The Dog

If I hadn't written that last failure of a story, I probably wouldn't be where I am now.

My name is Derrick Jenner, and I'm a writer. Not a very good one, if my publishing record has anything to say. I've probably written as many failures as Steven Kings has successes. I suppose it's my lot in life, really. After all, I chose the role of the starving fiction writer, so why not suffer the humiliating defeats that publishers can dish out? If they don't like your work, they don't hesitate to snub you, and hard.

I had finished my latest story sometime after 4am on a Sunday, and when I finally crawled into bed, my eye sockets had finally quit hurting. Staring at a monitor all hours might seem like a dream job to some, and to me, it once was. But three years after I quit my job at Bookworms to do writing full-time, the dream has become something more akin to a nightmare.

At this point, I had another day before the nightmare's latest horror-filled addition to the long list of flat-out failures and had been up the past 48 hours straight polishing it to a dull imperfection, so sleep was in abundance. I remember having a dream about a huge stack of books nearly crushing me after yet another pitch session gone horribly wrong, and waking up to find myself on the floor next to my bed. I'd rolled off through the course of the following night, and slammed into the bookcase hard enough to send some of my paperbacks hurtling towards my skull.

"Do you hate me that much?"

I started to pick up the books, looking at the covers one by one as I did: J.R.R. Tolkien, Michael Crichton, Trudi Canavan, Dave Duncah. Somehow, they were all blessed with brilliant ideas, and were rewarded by multiple mass-printings over the years. They wrote stories that stood the tests of both time and the modern literary attitude. Silently, I wished I could join them in their lofty halls.

But apparently, the world wasn't ready for Derrick Jenner, wannabe writer. At least not yet, anyway.

Picking myself up off of the floor, I headed for the bathroom, hoping a good, hot shower would soothe away the lumps in my noggin and get my thought processes working properly. Glancing at the clock, I saw it was one in the morning. Great, I thought. Seven hours until my meeting with the publisher. One of these days, I need to get back on a normal schedule.

Reluctant as my body was to move, I still managed to get my day - or rather, night - started. I could see it clearly at that point: Another night awake and alone, making finishing touches that I knew weren't going to help my work find a printed home. As I climbed into the shower and turned on the hot water, I pictured the words I'd written being washed off the pages and rolling down the drain.

Reaching for a towell, I stepped out of the tub and dried off, running my plan of action through my head: read the damned thing over again, decide what sucks, make changes, decide that those changes suck, and change them again. It's the way it goes every time. Honestly, I was rather sick of that routine.

That routine would change, though, and in a way I would have never dreamed possible.

As 6:30 rolled around, I found myself sitting in the usual sea of rejected pages I'd crumpled up and tossed willy-nilly in frustration. It was becoming a pre-meeting ritual anymore. But, at last, my latest work was more or less complete. "Second Chance" by Derrick Jenner read the title page. Good enough, I guess. Giving in and feigning satisfaction, I bundled up the manuscript and slid it into a manilla folder, then dug through my closet for my best suit. Not that wearing a suit would help any, and it certainly wasn't my preferred style of dress, but in these situations, it's something you just have to do.

Not long after I left the house on the way to the T station, I began to feel the pangs of change, though they weren't strong enough for me to notice right away. For some odd reason, things just felt different. Even though I'd made this trip hundreds of times for dozens of reasons in the past, there was something new about it. I really began to notice when the dog that usually goes crazy as I walk past his fenced-in domain sat there silent, looking at me with his tongue hanging out and his tail wagging.

I stopped there and looked at it. "What, you don't hate me today? Usually you're all about telling me to move along before you bite something important off of me." Other than cocking his head to one side, he remained still. I walked up to the fence and knelt down, and the dog finally stirred, getting up and trotting over to me and sitting himself down again. He resumed wagging his tail and again cocked his head to one side, as if considering me for a few moments.

"Did your owner put something in your water, pup? You're never this civil with me."

Tail wagging and panting was the reply I recieved. Feeling a bit bolder than usual, I slowly reached out my hand, wrist up, palm out, so the little guy could check me out in his own way. Almost without hesitation, the dog stood up, trotted over to the fence and started licking my hand as if I were an old friend.

"Wow, you really are a friendly one today. Why the change?" As I spoke, I flipped my hand over and started to pat his head like I did with the dog my parents had. "Well, whatever your reason is, it's nice to not have your voice ringing in my ears."

He looked up at me as I finished rubbing his head and gave two quick barks. After that, he turned and ran out behind his owner's house, quiet as a mouse. As I stood up, I thought for a moment about the situation. Weird, I thought. Wonder what got into him. With a shrug, I placed the matter into the background and started off towards the T Station again.