John Hardly, THAT should be on Aine's Mudcat stories page! WEll-done, for real, beautifully done!
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The dog which was a dull brown sat in the brown dirt of the long road, the one just off the main highway down Soldier's Way and scratched hisself. He had a passel of fleas and they was all brown, too. Well, the dead ones was red filled up with his blood they'd been suckin' on. Ya ever heard the fat filled up ones pop? Ya git 'em just between yer fingernails like this and squish the suckers. They make a nasty little pop best sound in the world 'cause it's one last one what cain't bite me. Anyhows, that brown dog, well maybe he was more yeller, was itchin' something awful. Last time I went by he's still there, still scritchin'. Thet's why he was kicked out and left there. Ain't none of them wannna be with a mangy yeller itchy, scratchy son of a bitch. They might be bitches, too but they's got standards and none of 'em'll have a hang-dog for a beau!