Chester

By Graham Dickson.

If I had a dog I'd make him wear a darling little scarf, too. And little booties, so his feet wouldn't get cold and wet. And a diamante-studded collar, so that everyone would look at him and take note when we walked into a room. "Magnifique!" they would cry, and I would blush, knowing it was true. And sometimes, if we were taking a stroll around seedier parts of the East Village - or Brooklyn, say- I'd dress him in a leather jacket, to give him some edge. Bitches love a bad dog. And on occasion, if we were going to the right parties, with the right people, dining with the upper crust on the Upper West, I would have him wear a monocle. It is important for a dog, as it is for a man, at particular social conventions, to project a certain air of bel esprit. Of course, the monocle would probably have to be stitched to his face to prevent it falling off and causing us both immense embarrassment. The procedure would no doubt be excruciating, but it would be a small price to pay for cutting such a dashing figure of sophistication.

Everyone would adore my little Chester Winslow. That would be his name. Everyone would praise me for his impeccable style.

And at night, when the two of us were alone, tucked up together in bed in our cavernous Soho loft wearing our matching pyjama suits, Chester would look up at me through his monocled eye and say, "Thank you. Thank you for making me more than just a dog."

Yes, that's what his little brown eyes would say. Thank you.


From the newest issue of TANK. Which I love, because of the Flash Fiction pieces they always have running throughout.