When One’s Owners Don’t Get It

Hank, a large German Shepherd, wouldn’t hurt a fly; his owners knew he was a good dog, so they let him roam their street with a leash on, but nobody holding it.

However, Hank learned that many viewed with suspicion the apparent lack of human-affiliation that his unmanned leash seemed to signify.

Small children would take one look at him and turn to quivering jelly. Dogs on human-attended leashes preemptively barked so much, their owners had to reroute their walks.

Hank finally learned to bring the loose end of his leash to his owners whenever he wanted to walk around.From Guest Contributor Susmita Ramani

Susmita’s work has appeared in over thirty different publications, including 100 Words, and she has a novella coming out in 2026. She lives in the Bay Area with her husband, two teenage daughters, and a dozen pets. See her WordPress for fiction and Instagram for poetry.

Morning Constitutionals

Fred was a big man who walked a little dog. Pepe, the Chihuahua, nearly jerked Fred's arm from its shoulder socket as he dashed ahead of his owner on the leash.

Mel Friedman walked Franz, his Great Dane. Clearly outweighed by the larger animal, Mel had to jerk Franz around the neighborhood, at the risk of dislocating his own shoulder.

Whenever the dog owners met on the sidewalk, Fred and Mel were upset, if not very sore. These morning constitutionals were murder on their bodies, if not mental states. Pepe and Franz, on the other hand, nodded to one another.

From Guest Contributor David Sydney

Steering Law

A man lost his dog, but the cat lets him walk her. Connected by the dog’s old leash, they walk. The man explains the world as they go: this leash is our curve of pursuit, he says.

What’s that? The cat, having no crystal ball or even a decent pair of glasses, might wonder.

See those ants? Each walks at the same speed toward the ant on their left. The curve of pursuit is the curve traced by the pursuers.

Never one to grovel for place, the cat assumes a posture identical to the man, and pulls ahead of him.

From Guest Contributor Cheryl Snell

Cheryl's new series is called Intricate Things in their Fringed Peripheries.

Unconditional Love

“That damn dog! How did she get out this time?” I asked.

He replied, “It’s my fault. I didn’t secure the back gate properly. Why does she run away like this when we take such good care of her?”

“We can’t take it personally. It is just doggy instinct to hunt. I am just sorry you need to chase her when she does this. Try looking down by the pond.”

Just as he grabbed a leash, the culprit appeared: tail wagging, dirty nose, and a dead gopher in her mouth.“There you are! Come here. Who is our best girl?”

From Guest Contributor Janice Siderius

There Are Moments, Like These

where I see this beautiful creature’s frayed leash, the far end trapped under a great stone. So great I assume she cannot lift it. She tells me how time is consumptive, and while consuming us, so it must erode the stone. But the longer she or I stare, the slower it seems to weather. Is it any wonder her running throat is yanked taught? The urge to break the circle is the legacy of choice. Look at her and promise, “I cannot lift that stone. But I can sit here and wait until you do. Your wings, they're pinned beneath."

From Guest Contributor Nick Scott Christian

Nick’s poetry has appeared in Poetry Quarterly. He lives in St. Louis and currently studies at the University of Missouri-St. Louis.

Unwelcome

The skittering as her nails scrabbled at the tiles on the front door hall: impotent in the face of his grip on her favourite leash.

The desperate eyes and face as she strained against a collar she could have slipped off her wasted neck; had her limbs moved that way. That is my last image of Honey.

Her frenzied bark in the background of the terrible phone call I took from traction was the last noise and the reason I vowed never to have another dog.

I’m going to kill the spoiled little Shitzon which pisses on my book collection.

From Guest Contributor Perry McDaid

The Grimalkin

Finnegan wasn't the first to discover the cat. His dog was, as Finnegan was pulled forcefully to the brush where the grimalkin was huddled. Close to death it seemed.

His dog didn't know any better. If it hadn't been for the leash, Sam would have mangled the old cat. Dogs only understand their instinct.

Finnegan could see that this was no ordinary cat. This was one of the elders. There had been a time when his kind had ruled this land. That time was no more, however, and now they were mostly refugees.

Finnegan unclasped the leash and walked away.