Arnold W. Fishburne never had a pet and never wanted one. He feared most things that couldn’t relay their feelings to him in words. Animals, babies and trees, were all things that were so foreign to him that sometimes deep down in the recesses of his brain he thought they were out to get him. Arnold knew, or had been taught, that thoughts like these were silly and should be dismissed as soon as they appeared. Still there were times when he would catch an animal looking at him in a certain way, or hear a tree creek., and that same unnerving feeling would grip him.
One spring Arnold’s roommate Ashley decided to get a dog. As much as Arnold wanted to protest he couldn’t for the life of him think how. Arnold W. Fishburne had learned at a young age that rocking the boat was not for civilized people and that most things were best dealt with by putting on the brave face, swallowing your pride, and shutting up. The puppy was a pitbul hound mix and was the most adorable puppy Arnold had ever met. Shaka was his name. He whined, he destroyed things, and he made messes. Arnold loved the dog but would never let anyone know it, not even Shaka. He loved and feared it in equal measure. Here was a thing that could rely on him, that he could mold into something. Arnold decided that for the good of the dog and for his own safety to keep his distance.
And so it went on like that for a while, he clearly was a part of the dog’s life, but he refused the responsibility out of fear. One Saturday in the fall Arnold, Ashley, and Shaka drove out to a friends mountain retreat for a bonfire. Arnold knew from experience that these bonfires were usually a nice drunken time where he could relax and just get outside his own head for one night. Ashley knew that there would be other animals there, so he thought that bringing Shaka would be good for him. As soon as they got there, the dog began frolicking with the other dogs and barking at the chickens and Arnold moseyed over to the giant bucket of beer. After they had been there an hour or so Ashley asked Arnold what they were going to eat, they couldn’t continue this debauchery without first filling their bellies. Some of the other party goers assuaged their fears with the promise of a rabbit stew that they were going to make. So, knowing that a meal was impending, Arnold W. Fishburne redoubled his efforts to forget the world and his worries, cracked a new beer, and passed around a bottle of liquor telling everyone to “DO WORK”.
A short time later Arnold found himself pleasantly drunk but impossibly starving. He thought about this in a vague, fuzzy way as he entered the kitchen to see what was the status of the stew. As he entered and saw friends still chopping up vegetables and the rabbit still braising he realized that this stew would not be ready for some time. At this point Arnold began to panic. He was drunk there was no stopping that now, and now he was starving and sweating and the whole world was going terribly wrong. He tried making some jokes about how hungry he was to lighten the mood to no avail. As if on cue, Shaka entered the kitchen and glared at him. Did Shaka know that he was more vulnerable now than he had ever seen him? Was this his chance to strike? Arnold shook these thoughts away and said “Hey Buddy” and rubbed his ears. Shaka just shook his head and scampered off leaving Arnold feeling rather lonely. Arnold stood there in the kitchen deep within his own mind despising the dog and himself and the world, when he noticed the smell of fresh baked brownies. He investigated and found that a tray of brownies had just been removed from the oven. He was starving he needed to eat a brownie. A beautiful hippie girl informed Arnold that they were magic. He looked at her brown sparkling eyes and thought that they certainly smelled magical. He was welcome to one she said, so Arnold throwing caution to the wind sliced the brownies and ate one.
After eating seven brownies Arnold was no longer hungry but decided that he desperately needed to be outside where the air was. He started to feel the blood in his brain and his vision began to curve in at the peripheral. All at once space-time folded in on itself so that Arnold felt that he was in three separate times and spaces at once. It was disorienting because in one of these space time pockets the sun was still up and he was still laughing and smiling with his friends by the bonfire. The second pocket was dark and he was under a giant tarp to protect him from potential rain, there was a band playing music and the music was also somehow coming out of him and he was predicting the song even though he had never heard the band before. He saw Ashley’s face here in the crowd and was comforted slightly to know that he was also quite out of his mind. The third spot that Arnold W. Fishburne was stuck in was a wood pile and he was alone. He laid there in the woodpile looking up at the stars and taking stock of what was happening to him. If he could just get a grip on how drunk he was, he was positive he could handle, even enjoy the magic pulsing through his body. He sat there thinking of things to sober him up and begging the Gods to make the rabbit stew be ready now. Arnold looked down at his hands and began to cry. His skin was melting in to the wood grain. He was stuck, he was trapped, he was going to become part of the wood pile forever. As he saw the skin of his right hand growing bark on it, his head spun and he vomited. He was so glued to this stump that he couldn’t stand up so he just leaned behind the wood pile and regurgitated the demons that were plaguing him. It was at this point that he realized he was in the midst of a severe bummer.
Shaka sauntered up to the wood pile to investigate. He sniffed at Arnold then went over to lick up his pile of sick. Arnold couldn’t handle this, he lost control and said GO ON GET OUT!!!! The dog trotted off looking hurt.
The next morning Shaka was nowhere to be found. Arnold still in a semi haze was convinced that he had magicked Shaka out of existence. He sat there on the ride back to the city, a horrible guilt welling up inside of him seeing his roommates distress. Arnold W. Fishburne knew that it was his fault his bad vibes that caused the dog to disappear. Worse than the guilt was the feeling lurking deep inside that he had got what he wanted. Arnold W. Fishburne had never had a pet and never wanted one.
