Salmon Bones
A flash fiction about a dog and his boy
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There is a thorn in my paw, and, the spaces between my ribs are as sunken and hollow as the salmon bones I dig from the trash can.
I lap up a puddle of rainwater, then raise my nose.
A bright scent, sharp with salt and sizzling fat, drifts on the chilly breeze. Bacon.
Sneaking along an alley, I follow the aroma to a house. A window is cracked open, letting out a thin trail of smoke and the thick smell of cooking meat.
Shifting my weight to my back legs, I place my front paws on the windowsill, and inside I glimpse a woman fussing around a stove.
I whine, and she turns.
Begging – I am always begging.
She steps toward the window.
Just a piece, a few scraps. Is that pity in her eyes?
With a quick jerk of her elbow, she shoves a broom handle out the window. “Shoo! Out!”
I dart away, tail between my legs.
Nearby, children rush out from behind a chain-link fence, a dark red building towering behind them. Almost every day this place is crowded with children, who stream into the yard at various times of day, shouting and running. Now the children dart toward waiting cars, huddle by a massive yellow vehicle, or trudge down the sidewalk toward the clumps of houses stretching away in every direction.
I skirt the perimeter of the fence, sniffing for forgotten food.
“What, nobody wants to play with you, Doug-less?” A boy, taller than the others in his group, shoves a freckled child.
“It’s Douglas,” the smaller boy mutters. He straightens his coat, and from his pocket I catch a whiff of something, a sweet scent.
I inch closer. The smell is a familiar one, an odor for whose source I would dig through entire filthy trash bins to get just a taste.
Then my hackles raise. Eyes are on me.
The tall boy grins and snatches a rock from the ground. A sudden, keening honk stings my ears, and the children’s heads turn toward the huge yellow monstrosity.
“Eat this, mutt!” The boy hurls the rock at me. With a whimper, I skitter behind a tree, and the stone grazes my back.
When I peek out, the boys are pushing through the open doors of the vehicle, which leaks puffs of warm air.
I pant out my relief into the cold air. All the noisy children are gone, have already forgotten me.
Except one.
I start as the freckled boy takes a step toward me and holds out his open palm. My nose twitches. In his hands, he holds bread. And something else – that scent, that glorious scent.
I creep forward and sniff again, wary that he’ll snatch back his hand and the offered treasure. But the boy holds his hand still. Slipping forward, I tug it from his fingers and dart back to the shelter of the tree, clutching my prize in my teeth.
It is heavy, rich – it clings to my tongue.
My tail wags, thumping against the ground. I’d almost forgotten it could do that.
The boy glances toward the rows of houses, then turns his freckled face back toward me. He reaches into his pocket and pulls out another folded piece of bread smeared with the delicious goodness. With his fingers, he tears off a piece and holds it out toward me. “Come on, boy.”
Slowly, I slink from my protected spot behind the tree. When I slip the delicacy from his fingers, the boy doesn’t reach out to slap me or pull my fur. Instead, looking over his shoulder, he takes a few steps toward the clustered houses, then tears off another piece of bread.
I creep forward, my head low but my eyes on the boy. I snatch up this piece too, and the boy takes a few more steps before offering another.
Step by step, the boy hands me little, delicious pieces of the treasure, and I follow him, walking fast even on my throbbing paw.
When the boy, holding out the bread to tempt me, starts walking backward up a path toward a small house, I stop, my ears alert and my legs ready to leap away. What trap is this?
“Come on, boy.” The boy shakes the mouth-watering bread. “It’s okay, come on.”
These human shelters have never been places of rest or safety for me. But that smell, that beautiful smell, draws me forward through the crackling ice and slush, the last remnants of the beautiful, frigid snow.
Flouting my hard-learned caution, I follow the freckle-faced boy with his large eyes and his gifts of food.
I am not begging this time. He is offering. I am not begging.
The boy crosses into the house, but I stop just short of the warm doorway. Surely I am not welcome here.
“Who’s this?” A woman appears beside the boy, and I shrink back.
“He followed me home,” says the freckle-faced boy. “I think he’s hungry.”
“He ‘followed you home?’” The woman raises her eyebrows at the boy’s hands, which are sticky with traces of the delicious treasure. I can still smell it, beckoning to me.
“I think he has a hurt paw. He’s limping.”
The woman crouches down and holds out her hand, palm up.
There is no bread in her hand, nothing that smells like food. But I slip forward, my feet stepping into the warmth inside.
With slow, careful hands, she touches my fur. Reaching down with a confidence that shocks me into compliance, she lifts up my aching paw. “Get my tweezers from the first aid kit.”
The boy runs around a corner, and the woman doesn’t let go of me, doesn’t push me back outside. She simply waits, peering at my paw.
When the boy rushes back, she reaches toward my paw with a shiny, pointed tool. I recoil, pulling back toward the cold, familiar, slushy dregs of winter, but the woman’s hands are firm.
She pokes with the strange tool, a shard of pain shoots through my paw, then –
Then the throbbing is gone.
There is a faint ache like the echo of the thorn, but I can see the long, sharp spine pinched in the woman’s shiny tool.
“That was a nasty thorn, little guy,” she says.
I tug my paw back and lick it, swiping away the last of the pain. What other strange wonders can humans do?
“Can we keep him?” the boy says, hovering by the woman’s shoulder. “Can we, please? Please?”
The woman raises her eyebrows again, just as when she saw the sticky goodness coating the boy’s fingers. “Before we talk about anything, he needs a bath.”
The boy whoops and strokes my ears, as though he’s already won a great victory.
“I didn’t say yes,” the woman says, but the boy’s triumphant face doesn’t change. He beckons me further into the house.
My tail is wagging again, though the boy doesn’t even have food in his hands.
Then, caution as far from my steps as the thorn is from my paw, I follow the freckle-faced boy.
Thank you so much for taking the time to read this little flash fiction! If you enjoyed it, please let me know with a like, comment, or restack!
If you’re in the mood for more flash fiction centered around children and their pets, you may enjoy my short story “The Pothole on Kentucky Avenue”.
A Few Announcements
I recently had the honor of participating in
’s 8 Questions series. If you missed it, here’s a link to the interview!
Murmurs in the Walls, season 3 of Judith Temple’s paranormal mystery series, is coming in late March! Judith’s newly-adopted dog Orwell will be back, as will Judith, Tim, and the lingering questions between them.
In addition, stay tuned for news about the Down in the Holler paperback and e-book, which will hopefully be available very soon!
While recovering from the physical and emotional toll caused by her most recent case, Judith Temple decides to switch gears and take a stab at working as a paranormal investigator. When she receives a plea for help from a family who claims their house is haunted, Judith throws herself into the case, determined to get to the bottom of both the eerie happenings in the little home and also her own hopes and feelings regarding Sheriff Tim Morrissey.
I love this little tale of love and homecoming! Little Thornpaw has found his people and my heart is full.
And there you go. Perfect dog story. I needed that today, Bridget. And I'm anxious for spring for another reason now besides the obvious...it has to do with Murmurs. Have a great day. - Jim