Inlay

I gnaw the squelching tennis ball in my merciful jaws. I mean no harm, tonguing its roughness between long lazy paws, striped by the righteous rays made from balcony bars. As easy as it comes, it goes, rolling and falling and bonking the scurrying man in shirt sleeves, his neck knotted, his skull beaming. He looked distracted by something someone growled at him in low tones, but he's flat angry now, hopping around, his face set hard as pocket toffee. Then he puts it together, as they do, fetching the hollow offending thing and looking up at me - a flaxen stone in a stream. A Buddha in a custom leather collar. A genuine good boy. He shields his eyes, peering sunward, taking me in, his caustic scowl melting into cherub dimples, knowing it would be spiteful not to. An axe to gentle joy. A blasphemy. He hurls the ball to the heavens with too-big-an-arc, sending me skittering and chomping and huffing as he misses the balcony and it bounces around him in spirals, trapped finally under a shiny loafer. Then, more mindful, muscle memory - that's it – as to a child, calmly underarm, clearing the curved lip of the banister, collected in reverent teeth. He salutes me and keeps on keeping on, his leash let out a notch. I whip my tail in gratitude and settle in my spot, gnawing it all over, nosing my next connection. --- Ian Johnson is a writer from North East England. His words appear in Trash Cat Lit, Bull, Underbelly, Scaffold, 3:AM, and Free Flash Fiction. He is a BotN nominee.