Mr. Dog Here -- Short Story

Mr. Dog Here -- Short Story | Ecency

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“Hello, how can I help you?” This was the fun part of his job, David knew. That moment he picked up the phone and anything was possible. It was why he always volunteered for the weekend shift. No stupid assistant to take his calls. Now he didn’t have to miss out on all the fun. A sheep in labor that needed his help, a cat that had thrown up his own bowels. Of course, most days nothing exciting like that happened. Lately, the most pleasurable thing he got to do was snipping the balls from guinea pigs. But even that got boring after a while.

“Kind Sir. Am I correct to think that you the veterinarian?”

David had never heard such a thick British accent. “Sure I am. How can I help you, sir?” He had almost wanted to ask if he needed help with the hot potato down his throat, but he kept it to himself. Had to stay professional, after all.

“Yes. Yes.” The voice on the other end of the line started to laugh hysterically. David held the phone away from his ear for some time until the voice on the other end was breathing normally again.

“So sorry, Mr. Veterinarian. That was the first time someone called me ‘sir’. It sounded uncanny.”

“What are you normally called? What name can I put down?” David clicked his pen, starting to get annoyed. This didn’t sound like something exciting coming his way. No chewed off legs, or torn ligaments.

“Oh, I’m so sorry. It’s Mr. Dog here. Also known as Mr. Tails, among acquaintances.”

David put down his pen. “Okay, Mr. Dog. What is it you want from me. I’m an important person and I’d rather keep the line free for true emergencies.”

“Oh no! Please. This is an emergency. I wouldn’t dream about wasting your time, Mr. Vet. You see, I am temporary without shelter as I've decided to run away from my ancestral home, because, well, you can imagine what my owners thought of me when I started speaking English. They are simple people, at best, but even they realized something was amiss. I cannot truly blame them. But the situation had become truly untenable. I’m sure you’ll understand, dear Sir.”

“Excuse me one moment.” David hesitated to respond. Any answer would only encourage this mad person to keep spewing his eloquent answers. “But are you saying you are a dog?”

“Well. If you’d like to put it like that, sure. I prefer to call myself an individual of canine origins.”

David shook his head. “Better call the Mental Illness Helpline, friend. They open at Monday 10 am. 800-950-NAMI. Good luck and goodbye.”

David had a lot of patience, but not for guys who were just trying to be funny. Or disturbed. David turned his music back on, and sat back in his chair. Nothing beat Rachmaninoff's Third after such an ordeal.

What happened to the dog speaking English is unclear. The one thing we know is that David could have been instantly famous for having discovered the first English speaking dog. Alas, that was not to be.

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