Note: This story is another writing or character prompt. I edited very little. Not all stories have an end. Most of them are 500 words with a goal to work on a writing skill, then move on to a new story. Please do not replicate these stories without the authors’ express written permission. I hope enjoy the story. Post your own story using the same prompt.
Today’s Prompt: The sign said, “No shirt, no shoes, no service”—but that didn’t matter. He had to get inside.
No shirt? That made no sense. Dogs didn’t wear shirts. They couldn’t keep him out for that. No shoes? What would a dog need with shoes? No service? Then what was the point of going to the dang restaurant?
“This is ridiculous,” I barked. The guy pretended I hadn’t barked a word.
“Shoe. Shoe,” he stuttered.
“I don’t wear shoes,” I barked. The smell of his fear was so pungent on his skin, it distracted me, making our communication more difficult. I lifted my paw to show him I had my pads on my feet instead of shoes, but he didn’t give them a moment’s attention.
“You’re a nasty dog,” the host balked. “Go away, you mutt.”
“Mutt? Mutt?” I snarled, causing him to step back. “I’ll have you know both my parents are lab retrievers and I’m no mutt. You jerk.” I turned and ran down the street. That host had seen the last of this customer. If he treated everyone like this, he’d be eating out of a trash can in no time.
I spun around the corner, sniffing around for an alternate entrance. I may not like the guy at the front door, but maybe the back door was a better option. The alleyway smelled like feline—I wanted to throw up. I would have hacked something up if there weren’t already hairball donuts littering the ground and I didn’t want to add to the acid ambience.
The restaurant’s back door remained closed. I sat for a few minutes, hoping for it to open. I whined at it, barked at it and peed on it, but it remained locked up tighter than a Persian cat’s arse. Beautiful smells wafted from tiny air pockets, forcing my stomach to grumble involuntarily. My perseverance paid off when the door propped open, and a small girl carried a large bag of garbage over her shoulder.
“I can help with that,” I barked.
She screamed, fell backward, and I watched the door slam shut. Poop. I wagged my tail, which nearly almost sometimes always made the human ladies mushy. This lady hadn’t recovered from her fall. I hoped she was okay. I whined some more, in case she needed help—people were supposed to come when a dog whined. Before help arrived, the girl poked her head out the door and I jumped for joy, my paws landing on the door, shoving it closed. Double poop. An eternity later, she opened the door. Her smile and freckles made my tail wag.
“Do you want a treat, little guy?”
I balked. “Little? Little? I’m fifty pounds of muscle. I can jump higher than you, stand taller on two legs, eat like a hundred pounder, and hunt cats like a coyote.”
“Don’t be grumpy or you won’t get anything to eat,” she said.
“Good boy. Now stay here and I’ll get you something.”
She turned and headed back inside. Before the door closed, I squeezed through, my athletic—not little—body barely escaping the door’s crushing power. The door would have crushed a cat.
Once inside, the feast was on.