Doggos with Purpose (TRASH)

Bork for Thought

FRANKIE'S POV

Blue-ish yellow-ish gray.
This is what you saw every morning. Every day. Every week. Every second of your questionable existence.

Nothing but a purgatory of muddled colors to haunt your mind for the rest of eternity. It was oh-so-lonely when you pondered it, for not even a speck of pink or red could be there to coax you into the belief of the existence of, well, existence.

Except for when there was a ball.
Neon green would appear into your thoughts like it had always been there.
You could always make an exception for the ball. Ball. Ball. Ball.
God, you fucking loved that ball.
Nothing could separate the intimate love you two shared. That is, until your absolute hellspawn of an owner, Breadbin, decided you had had enough.

Goddammit, Breadbin.

He always insisted you would die from a heat stroke if you spent a minute more outside. You know what? Screw him. Rebel. Make albums of angsty teen rock against him.
Well, you always dreamed you would, but you have paws. Tiny corgi paws. Your professor, Mr. Ross, always told you dog paws couldn't pluck guitar strings, or hold a microphone like human paws. They could dig, pounce, and (he never told you this, but the bird yesterday said otherwise) murder.
Although, he never actually told you this.
Mr. Ross was Breadbin's 'boy friend'. Did you know what the fuck that means? No. But 'boy friend' definitely sounds like someone that would lecture you over the most minor of violations, like refusing to eat the healthier alternative to the same mangled bird you'd snacked on for the past three weeks.
Professor it is.

Anyways, you assumed with the way his face jowls moved, this was what he was saying. Hell, for all you know, your name may not be Frankie.
It could be Baked Beans.
You aren't a dog, you're actually a delusional grown man in a mental ward, stuck with people that gather predictions from cereal bowls and argue with an imaginary military sergeant named Jasper.
But what the fuck do you know?

Besides, Mr. Ross seemed to make Breadbin pretty happy.
Except for when you heard your owner yelling and begging for help in the locked bedroom they both shared on occasions.
This, of course, set off the sirens in your head.

He's being murdered.
You can't save him.
Life is nothing but watching the ones you love suffer.
How is this fair, God? Why did you leave us here so hopeless? Is it for your own sick pleasures?
Fortunately, Breadbin always came out of the room in perfect condition, minus a few dark splotches left on his collarbone and the slightest limp. There had obviously been a fight, and yet your dimwit of an owner always invited Mr. Ross back. It's almost like he enjoyed suffering, like the way a teenage girl repeats the g note on a piano, despite very-well knowing it will make her sob.

God, teenagers scared the shit out of you.
Unless, of course, you count that mysterious, lax corgi that sometimes sneaked through the hole in your fence. You didn't know a thing about them, except for their name: Gerard.
They always smelled like pumpkin pie, and goddamn, you'd never known the meaning of attraction until that corgi had found their way into your heart. And backyard, of course.

Anyways, it is time for a fucking nap. This is normally the time where you have an existential crisis, but god, a day full of thought was exhausting. You knew you deserved this, so with this final thought, your eyes closed on the blue-ish yellow-ish gray of everyday life, and eased into a world where life was easy.

Which wasn't saying much. You're a corgi, after all.