Harris was a small white dog: a terrible one. Terrible by name, terrible by nature. Harris ripped everything apart and enjoyed it. His owners cursed him every night, but he didn’t care. He laughed at them, actually. They were at their wit’s end.
Harris took a walk one day to another part of town and found someone he liked. A different owner. A tall man with an umbrella who looked like he didn’t mind things being ripped up in his house.
Harris barked at him; a friendly bark but one that said: ‘hey, I like you. I like your style. I like your umbrella and your clothes. Want to rip things up?’
The man laughed. Oh boy. He’d been looking for something, a sign, anything. Some way out of his damn boring life that could let him escape. And here was this little dog, slobbering all over him, whining with glee.
He took Harris home and showed him the place. Mid century modern type of place; chic but understated. Immaculate. Harris didn’t like it. He wanted stuff to rip. He wanted newspapers and coffee cups, the kind his owners back home left everywhere.
He sniffed. He looked up at the man. He left.