A Dog's Day

I am attempting to write a tale from the point-of-view of a forgotten dog. Here is my beginning, I would welcome input. Thanks!

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Most days start with a biscuit. If I’m lucky, he’ll give me a whole biscuit sopped in rich, melted butter. Maybe he’d even dip it in bacon grease before setting the fluffy loaf on the floor for me to devour. Usually though, I spend the early morning sitting by his chair, looking up at his hand longingly as it moves from plate to mouth. “No, this isn’t for you!” seems to be his mantra, though it doesn’t stop me from licking my chops every time I see a little grease drip onto his thick, tangled white and peppered beard.

He finishes his breakfast and my stomach growls. I’m careful to make sure it is just my stomach growling and not my throat. Heaven knows what would happen if I let loose a snarl at my master on account of my hunger! They say never to bite the hand that feeds you, and even sparingly, his is the hand that feeds.

Master rises from his chair and takes his empty plate to the kitchen sink. He takes his time washing the crumbs and grease. By the time he’s done, the plate is sparkling. Water droplets catch the early morning sunlight as it pushes through a streak-free window. They seem to dance across a sparkling field; free, new, and pure. I bark at the plate, wanting to dance too, but Master puts it away to await its proper use once again.

He crosses the kitchen to the back door. I know what’s coming, it happens every day. “Outside boy,” Master says, “I can’t have you underfoot while I’m working.” I never feel like I’m “underfoot”, but he doesn’t seem to like it when I chew on his furniture or pee on his carpet or get in his trash or drink from the toilet or scratch the wooden doors or bark at the television. I’m easily distracted and like to play. That’s just how I was made. Master doesn’t understand, he was made another way.

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