Post by moonga on Jun 26, 2005 18:36:07 GMT -5
Moonga sat down on the cold pebbly ground just outside of a rickety pub. He was well aware that he was within a dog gang's territory, but quite frankly he didn't care. There was too much on his mind at the moment. Once again, he was having one of his more devastating moodswings-- switching from cocky and arrogant, to rather burdened and mournful. These were not uncommon for the dog, and he was infamous for his sudden, unexplained changes in his overall demeanor.
Not only that, but he also had gone off day-dreaming once again-- as long as it can still be called day-dreaming in the middle of the night. For a split second the man-made structures and trash metamorphisized into a desert landscape. Red sand stretched out for miles, and he could even feel the sun warmed ground beneath his paws. The sounds of the desert overwhelmed the yelling from the pub and the crickets chirping around him. What troubled him most about this particular illusion was that he had never seen the desert. He was too young to remember the home he was currently imagining, so it befuddled him to no end. He did not know what it was called, or why it brought such an overwhelming peace over him. It was almost as if he were at one with the illusion, moving with it and not through it. So pleasing was this bliss that he tilted his head back, allowing one of his songs to pass forward. A series of whines and ever-chaning-pitches of howls errupted from his vocals, but it was short lived.
A sharp pain in the back of his head tore him from his illusion and singing, and it took him a moment to register what had happened. When he finally regained himself and looked up, he found himself face-to-face with a young drunk who had appeared in the door of the pub. In one hand the human held a handful of stones from the ground, and in the other a half-empty (or full, take your pick) bottle of beer. "Shut-up!" The man growled, obviously displeased by the sounds of a singing dog.
Obviously the sharp pain he had felt was from a thrown rock, and once this came to Moonga the dingo-like dog snarled at the petty human. This resulted in three more pebbles being cast towards him, each and everyone of them pelting off his feet and face. However, Moonga was rather unhappy at being disturbed, and held his ground. Only when the bottle was thrown did he back down at all.
The bottle had not hit him directly, but instead had bounced off the ground before him, cracking, and then smashed onto his forehead. The explosing of glass and foul-smelling liquid pouring across his neck and shoulders was what finally drove the Singing Dog away, not without being stoned on his hasty retreat, of course.
He did not stop untill he reached an old abadanoned house, which he stood out infront of to take record of his situation. Pieces of bronze glass had burried themselves into his head and neck, fortunately not too deeply, and his left front paw and portions of his face were bruised from rocks. It wasn't the worst amoutn of damage he'd been able to survive, so he did nothing more than spend a few minutes plucking the largest pieces of glass from his skin before lying down, not to rest, just to make himself seem as scarce as possible under the light of the moon.
Not only that, but he also had gone off day-dreaming once again-- as long as it can still be called day-dreaming in the middle of the night. For a split second the man-made structures and trash metamorphisized into a desert landscape. Red sand stretched out for miles, and he could even feel the sun warmed ground beneath his paws. The sounds of the desert overwhelmed the yelling from the pub and the crickets chirping around him. What troubled him most about this particular illusion was that he had never seen the desert. He was too young to remember the home he was currently imagining, so it befuddled him to no end. He did not know what it was called, or why it brought such an overwhelming peace over him. It was almost as if he were at one with the illusion, moving with it and not through it. So pleasing was this bliss that he tilted his head back, allowing one of his songs to pass forward. A series of whines and ever-chaning-pitches of howls errupted from his vocals, but it was short lived.
A sharp pain in the back of his head tore him from his illusion and singing, and it took him a moment to register what had happened. When he finally regained himself and looked up, he found himself face-to-face with a young drunk who had appeared in the door of the pub. In one hand the human held a handful of stones from the ground, and in the other a half-empty (or full, take your pick) bottle of beer. "Shut-up!" The man growled, obviously displeased by the sounds of a singing dog.
Obviously the sharp pain he had felt was from a thrown rock, and once this came to Moonga the dingo-like dog snarled at the petty human. This resulted in three more pebbles being cast towards him, each and everyone of them pelting off his feet and face. However, Moonga was rather unhappy at being disturbed, and held his ground. Only when the bottle was thrown did he back down at all.
The bottle had not hit him directly, but instead had bounced off the ground before him, cracking, and then smashed onto his forehead. The explosing of glass and foul-smelling liquid pouring across his neck and shoulders was what finally drove the Singing Dog away, not without being stoned on his hasty retreat, of course.
He did not stop untill he reached an old abadanoned house, which he stood out infront of to take record of his situation. Pieces of bronze glass had burried themselves into his head and neck, fortunately not too deeply, and his left front paw and portions of his face were bruised from rocks. It wasn't the worst amoutn of damage he'd been able to survive, so he did nothing more than spend a few minutes plucking the largest pieces of glass from his skin before lying down, not to rest, just to make himself seem as scarce as possible under the light of the moon.
