Theme of the Week

Here is the Theme of the Week winner written by Aylin

l' Rufus died today. You don't know how much I loved that dog. I had him for twenty-three years. I don't know how old he was when I got him. He was a mess of trouble back then, I'll tell ya, and he still would be if Death hadn't called Ol' Rufus' name. I remember how we met, all those years ago. Do you mind if I tell you?


I had walked into that little diner on the corner of Main and 5th Street – you know the one. It's old and run down now, but back then it was a shiny, brand-new place. It had pink walls inside and a black and white checkerboard floor. There was a big, old clock behind the counter with neon numbers. But that's all beside the point. Forgive me for reminiscing - I don't want to bore you too much.

Anyways, I walked in there that Saturday morning for a cup of black coffee and a fried egg. The door jangled and little Tammy Sue looked up and smiled at me from behind the counter. She was always there early on Saturday mornings. I sidled up to the counter and ordered my food. While I was waiting for Tammy Sue to fry my eggs, I whistled along to a tune playing on the jukebox.

Pretty soon, my food was done cooking, and I began to eat it. The door jingled and an old man and woman walked in. They sat down in a booth in the corner and Tammy Sue got their order. I hadn't but hardly finished my coffee when the door burst open again – the bell just a-clanging and rattling up a storm. I spun around on my stool to see a ugly, yellow mutt bounding through the door and tearing off for the kitchen. He ripped right past Tammy Sue and the cook who had just come in a moment before. The cook, I forgot her name, let out a holler like you wouldn't believe. Her pan full of oatmeal went flying through the air like a flying saucer, landed on the linoleum, and spun around and around until it finally settled on a black square on the floor. The oatmeal, on the other hand, had long since left the pan and dripped from the clock on the wall.

The dog didn't stop, even with the cook screaming at him. He kept running right through the kitchen, then back around toward Tammy Sue. He upset three cups of coffee and a muffin as he jostled around the counter. Then he landed right next to me. He just sat down and looked up at me with doleful eyes and cocked his head to one side.

“Is that foul beast your, Jim?” The cook screeched, her voice rising even higher than before. “Cause, I am gonna knock his brains out – just look at what he did to the diner!” I did look around then. The elderly couple had somehow climbed up on top of their seats, which was quite a feat for their age. The curtain on the bottom half of the door was torn from the brass rod. The pan had dinged up the floor and I noticed that the oatmeal had dripped mostly into a coffeepot. I looked at the cook. Her face was beet red and it was like steam was coming out of her ears. And then I looked down at the dog that was panting at my feet. Just a miserable, no-good critter like you've never seen.

“Yeah, he's mine,” I said quietly. “He's mine.” The cook screeched again and she came a-tearing at the dog and me. Well, I jumped up off of my stool and hightailed it out to my truck. I jumped in and the dog leaped in after me.

And, well that was that. That old dog stayed with me forever after that. I don't know whose he was originally, but apparently nobody wanted him, cause no one put an ad in the paper for him or nothing. I think he kinda always was my dog. It just took us a while to find each other – you know what I mean?