New Wave Gun

My W IFE’S FRENCH poodle, Fifi, got its little paw stuck in the trigger of my new gun. The first thing I saw when I came back into the living room was the tiny white mutt up on the coffee table, fiercely shaking its foot, the shining blue-black .44 caliber pistol attached and pointing my way. “Holy Jesus!” I said. I hit the deck as the gun went off. There was a wicked splintering of the doorframe just over my head and a yelp as the pooch flew off and landed on the sofa with a dull thud. I started to get up, saying “Easy now, Fifi, take it easy—” but the dog was out of its mind, jerking the gun violently and turning towards me for help. I dove behind the easy chair as two bullets pumped into the tv and it blew up in a shower of glass. Maggie came running into the room and I screamed at her to dive. She did, instinctively, just as two more shots fired: the glass-pedestal lamp exploded with a puff of electricity, and the back of her grandmother’s oak rocker split into pieces. “What the!” shouted Maggie. “Dog’s got a gun!” I shouted back. I took a deep breath and wondered if I could get the drop on Fifi and snatch the gun away from her. Peeking out from behind the chair, I quickly ruled this out. Fifi was manic, flailing herself against the arm of the sofa. I counted back and realized there was only one bullet left. It went off through the arm of the sofa—tufts of stuffing spraying ou t—and angled up into my typewriter on the small desk in the corner. There was a moment of silence, then the pattering of keys on the wooden floor. I stood up slowly, eyes riveted on Fifi. It was a frightening sight. The dog didn’t even look like a dog anymore, she was a whimpering white hairball, shoved back between the cushions of the couch, her leg shattered almost as badly as her mind. Maggie stood up hesitantly, looking around the room with wide eyes. She tried to speak, but her lips puckered soundlessly, like a fish.