Blackie the Dog

I imagined there was a pig fucking farmer in the Ozarks feeding kibble to a bunch of mutt puppies, spitting juices from his chewed tobacco, as he shouted out the names of the litter to a potential buyer. There were likely pig shit stains on his overalls and fresh cow shit on his belt buckle. He was certainly a pig fucker. This potbellied hog man screamed out the names of the the dogs as he pointed them out to the potential buyer, a man just a tad better dressed than the breeder himself. The buyer’s daughter, a small and pale girl with auburn tresses, frolicked about the noisome garage, petting the dogs and shoving pieces of kibble into their mouths. She took turns with each puppy, riding equestrian and squeezing their necks between her legs, as she scooped the dry dog food into her hands, before ramming and jamming the food into their noses.  All of the dogs pulled away from her force and whimpered away. All but one. The last dog to go into the gauntlet, a chihuahua sized mutt, took the initial nose contact without flinching and opened his mouth for the dry bits and repeated his perch again and again, until she got the rhythm and aimed with total control. Before the breeder finished his roll call, she had the hang of it. She would make a great pal to any of them.  But she knew which one she wanted.

“Blackie!”, said the pig fucking farmer. “That one there I calls Blackie. He is a winner alright. Gonna be big. Huge even. He is half lab and half pit Rottweiler. Best of both worlds I tell ya.”

“I like this one daddy”, his daughter said, adding exclamation to the robust commendation of the breeder. Blackie was priced lower than any of the other dogs. In fact, he was free. Of course, the girl who turned 6 that day didn’t care about that. She was happy to have her new pet puppy. One day he would be a big, mean, dog, running along the backyard fence, barking at anything or sound on the other side. For that moment, at that time, he was her pup.

I met this girl with the auburn hair when she was 18. Her family moved into the west suburbs of Tulsa, Oklahoma. But I met her when she lived in Tahlequah. We were classmates at first, and I’ve honestly never enjoyed looking at any other red head as much I enjoyed watching her. For a semester, I sat around her in my Chemistry class, hoping for an chance to get her attention. After a few weeks of gazing, I introduced myself, and did whatever I could do after that to get her to notice me. She wore these long summer dresses that flowed from her shoulders to her ankles. Even when the cold came and her flip flops were replaced with Ugg boots, she wore these quaint home made looking hippy dresses. One lucky drunken night, we made out at a local college bar called Granny’s Attic. I probably could have had a pretty good one night stand, but was enamored to chase it. Still, it was the best night of my first year at the University.

I didn’t know she had a dog when I visited her family’s home one summer day. I returned from the Circle K with cigarettes and beer swinging in my arms, only to be napped at the legs by a dingy ass dog when I opened the fence. If I were not afraid she might see me, I would have punted the fucking dog in the face. She came crashing through the patio door screaming more expletives than an abusive father at a little league game. I had never seen the petite and demure girl so aggressive. I was shocked and beguiled, seduced and amused.”Blackie”, she said as she stomped, “Get your ass over here before I come and put my got damn foot up your ass. How many times do I have to tell you. You can’t keep running up on people like that. Get your ass in that backyard! I am so sorry Ryan. He will dig under the fence when he wants to run into the front of the house”. Luckily, his teeth and jawbone were so weak he could do more than cause deep scratches to my ankles. And a broken beer bottle, because I dropped my beer and nearly pissed myself when I thought my dick was about to be eaten.  Maybe it was that hidden accent, that inner hick that came forth when she yelled, because I was suddenly turned off by the fact that this was no debutant. For one, classy people don’t name dogs Blackie.

I’d come across a few dogs called Blackie, or Spooky, or some variation of a derogatory term for Black people before that day at Courtney’s. It’s a theme in Oklahoma. The first time I met a dog called Blackie, I was obliviously walking along the street, dribbling a basketball every few steps, heading home as the sun set behind me. Still new to Tulsa, I’d ventured further from home than I traveled before. I worried I was lost, so I stride fast through unfamiliar blocks, just in case I had to double back double time on a dead end street. When I finally figured out which way I needed to go, I strutted merrily, passing rows of shotgun style duplexes, as more and more things began to look familiar. I only slowed my pace when I neared a group of kids blaring dark heavy metal on the porch of the most bucolic house on the street. As I neared the pack, I could hear a the hoots coming my way. “Get the fuck away from my lawn you nigger” one of them said and the others laughed and jeered. I slowed my step so fast, it probably looked like I was striking the Heisman trophy pose. “Are you dumb? Keep moving, fore I put my dog on you. Ya hungry Blackie?”. I looked behind the bunch to see the skinny racist in Doc Martins holding a chain leash tied to kneeling Rottweiler. The dog’s massive head rolled, as his neck followed my next move. I doubted the skinny racist could keep the dog from attacking me if the dog really wanted to. I thawed my stance and crossed the street to the sounds of more racist jeers and bigotry, wondering what I did to deserve such unwarranted harassment and hoping they didn’t decide to attack since I didn’t fight back.

Courtney’s latest neighborhood was nothing like the graceless place I lived when we first arrived in Green Country Oklahoma. Her family had come up a lot since she and I first met freshman year too. I was a bit envious of their success. With college tuition costs, my family’s economy regressed and buckled. The Callahans tripled the size of their home. The homes in her neighborhood were all made of red or brown or black brick with big wooden eaves and window panes and the driveways were paved arches that welcomed you and wished you farewell. All of the homes were close to the same, the only distinguishing factor being the different luxury SUVs dotting the landscapes. The deeper that you drove into the neighborhood, the more gigantic and unique the houses became. Courtney’s family home was the biggest in the neighborhood. If she were a debutant, it was more Paris Hilton and less Kate Middleton. Sure enough, Blackie the dog was still breathing too. He was moving a bit slower, but still just as intimidating and able.

Courtney was already gone on cocaine when she opened the door. She abused it since the start of our junior year, if not longer. One night, we hung in her room after a party I had and she invited me to try some. When I declined, she called me a pussy and asked if she do a line off my dick instead. It was an offer I couldn’t refuse. We played grab ass before that, and might have made out another time or two since that night at the Attic, but we never took it any further, for whatever reason. Though she routinely denied sucking my dick due to vagueness of memory, never again was she shy about getting fucked up every so often. It was no surprise to see her coked out when she opened the door, boobs flying loose under a torn wife beater, with nothing else on at all. This is how she enjoyed her summer breaks.

Their new house was fucking amazing. There was a two story glass window spanning the length of three rooms, pretty much the entire back side of the house. We hung in the third room, the den, where she had the music, television, laptop, and prior to my arrival, the vacuum, all on at once. A bowl of soggy fruity pebbles lay next to an issue of Jane magazine with 4 monster sized lines stretched across the width of it. I wondered how many she’d sniffed already.

Potheads are chill and cokeheads are not. Potheads like to eat munchies, cokeheads can care less about hunger. Cokeheads get more sex, but have more erectile dysfunction too. You rarely hear stories about guys who can’t get it up on weed, but the number one reason I don’t do cocaine is because I like to fuck. But above all, cokeheads get serious and potheads become not serious at all, when the high takes over. What happened next is the reason why potheads and cokeheads need a buffer region or an alcoholic go between to ease the tension.

Not long after arriving, Courtney was flirting and teasing me with her naked body beneath the thin wife beater. She was normally a touchy feely person. Now she was rubbing against my legs like a cat. Her very shaven pubic bone appeared as she lifted her knee, and as I sat on the couch near her, I could see little red hairs surrounding her labia. Maybe I was wrong, but I took her openness as an invitation to touch it. She did noy object. She moaned and purred as I took turns sliding my index and then my middle finger along the bottom of her vagina and asshole. She moaned harder when I dared to slide my pinky completely into her ass. She squirmed in her seat and began to trickle down her leg and onto my palm. It was the first time I’d ever made a girl cum. I could feel her tighten on my fingers and I tried to knuckle her g-spot into the action. “Don’t stop. Go deeper,” she moaned. I smiled all over and tingled on the inside.

I probably shouldn’t have tried to slide 4 knuckles into her, but when you have no idea what you are doing, you’ll go for anything. As soon as I moved all my fingers inside, she tightened around my fist like a baseball mitt. Her body convulsed, and I jerked back, thinking she would vomit. I couldn’t pull my hand free, even if I wanted to. I took cover as she began swinging her legs in the air, bicycle kicking at the atmosphere, as she panted and huffed hot air in her state of bliss. She put her thumb in her mouth and closed her eyes, and her body delivered aftershocks from her uterus to my wrist. She ended her ecstatic convulsions with her right leg, held high over her head, like she was inviting me to eat it. When she let her leg down, she kicked the coffee table, knocking the bowl of cereal over, spilling milke all over her beautifully sliced and separated white lines and her Jane Magazine. She slowly opened her eyes to her nightmare. The finely grained cocaine was gone, immersed in a pool of Vitamin D milk. And her magazine was fucked too. “Gawdaumitt man,” she yelled. “Look what the fuck you made me do!”
I was shocked. “What the fuck you mean? I didn’t do shit. Stop the bullshit” Maybe I helped, but I didn’t make her kick the bowl over.
“Fuck you man. Fuck you. This shit doesn’t happen if you aint here. Am I right?”
She went from zero to 100 in less than 5 seconds. Considering she was just smiling and cooing, it was more like -100 to 100. That’s cocaine for you.
“Like I invited myself over. Your cokehead ass needs to sit the fuck down and deal with it.” She was pacing around the coffee table, making sure to step on or kick me each time she passed me.
“Stop telling me what to do in my house. God damn. Fuck you man. Just get the fuck out. Leave! Go!” She opened the door and her dog trotted in and began licking up the mess of fruity pebbles and cocaine. She didn’t see it because she was in a rage. She screamed on me like a drill sergeant, waiting for her chance to punctuate the erratic scene. “Lose my number you Black muthafucker. Goodbye.” she snapped, as she furiously slammed the door behind me.
It wasn’t the first time she had cursed me out in one her little tirades. But it would be the last. The infatuation was over. She text and called me later that night.

“Blackie died I need u 😦 call me”
“What are you doing? Give me a call. Don’t be a dick lol 🙂 ”
“Ryan. I been texting you. Call me back. Blackie died.”
And after another 6 or 7 texts and messages the next morning, she stopped by my house. I didn’t even know she knew where I lived. I was fucking a fat girl so I didn’t want to open the door to ridicule. Courtney left quietly but she did leave a quick note. “You killed my dog. I forgive you. Let’s talk soon.- Courtney.”

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