Wipe Your Feet

sadie fan fiction

it was christmas morning, 2014. peter came into the kitchen, where sadie was staring out the window.

“good morning!” he said, taking a sticky ribbon out from one of the cabinets. “come here, let me put this on your collar.”

sadie sat as peter affixed the bow. he patted her on the head.

“wait here, now.” he closed the kitchen doors. sadie walked over to them and pressed her ear against the wood.

i have a surprise for you, sadie heard peter say.

what! a surprise! answered tess. i love surprises!

sadie heard peter’s footsteps as he came back into the kitchen. he opened the door, picked her up, and brought her into the living room. tess was on the sofa.

“look! i got you a puppy!” peter said. he put sadie down.

sadie went over to tess, who scratched her neck. “that’s not a puppy!” she said, and they laughed.

hahahahahahaha. it was like a cruel siren to sadie’s ears. hahahahaha. that’s not a puppy!

sadie’s tail dropped. she left the room. tess and peter were toasting their glasses of egg nog: to their health, to the tree, but not to the dog. that’s not a puppy!

sadie’s nails clicked on the floor as she approached her wicker basket of toys. with a front paw, she shoved it aside to reveal a small bottle of whiskey. its cap had been replaced by a cork, which she pulled out with her teeth as she held the bottle between her furry forearms. she slid the bottle over to her water bowl, tipped the bottle over and emptied it into the half-empty dish, filling it to the brim. she lapped it up, wincing.

she remembered long ago, when she had been a puppy. they would walk her down the street in west hollywood, talking about how small she was. neighbors stopped. “my god,” they’d say, “what an adorable puppy.” when she got home, there would be wet food. when she went to bed, she was safe within the shiny gold barricade of her puppy gate. she was never asked to sit, or to high-five, or to sit down. she was only asked to be adorable.

that’s not a puppy! hahahaha!

sadie reached under the oven, flattening herself against the tile floor. she stuck her nose underneath the warm metal, rooting around. when she emerged, she had a Newport in her mouth. she stood on her hind legs and pawed at the door of the oven. it opened, and she lit the Newport on the oven’s pilot, letting the heavy oven door slam. who cared. she sat, then sat down, by her whiskey bowl, letting the ash from her cigarette drop on the floor. let the cats clean it up. what else were they good for? when she’d finished her whiskey, she pulled a pack of playing cards from the bookshelf and brought her Newport over to the kitchen table. she set up a game of solitaire.

she remembered spring days when tess or peter would carry her over the puddles she hated to step in, and fall days when they would encourage her to attempt to climb a tree after a squirrel. she remembered summer days when they would fill her water dish with crushed ice, and the time they took turns feeding her bits of duck confit from their fancy pizza. she remembered being handed piece after piece of bacon following a traumatic vet visit. fistfuls of bacon. a single tear slid down her muzzle, extinguishing her Newport. she was about to throw it into the ashtray with the others when she felt a hand atop her head.

“sadie,” said peter, “this is no way to spend christmas.”

“do you still remember how to play poker?” asked tess. “you’re a good dog, you know.”

peter poured them all glasses of egg nog, and they played poker and smoked for a few hours, before opening the rest of their presents.