Estimated reading time: 11 minutes
In a final death cry of his marketing career, Winston stood defiantly in front of the flipchart and addressed his captive audience. He would be damned if his recent redundancy as Chief Marketing Officer at Clapham Technologies would dent his confidence. The dam that was Artificial Intelligence had burst its banks and—despite their protestations of its creeping impact—had indeed, replaced many of the creatives on the team. The resulting wave had washed him ashore to a craggy, barren island he hadn’t visited since college, some thirty years earlier. Unemployment.
“So, I’ve done the sums.” Winston pointed to the chart where ten line items were squiggled in red felt-tip. “With one less income, we need to make some concessions.”
Seated on the living room couch was Winston’s wife, Jo – a woman with a short squiggle of auburn hair, freckled face and shoulders that sloped forward. Resting her head of golden curls on Jo’s lap was their three-year old golden cocker spaniel, Hazel.
“Did you buy that flipchart?”
“What? No,” Winston replied. “It’s from the office.”
“You stole it when they fired you?”
The tall, slender man had graying temples and a sharp Adam’s apple that tugged downward like a church bell rope when he swallowed.
“Can we get back on point here, please?” he said, and tapped the chart with the pen.
“Well, there’s no way I’m giving up Netflix.”
Hazel peered up, fixing her owner with a knowing gaze. The woman and dog nodded agreement, and a firm scratch on the spaniel’s chest confirmed it.
Winston sighed. “I’m just being cautious. The ins and outs aren’t balancing. If I don’t get a job soon, we will need to make some cutbacks.”
“But, you will get a job. You always do.”
Four months passed and Winston was still unemployed. To add insult to injury, Jo’s cash-in-hand dog grooming business had fallen foul of the tax man, and she had incurred a large financial penalty. The steady, albeit unspectacular income that they used to stem the financial bleeding was no more. One step closer to the poverty line. Proud, Winston was determined not to cross it, and locked himself away for hours everyday scouring the web for opportunities that befit a man of his vast experience and lofty salary expectations.
Jo, meanwhile, began to spend an unhealthy amount of time curled up in bed binging on boxsets, while faithful Hazel dozed against her chest. To punctuate the monotony of her days, Jo connected with her old clients, seeking comfort in their supportive messages. It was one such conversation that triggered an idea.
There are many aesthetically beautiful dogs. Although subjective, few would argue that the Siberian husky with her ice blue eyes and grey mask markings are particularly striking. Or the Irish red setter with her shiny red coat and graceful movements. Or how about the pomeranian? Its fluffy fox-like face is incredibly photogenic. But, there is a playfulness and regal quality about the golden cocker spaniel that is simply irresistible. From the eager soft hazel eyes; curled, floppy ears that beg to be scratched and that mischievous bounding spirit that sets it apart from others.
“You’ve done what?”
Jo passed the phone to her husband who was still wearing his pyjamas despite the hour approaching dinnertime. She glanced at the open laptop screen, seeing a YouTube commercial entitled, ‘Make your first million with crypto. No money down!’
“I don’t get it.”
There was a patter of small feet across the wooden floor. They turned and watched as the spaniel entered, hopping up onto the lap of Winston. He cradled her with one arm, while the other held the phone closer.
“7,000 followers? I don’t get it.”
“Look at the photos. She’s adorable!”
Winston scanned through the Instagram feed. That was his dog alright. And there was the local park. Ballyarr forest. Rathmullan beach.
“What do you want me to say? I’m working here. I don’t have time for this. I have an interview in twenty minutes.”
“Well, you better get dressed then!” Jo stormed out with Hazel leaping off the man, using his testicles as a springboard, scurrying to catch up.
“Dinner ready?”
Winston had appeared several hours later in the kitchen. His lower half was still pyjama’d and the fuzz on his face told everything Jo needed to know about his seriousness about the interview. She was hanging the washing over a clothes horse, under the closeful watch of Hazel.
“It was going cold. Hazel ate it.”
“Great.”
“How was the interview?”
“What?” Winston’s head had disappeared in the fridge. “Oh, fine. Not sure if it’s what I want to do to be honest. Where did the pizza go?”
“You ate it yesterday.”
“Oh, OK. I’ll pop out for something then.”
“It’s nearly 9 o’clock!”
“I haven’t eaten all day!” Winston protested. Hazel, head on one paw, quietly observed the couple. “Do you have any money?” Jo gave a look that made him immediately regret the question. “Fine,” he said, grabbing the car keys and leaving.
At 1am, the sound of the front door opening caused Hazel to leap from the bed, barking furiously at the intruder.
“Sorry! Just me, girl.”
That night, Winston slept in the spare room.
A week passed, and the dog’s social profile was soaring in popularity. 40,000 followers were lapping up the daily updates. Likes and comments rolled in. Sponsorship opportunities began to appear. She soon found herself spending more time out of the house, snapping and documenting her loyal companion’s life. Her dog—her baby—was developing her online wings, becoming a little social media star.
Meanwhile, Winston had used the time to learn more about cryptocurrencies and precious metals as part of a diversified portfolio. The fact that they had missed the last mortgage payment was immaterial. He remained convinced that a great reset of the financial system was dawning. Armed with this new knowledge, the pursuit of a job for a meagre salary that lost its value over time became pointless. He was determined to build a survival bunker where they could prosper in the event of a financial Armageddon, bartering with local farmers by exchanging commodities such as tinned goods and toilet roll.
Several nights later, Winston knocked on the door of their bedroom. He had been spending late evenings in the spare room, feverishly researching survivalist warfare on his laptop. The divergence in their sleeping arrangement had occurred naturally and, truth be told, was amenable to both parties. After all, Jo was busy coordinating the calendar of her puppy-star. Their faithful companion, Hazel was laying in bed, in the comfortable groove that Winston had shaped over a decade, head on the soft pillow.
“Hi, another late one tonight. You—is Hazel wearing glasses?”
Jo placed the notepad down and glanced across.
“Yeah, the sun glare hurts her eyes. Makes it weep.”
“Well, don’t bring her outside then.”
Jo nodded, offering a sickly sweet smile. “Anything else, dear?”
Winston felt a sudden wave of emotion rise in his chest, seeing his marital bed, candles on either side, and a wife who hated his guts. He shook his head, closed the door and retreated to his room.
Hazel let out a long sigh that was repeated by her manager/owner.
Dog merchandise. Music videos. NFTs. Hazel was a product that was being commercialised and exploited for all it was worth. But, you would be forgiven for thinking it was a one-way street. The reality was that the small-for-its-stature dog was pampered beyond measure. Instagram filters could only do so much. She had to have her dog-face on, all day, every day. Looking and acting the part.
Her diet was refined steak and chopped liver. Grooming occurred twice a week, dutifully delivered by none other than Jo. Exercise consisted of two daily walks around the estate. Soon, these became unmanageable. Local kids and their jealous dogs were always a threat. Sleeping in bed with Jo was non-negotiable. They clocked nine hours of beauty sleep each night. Netflix evening sessions were replaced by incense candles and meditation music.
Soon, the cheques came rolling in. Sponsorship deals. Pet food commercials. Influencer mentions. Hazel’s star was in the ascendancy.
Winston didn’t have a scent like the hound, but he first detected a change in their living conditions when the envelopes stamped, ‘IMPORTANT’ stopped arriving through their letterbox. Dinners, still dutifully popped in the air fryer by his wife, appeared day after day. The fridge was still stocked. Life, indeed, continued. Days that had bled into nights and rolled into weeks suddenly became discernible again. The zombie apocalypse hadn’t arrived. World War 3 hadn’t erupted. Slowly, by inches, he emerged from the foggy mists and could see a way out.
Jo had spent most of the day scouting locations with Hazel for a calendar shoot. The dog had recently sprouted artificial clip-on wings with a silver outer lining studded with sparkling gems. It was a nuisance to clean, but damn, it looked good. Leash in one hand, and designer bag in the other, Jo approached the house with a familiar sigh. Upon entering, she heard her husband call out.
“Quick! Come quick!”
She dropped the bag to the floor and followed the sound of his voice.
“What is it?”
“Come here. I have something for you.”
Jo rubbed her temple, sensing the start of a headache. She unclipped the leash on Hazel’s harness, and the dog casually sauntered into the kitchen ahead of her, sniffing the air.
“OK,” Winston said, when she had entered. “I know I’ve been distracted lately, what with the crypto and—”
“The apocalypse.”
“Right,” Winston nodded. “But, I’m not oblivious to what you’ve done for our house.”
“I’m listening.”
The man, who had gained a little potbelly in recent months, reached down at his feet behind the kitchen counter. Hazel was busily sniffing, and Winston was holding out a foot to stop her advancing. He raised a square cardboard box and placed it on the counter.
“More beans?”
“Better than that,” he said, smiling a little too widely for Jo’s liking. “I checked Hazel’s profile. She has 2 million followers.”
“2.1 million, but who’s counting.”
“It’s her that’s responsible for all this…success.”
“Oh, really?” Jo said, hands on hips.
“No, I mean, both of you. You, mainly.”
Hazel jumped against the counter, front paws scratching the wooden panelling.
“It finally clicked with me today.”
“What did?”
“Our money worries.”
“Oh, you finally going to get a job then?”
Winston smiled. “Better than that. Why have one reality star, when you can have two?”
He raised the lid of the box and at that precise moment, perhaps sensing freedom, a bolt of black lightning shot from within – a living, breathing Jack-in-the-box, screeching as it fled the counter.
“A bloody cat! You fool!”
Hazel reacted instantly, chasing the small animal around the room, darting between chair legs, upturning some in the frantic pursuit of the sleeked rival. Wild, explosive movements from the crazed cat, springing off floors and walls, sent the dog with her angel wings clumsily bumbling against tables, toppling cups and plates.
“Christ,” Jo yelled. “The door!”
Winston, in equal measures excited and frightened by the circus in front of his eyes, didn’t register his wife’s words until the two animals had fled the kitchen into the hallway. When he pursued them, he noticed that the front door was open.
“Hazel!” shouted his wife, chasing the dog. “Stop!”
Suddenly, there was the high screech of tyres, followed by a long uncomfortable silence. As he advanced, Winston saw a young couple exit the parked vehicle, mumbling to someone, hidden from view. The awful anguished cries of his wife emerged from that other side – the side he didn’t have the courage to reach. He knelt, rubbed his face with a shaking hand and noticed something trapped under the tyre of the back wheel. A set of torn wings. Dirty and blood stained.
Hazel had outgrown them and found her own.
This story was written for the ambitious creative project, ‘The Weekly Kook’, where I release a brand new short story every week for a year, totalling…yep, you guessed it – 52 stories.
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