Sparky? It's fun, occasionally, to look at old writings and wonder, "Who was this guy, and what the hell was he thinking?" I found this on a Zip disk, under the filename "i don't f--ing know!" which is a fine answer to the above question. This may or may not have been a serious writing exercise at some point. I somehow doubt it.

It makes me laugh, no matter what you may think of it. (Not much, I would hope.)

The problem was the back yard. If the yard had been bigger, or if the neighbors had been farther away, Mickey wouldn�t have had to kill the dog. The dog--Sparky was his name, right?--would still be frolicing away, chewing up shoes and barking, and Iselle would be buried in the back yard.

A ranch in the outer suburbs would have been only a few thousand dollars more. A ranch with a nice, big, shaded yard. Sure, the resale potential was limited, for the moment. The interest rates were dropping all the time now, though, and today�s dream home seemed like tomorrow�s dump when you could get a 30 year fixed rate at 6 percent. And so now, the eminiently sellable townhome he was stuck in--the one with the tiny yard and the close neighbors--was a blot on the market, an ink stain that didn�t wash out in the Classifieds.

The only motor function Mickey had left was his nose. He twitched it with glee. Reckless abandon.

A Necco wafer would have tasted good.

Bounding over the fences, Sparky was the ideal dog. The fences weren�t ideal, though, because Sparky bounded over them, and damn it, fences were meant to keep dogs in! No, no, said Iselle, take him to training. This was after the fiftieth runaway (it seemed like fifty anyway) and Mickey, all three hundred pounds of him, panting and sweating, was ready to let the damn dog die in the wild. If he wasn�t so cute...

Training costs money, said Mickey. In a metaphorical sense, he said this. The words were never uttered out loud. That wasn�t Mickey�s way, you see. He preferred to sit and stew. So: Training costs money, Mickey stewed. Mickey actually said, "No."

Iselle looked hurt, and retreated to the bedroom.

Mickey often wondered how that other Mickey, a Mr. Mouse, would handle the threat of murder. Probably giggle in a high-pitched voice. Mickey had tried this in the past, with little success, at job interviews, funerals, et cetera. It just didn�t work. He thought about adding the ears, but decided to leave Well Enough a loan.

Wellman needed the money after all, and the law firm of Enough, Already, & Lief had been good to him over the years, representing him in his lawsuit against Pocono Resort Mud Flats. Wellman Enough, Jr. had represented him. They had won the case after proving that Mickey�s driveway had been a mud flat long before any resorts had hit upon the now-popular theme. Well was just a young lawyer then, but he had since become destitute paying for his late-night Beffy the Vimpyre Slyer addiction. Mickey, flush from the settlement, helped him out, and in turn, Well got him a puppy--Sparky. "I humbly thank you. Well, well, Well," Mickey had said. This time it was out loud.

They had a big laugh over that one.

Alas, alack, if only Well had known the poor fate of yon puppy. But how could he? Mickey and Iselle seemed like the perfect three-hundred pound couple for a three pound puppy. Provided he wasn�t sat upon (spat upon, ratted on) he should do fine. But no, he would up buried in the too-small backyard while Iselle cavorted with Homer Already.

She had met him through Well, for Pete�s plugs! Galling it was and galling it would remain until the operation. Everything in the world was galling just before a gall bladder operation, but nonetheless, it vexed Mickey like a small tapeworm.

The doctor entered the room and Mickey twitched a greeting. The doctor left. Apparently he had entered the wrong house. Mickey sighed. Why hadn�t he been sent to a hospital by now? Instead, all these anasteomdliosigsts were jumping in and out of buildings. The whole town needed new gall bladders. Something about the Government and big black helicopters. Or did he dream it?

Iselle was gone! He screamed inwardly.

Why, why, why did she leave me for that Homer?! D�oh!

He died. There was a notice in the paper, next to the gall bladder alert.

Phew. (Rather scary.) Who was that guy?