedded into my memory like a star on the walk of fame.

I stood on the sidewalk contemplating my entrance. Balls to the wall or slow and deliberate? I knew it would be like pulling teeth from a canine, so I opted for the latter.

I strolled to the old swinging doors in the smoothest stroll I could fake, but it felt more like a shuffle than a stroll. Pushing the doors wide open, I slid through into the dimly lit bar relieved to see that no one had noticed. But I noticed the odd feeling of standing out like a sore paw. I was the only biped in the whole damn place.

It was packed. Big dogs, little dogs, dogs of various colors and sizes. Black labs, French poodles, Shepherds, Shar Peis, Hounds, Terriers, Daschunds, and breeds I’d never seen before. All carried on their doggie business without so much as a glance in my direction. I was invisible and, man, I liked it that way.

With clenched fists and stiff nerves I forced myself one step forward, then another. Relentlessly, I pushed toward the bar to ask for a drink in hopes the tender might provide a tip on Mugsy’s whereabouts, preferably before some angry guard bitch took notice of my presence and went for a leg. I hadn’t made it halfway before a cute young poodle sashayed down the aisle and brushed against my knees on her way to the dance floor. She was followed by a quite-a-bit-taller and somewhat-cuter Setter from Ireland way.

I’m a man and not a dead one. The Setter stood up tall, about as tall as she could as far as I could reckon, and stretched her front paws toward the ceiling exposing her pink nipples until they bounced before my watering eyes. The soft pillow of pink dog flesh slid across my cheek as her tit dangled fearlessly upon my lips. She pushed on by without a word.

I looked around to see if any male cur had noticed. Confident none had, I pressed on.

Across the room, I could see the shadow of a pit bull leaning against the wall. He was the biggest dog in the joint. He easily stood eight or ten feet tall on hind legs. His shoulder pressed so hard against the back wall I could see it beginning to cave, and he stretched one leg up to the bar and down its long surface taking up valuable drinking space of the other mutts nursing their drinks. Without reservation, he chewed on a stogie and held a two-liter bottle of gin in his south paw. When he caught sight of me, he dropped the gin.

Our eyes locked as he made his way in my direction. Big pit bull chest barreled out, he pushed like a linebacker through a front line of smaller dogs, stiff arming them out of his way as if discarding toothpicks into the wind. As he drew closer, I could make out the drawings on his arm and stole a glimpse of a tattoo on his left shoulder -- a mastiff ripping a bunny rabbit to shreds.

We met in the middle of the room where he slammed his muzzle against my nose and, with a thunderous voice, asked, “Got some ID, Mack?”

He towered over me like a cell phone tower. The cigar between his scowling lips plundered my airspace like a chimney stack, and I held back a dirty cough as he exhaled a flume that wrapped itself around my head and tied itself in knots.

Reaching into my back pocket, I pulled out my driver’s license. I tried to sound confident but doubtfully pulled it off as I slid my credentials between our faces.

“I, I’m looking for Mugsy.”

“Don’t know him.”

I could tell he was lying when his jowls moved. It was my bet that Mugsy was in that place right then. I just had to find him.

“Look,” I said. “I’m here on a mission. I need this dog named Mugsy. Let me look around. I’ll be out in no time.”

The pit took my license in his paw and glared at it righteously. Then he was in my face again in a flash.

“You ain’t no dog.”

I stammered.

“Th-that’s true. I’m not. But, see –”

“Then, git.”

His dripping nose pressed firmly against mine and I could see he wasn’t about to budge. But I was under strict orders from Big Iron Joe. Get that dog or don’t come home. It was clear who I should have been more afraid of, but I didn’t let that oversized pit know that I indeed knew the score.

It hadn’t been my plan to reveal my true identity, but I had to make a choice. I reached into my back pocket again and pulled out a badge. I threw it in the big dog’s face and introduced myself as Federal Bureau of Canine Investigations Agent Peter Schull. It didn’t sway the pit one bit, so I snarled and pushed back, nose to dripping snout.

“I’ll leave when I have Mugsy.”

Jaws stretched so wide I could see a galaxy in that dog’s mouth. He roared. He snorted. He breathed his foulest breath. It seemed like eternity before I heard his thunderous voice again.

“Look here, pencil prick! This here is Top Dog Saloon and I’m top dog, you see?" His breath smelled like a foul odor from some old alley's dankest garbage can. "I own the place. I bounce the place. I eat here, I work here, I sleep here. Nobody comes in without my good graces and nobody leaves without my fondest farewells. You go your own way or I’ll run you out on your rib. Your choice, Mack. One way or another, you’re out. Make yourself history or I’ll make you next week’s mystery meat.”

I hadn’t noticed how far he’d pushed me with his paw, which he poked at my chest with each bellow. But there I was, in a moment of crude decision. I had to act. Now or never.

I turned. And just as the words I’d practiced formed on my lips, before I could address the crowd, before I could ask if any dog had any knowledge of Mugsy’s present locale, that oversized beast had me in his grasp and I found myself flying into the night. Through the swinging saloon doors, past a cacophony of neon lights, and onto the pavement under the jockeying feet of pedestrians too much in a hurry to give a damn, I flew like a shotput and landed with a thud and a shoulder skid that ended with my bald head square on a fire hydrant. And there I lay, dumbfounded and beaten. I knew right then I’d have to find another way to get to Mugsy.

Your Turn

Here's your prompt: The big dog is arrogant.

Interpret it any way you want. Literally, figuratively, unilaterally. Whatever. No rules.

Write a story. Short one, long one, speculative fiction, romance, western, a story where the characters are animals, or do something unheard of and make it a normal literary tale. It's entirely up to you. I just ask for one thing - tag me somewhere in your post so I can drop by and read what you write.

Now, it's your turn.

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