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The Chair and the Dog

The exhausted writer lurched off his chair and staggered into the kitchen to make some coffee. He prayed that he hadn’t run out. He really needed the boost. He’d heard that some crazy people were writing without it this year, and immediately dismissed them as fools. The study was quiet in his absence.

His chair was a curiously ugly creation. He’d found it at a garage sale, having flopped into it, exhausted, at the end of a long weekend of pawing through old books and shoes. It didn’t look much, but it fit every curve in his body. He paid for it and drove it home on the roof of his car. The chair had stood up to his many hours of typing as long as he could remember. He didn’t ache or feel nasty pressure in his neck after typing for hours at a time. He’d thrown out his old chair after sitting on it for an hour gave him a horrible ache in the posterior. The chair was made of twisted wire of a muddy brown colour, was accompanied by a curious scent. In the dark, it almost looked as if it was covered in hair of some kind. He had never had such a loyal piece of furniture.

The writer swore from the kitchen. He’d run out of coffee and still had pages and pages to go on his latest manuscript. The publishers were going to kill him. He dropped to his knees and dug through his messy kitchen cupboard in hope that there would be some of those little samples in the back. A jar of rice fell out, knocked by his elbow, and shattered on the tiles.

‘Arse it!’ He yelled, still not coming up with anything of the coffee species.

In his study, the chair shivered. It paused for a moment, and then shook all over. The very tips of the legs began to slowly change, forming lumps with tiny claws. The writer had started to scoop up the fallen rice and was debating whether to just stick it in a new jar or throw it out. A thick wire unfolded from the front of the chair and started to sprout hairs. The back of the chair folded in on itself, and grew ears. The legs had become thicker, tendons and skin replacing the twisted brown wire. The chair shook its newly formed head, and lolled its tongue. A spot of drool hit the carpet. The seat of the chair had rolled into a hairy little body. With one final shake, the chair made its last transformation into a dog, and wuffled. It scratched itself behind the ear and shook again. It sniffed the pot plant in the corner of the room and wagged its tail. It decided that it would really like a walk and a bone.

The writer came back from the kitchen, his shoulders slumped in defeat. There was no coffee, and the publishers were going to call him in the morning and he had to pay rent next week and there was a dog in his study.

‘Who’s a good boy?’ He asked, absently, scratching the dog behind the ears. The dog wriggled in pleasure and licked his hand. The writer promised the dog that he’d take it for a walk later and went to sit back down at his computer.

The chair was gone.

‘Where the hell is my chair?’ He shouted, tearing out a clump of hair. ‘And come to think of it, what the hell is this dog doing in here?’ He shook his head and brushed aside a tear.

‘See?’ He implored to the walls. ‘See what happens when I run out of coffee?’ He slumped onto the floor. The dog took advantage of his position and licked his face.