A Dream-Inspired Story by Grismath
My name is Gotellit Ginsley. Everybody calls me “Goat.” Last weekend I graduated from Miskatonic University with a degree in Folk Literature and Art History. Yesterday I was walking my neighbor’s dog in the city. The Mondello mutt is tiny, like a slipper with a fuzzy caricature of a dog on it. I took it to the modern art museum for a not unselfish perusal. Shepherd Fairey has a new exhibit and I wanted to see if my Zodiac killer-reminiscent (but not inspired) newspaper collages yet qualified as art. Surprisingly, the dog was not charged admission.
I strolled from one gallery to the next. Soon I had to use the men’s room. No signs were visible so I walked erratic circles around the gallery floor until I located the museum directory, itself a work of modern art. Apparently, a camera judged the orientation of my head and rotated a circular representation of the museum appropriately. All the room names were in French. The map spun like my head in confusion. I touched the map, hoping it might respond, but smudged the glass. Another screen showed my face. I spoke the French word for “bathroom” but this screen displayed some wildly different word I didn’t understand with a digital finger swishing back in forth in reprimand. I said “bathroom” again but the screen interpreted my word as “doorjamb” and started pinpointing the location of each on the map, which spun wildly as I tried to inspect it.
I left and almost immediately happened upon a restroom. I knew it was a restroom because the white floor gave way to black tiles that were much easier to clean. As I approached the door, I apprehended the end of a man’s explanation that “this is the men’s room!” Several female voices cackled in response. The door bore some avant-garde representation of gender that I didn’t understand, so I went in. The man must have been stating his mistakenness, as this was clearly the restroom for ladies, all of whom cackled with even greater vehemence and glee as I scampered out, the Dog in tow.
A would-be curator accosted me as I continued my search. “Monsieur, monsieur!” he exclaimed and took my arm. It was clear he spoke no English, so I tried to make do; I asked for the bathroom, if he please. When I showed off the pooch, the would-be curator merely gave me a look. I’m very bad at interpreting facial expressions on account of my poor eyesight, so I don’t know what the look meant.
He was, on the whole, a friendly fellow, though, and it was in his company that I spotted a lady walking by with a dog of the same breed as the Mondellos’. She cradled it like a baby. Unlike most dogs, that yelp and fight or mate in the company of their kind, the lady’s dog just stared, glassy-eyed, at the ceiling. The Mondello mutt displayed a regal indifference, and I petted him for his discipline. They must have spent a fortune on his obedience and training. I should have paid attention to the route, but somehow I appeared at the men’s restroom. The gentleman not only guided me to but accompanied me in the restroom, assuming a seat and putting out a tip bowl for when I’d concluded my business and perhaps applied some cologne or hair gel.
As soon as I mounted a urinal, I felt the strangest sensation – not in my nether regions. I was suddenly and inexplicably viewing the world through the eyes of the lady’s dog. I looked around and tried to scream, but only yapped. Yap yap yap! I hopped out of my owner’s arms and galloped for the location of my physical body, hoping that if I could unite consciousness and corpse, I would return to normal. I am not familiar with the physiology of this particular canine breed, but my terror at having an out-of-body experience must have been prodigious enough to make me excrete some pretty serious pheromones; literally hundreds of tiny pups joined the race to my body. We flooded into the restroom, where I saw my vacant-eyed bod staggering about, the riderless horse. In a panic, I leapt for the brain, but only made it as high as the neck, where I instinctively latched on with my pointy little teeth. My fur-clad companions did likewise.
I returned to my body, now enflamed with pain and under siege by hundreds of dogs just like the Mondello mutt. I wailed and thrashed, but the persistent little pups latched on with greater fervor. I thumped those dogs attached to my arms against the stall walls in a vain attempt to dislodge some, maim others. Overwhelmed, I sunk to my knees, neck-deep in small dogs, and let out one last, great cry.
“Goat? Is that you? What the hell are you doing down there?!” It was my mom, hollering, not unlike a dog, from the top of the basement stairwell. I woke up, at home, in a pile of fuzzy slippers that had fallen from a shelf. I really need to get a job.
My name is Gotellit Ginsley. Everybody calls me “Goat.” Last weekend I graduated from Miskatonic University with a degree in Folk Literature and Art History. Yesterday I was walking my neighbor’s dog in the city. The Mondello mutt is tiny, like a slipper with a fuzzy caricature of a dog on it. I took it to the modern art museum for a not unselfish perusal. Shepherd Fairey has a new exhibit and I wanted to see if my Zodiac killer-reminiscent (but not inspired) newspaper collages yet qualified as art. Surprisingly, the dog was not charged admission.
I strolled from one gallery to the next. Soon I had to use the men’s room. No signs were visible so I walked erratic circles around the gallery floor until I located the museum directory, itself a work of modern art. Apparently, a camera judged the orientation of my head and rotated a circular representation of the museum appropriately. All the room names were in French. The map spun like my head in confusion. I touched the map, hoping it might respond, but smudged the glass. Another screen showed my face. I spoke the French word for “bathroom” but this screen displayed some wildly different word I didn’t understand with a digital finger swishing back in forth in reprimand. I said “bathroom” again but the screen interpreted my word as “doorjamb” and started pinpointing the location of each on the map, which spun wildly as I tried to inspect it.
I left and almost immediately happened upon a restroom. I knew it was a restroom because the white floor gave way to black tiles that were much easier to clean. As I approached the door, I apprehended the end of a man’s explanation that “this is the men’s room!” Several female voices cackled in response. The door bore some avant-garde representation of gender that I didn’t understand, so I went in. The man must have been stating his mistakenness, as this was clearly the restroom for ladies, all of whom cackled with even greater vehemence and glee as I scampered out, the Dog in tow.
A would-be curator accosted me as I continued my search. “Monsieur, monsieur!” he exclaimed and took my arm. It was clear he spoke no English, so I tried to make do; I asked for the bathroom, if he please. When I showed off the pooch, the would-be curator merely gave me a look. I’m very bad at interpreting facial expressions on account of my poor eyesight, so I don’t know what the look meant.
He was, on the whole, a friendly fellow, though, and it was in his company that I spotted a lady walking by with a dog of the same breed as the Mondellos’. She cradled it like a baby. Unlike most dogs, that yelp and fight or mate in the company of their kind, the lady’s dog just stared, glassy-eyed, at the ceiling. The Mondello mutt displayed a regal indifference, and I petted him for his discipline. They must have spent a fortune on his obedience and training. I should have paid attention to the route, but somehow I appeared at the men’s restroom. The gentleman not only guided me to but accompanied me in the restroom, assuming a seat and putting out a tip bowl for when I’d concluded my business and perhaps applied some cologne or hair gel.
As soon as I mounted a urinal, I felt the strangest sensation – not in my nether regions. I was suddenly and inexplicably viewing the world through the eyes of the lady’s dog. I looked around and tried to scream, but only yapped. Yap yap yap! I hopped out of my owner’s arms and galloped for the location of my physical body, hoping that if I could unite consciousness and corpse, I would return to normal. I am not familiar with the physiology of this particular canine breed, but my terror at having an out-of-body experience must have been prodigious enough to make me excrete some pretty serious pheromones; literally hundreds of tiny pups joined the race to my body. We flooded into the restroom, where I saw my vacant-eyed bod staggering about, the riderless horse. In a panic, I leapt for the brain, but only made it as high as the neck, where I instinctively latched on with my pointy little teeth. My fur-clad companions did likewise.
I returned to my body, now enflamed with pain and under siege by hundreds of dogs just like the Mondello mutt. I wailed and thrashed, but the persistent little pups latched on with greater fervor. I thumped those dogs attached to my arms against the stall walls in a vain attempt to dislodge some, maim others. Overwhelmed, I sunk to my knees, neck-deep in small dogs, and let out one last, great cry.
“Goat? Is that you? What the hell are you doing down there?!” It was my mom, hollering, not unlike a dog, from the top of the basement stairwell. I woke up, at home, in a pile of fuzzy slippers that had fallen from a shelf. I really need to get a job.
Hahahaha