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The Truth About Dogs
by Dawn Corrigan

There was a woman and she lived in a Grandmother House. You know the ones I mean: always one story, with a tidy yard full of flowers and a garden in back. Often there's a porch, and lace curtains. And you just know there's a grandmother inside.

This one was next to a stream. The stream ran right through the middle of town, and there was the Grandmother House next to it. So the house was full of the sound of the stream.

A girl walked past the Grandmother House every day on her way to school. She walked past in the summer, and she walked past in the fall. Then it was winter, and it grew dark so early that the sun was already down when she walked past. Because it was dark outside but light inside, suddenly she could see inside the Grandmother House. What did she see? Lace curtains on the windows, and framed pictures of grandchildren on the walls, and Grandmother, sitting in a blue chair right by the front door with a book in her lap. The book was held at an angle so the page would catch light from the lamp, and Grandmother’s reading glasses perched on the end of her nose.

The door of the Grandmother House was made of glass, and though like the windows it too was partially covered by a lace curtain, still the granddaughter could see right through to where Grandmother sat in her blue chair.

This began to worry the girl. The town was full of wolves. The girl knew it; everybody knew. You were constantly being warned about the wolves: by friends and family, by newscasters, by strange women in the Ladies' Room, by cautionary emails forwarded by mere acquaintances. The girl herself carried a canister of pepper spray in her purse, in anticipation of a run-in with a wolf. Yet there was Grandmother, right in plain sight, exposed by the winter night, and looking like nothing so much as a morsel of wolf bait.

Every day the girl walked past the Grandmother House, and every day there was Grandmother, sitting serenely in her blue chair. The girl's worry deepened. She imagined finding a wolf at the door, and confronting him, and barring his way, thus protecting Grandmother. But this fantasy could only succeed if the girl happened by at exactly the right moment, and she knew better than to count on that.

Finally the fretting was too much for her. She couldn't take it anymore. So one evening, instead of continuing past, she turned up the path and knocked on Grandmother's door.

"Yes?" Grandmother asked, peering out at the girl through her thick glasses.

"Grandmother, I've been concerned," the girl blurted. Aren't you worried about the wolves?"

"You'd better come in," Grandmother said.

The girl followed Grandmother inside, and sat where she indicated, on the brown sofa. While Grandmother poured tea, the girl kept one wary eye on the glass door, as though expecting to see a wolf materialize behind it at any moment.

Grandmother watched the girl eyeing the door. "So, you're worried about wolves?" she asked. "And you figure I should be too?"

"Well, yes," the girl said.

Grandmother shook her head. "You're barking up the wrong tree with this wolf business."

"But what about the killings? The maimings? The blowing your house down?"

"Do you know who is responsible for the vast majority of grandmother consumptions? And eighty-five percent of house blowings? And please don't say 'the wolves.' It's surely clear that's not the right answer by now."

The girl was taken aback, but she nonetheless endeavored to answer. "Um … cows?"

"Geez, you're really grasping, aren't you?" Grandmother said. "I mean, pigs would have been a better guess, don't you think? They could claim the insurance money on the twig houses, and everyone knows a pig will eat anything!"

"Good point," the girl murmured.

"Give up, then?" Grandmother asked. "Dogs. The answer is dogs. It's dogs who bite the hand that feeds them, more often than not."

"Really?" the girl asked. "But why does everyone blame the wolves, then?"

"The dogs have a very good press agent," Grandmother explained. "Besides, from a distance, it's often hard to tell them apart."

"I see," the girl mused. "So the secret is, don't get a dog."

"Nonsense," Grandmother replied. "If you want a dog, get a dog. Only make sure it's a good dog. I myself have a St. Bernard named Dominick who lights up my life."

Suddenly a St. Bernard with "Dominick" written on the collar around his neck entered the room and sat beside Grandmother. She rubbed him under his chin, and he wagged his tail.

"All clear now?" Grandmother asked, but the girl was already on her way home, where she opened the curtains and sat by the window every night, dreaming of dogs in wolves’ clothes.

The End.

An accurate number of Dawn Corrigan's rejections would be difficult to gauge, but she can confirm that her poems, stories, personal essays, 10-minute plays, and screenplays have been rejected, as have a novel and a novella. She's looking forward to completing many more rejectable manuscripts, especially novels. This story in particular was rejected by Glimmer Train, Fairy Tale Review, juked, Opium, The Big Jewel, and Duck & Herring Co before finally finding a home at 10X10X10. Dawn's very happy it's appearing at this cool site. You can reach her here.