Talking Dogs are My Fave

In my creative writing class, we had to write a piece that incorporated the "use of concrete, significant detail is to create a reality that is convincing--and yet literally impossible". I chose to write about a talking dog. I think animals are so funny. Harriet has such a definite personality as does my friend's dog Lucky or the infamous Grace. My family often jokes about what Harriet would say if she could talk. I suspect she would be filled with lots of attitude just like this:

Lucy awoke in her swanky New York loft apartment as she did every morning-wrapped in her frilly comforter, its color a pretentious shade of pink. She left her eye mask on longer than usual choosing to lift it off her face only when absolutely necessary (usually when her dog, Binky, whom was the size of a small rodent, yelped obnoxiously and uncontrollably as little dogs do). Settling comfortably into the warm down-filled mattress beneath her, Lucy felt the small lump of Binky on top of her feet. She wiggled her toes beneath him, before rolling over and inhaling the lavender shampoo scent that had made home in her matching pretentious-shade-of-pink silk pillow.

Lucy knew that she only had five minutes left to loaf in her luxurious bedding so she decided to make the most of it. Breathing in and out slowly as to relax her body, she thought of all the things the day would bring her. She wondered if it were sunny outside; if she would get to wear her new floral pink (pretentious pink) sundress to work when-

“No, no I would prefer eggs poached no scrambled,” an obnoxiously high-pitched voice squeaked from the end of her bed.

Lucy shot up. Who was in her apartment ordering poached eggs?

“Apartment B-7, buzz when you are here please,” it said again.

“The Sunrise Grill service is just awful Lucy. I told them if they even dare bring those eggs cold I’ll make sure their sun-won’t-ever-rise.”

Lucy, who was not a believer in any sort of magical-witchcraft-or-wizardry and who was not used to any sort of abnormality in her quiet, pretentiously-pink-filled life, sat up slowly, wondering briefly if she was having some sort of mid-life crisis. It couldn’t be Binky.

Lucy slowly removed her eye mask, fingering the diamonds encrusted on its surface. The sunlight that blared through her window was blinding and she blinked slowly, rubbing her eyes free of sleep. Blinking continuously, she focused her eyes at the end of her bed where Binky, her obnoxiously small dog, was perched, pink phone in hand.

“Now, did you say you wanted white or rye?”