Pongo Pup
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Sitting at a table, outside a late-night coffee shop, he waited.
His soft, white fur was illuminated by a solitary streetlamp, its halo of light accentuating the blotches of pitch-black night that permanently marked his face and neck.
He placed his lips, his tongue softly to the top of the insulated paper cup held securely in both paws as he sipped his latte, his clear, blue eyes straining to pierce the darkness of the deserted street’s impenetrably deep nighttime cloak.
The fur on the back of his neck stood erect as if it were made of the stuff of the tallest skyscraper’s superstructure, the cold bite of the night air cutting through his maroon colored button-up shirt and caused his shoulders to draw up in a slight shiver.
Lightly creased and bunched up lazily in places, the dalmatian’s khaki pants remained shrouded beneath the wrought iron table at which he sat, the creases falling in straight lines to the tops of his black-and-white speckled feet.
One of his feet he tapped silently on the pavement subconsciously as he sat and sipped his frothy, rich, aromatic beverage, his floppy black ears piqued though the rest of his body seemed eerily relaxed. His sapphire eyes lit up his face, though disappearing every so often beneath his fuzzy, white eyelids, only to reemerge, glistening and bright in contrast to all that lay motionless and shadowy around him at such an hour of the night.
Where could he be? He thought to himself, the words echoing around in his head, eventually dying down to a soft whisper. He had never known his friend to be late, but then again, he chuckled to himself, a glimmer of a smile appearing at the corner of his muzzle before fading away, he’d never known his friend to be particularly punctual, either. Taking another sip from his latte, he placed the now half-empty coffee cup on the table in front of him and glanced from side to side, keeping his head still as the crisp nighttime air, seeing a soul around.
And so he sat. And so he waited…
I am not your typical Dalmatian. Heck, truth be told, I am not your typical anything. All that I can really say is that I am- nothing more, nothing less. I keep myself busy, usually to a fault, although I am working on that. I am kind and generous, usually to a fault, this I cannot help. I find beauty in many things that most would regard as ordinary or otherwise not noteworthy. I love deeply, if given the opportunity, and I care often fathoms deeper than I may outwardly express. I am working on being more open, though I have always been an honest canine. I hold my friends in the highest regard- they are the ones that make everything possible. I do what I can when I can. In return, this is all that I ask of others.
His soft, white fur was illuminated by a solitary streetlamp, its halo of light accentuating the blotches of pitch-black night that permanently marked his face and neck.
He placed his lips, his tongue softly to the top of the insulated paper cup held securely in both paws as he sipped his latte, his clear, blue eyes straining to pierce the darkness of the deserted street’s impenetrably deep nighttime cloak.
The fur on the back of his neck stood erect as if it were made of the stuff of the tallest skyscraper’s superstructure, the cold bite of the night air cutting through his maroon colored button-up shirt and caused his shoulders to draw up in a slight shiver.
Lightly creased and bunched up lazily in places, the dalmatian’s khaki pants remained shrouded beneath the wrought iron table at which he sat, the creases falling in straight lines to the tops of his black-and-white speckled feet.
One of his feet he tapped silently on the pavement subconsciously as he sat and sipped his frothy, rich, aromatic beverage, his floppy black ears piqued though the rest of his body seemed eerily relaxed. His sapphire eyes lit up his face, though disappearing every so often beneath his fuzzy, white eyelids, only to reemerge, glistening and bright in contrast to all that lay motionless and shadowy around him at such an hour of the night.
Where could he be? He thought to himself, the words echoing around in his head, eventually dying down to a soft whisper. He had never known his friend to be late, but then again, he chuckled to himself, a glimmer of a smile appearing at the corner of his muzzle before fading away, he’d never known his friend to be particularly punctual, either. Taking another sip from his latte, he placed the now half-empty coffee cup on the table in front of him and glanced from side to side, keeping his head still as the crisp nighttime air, seeing a soul around.
And so he sat. And so he waited…
I am not your typical Dalmatian. Heck, truth be told, I am not your typical anything. All that I can really say is that I am- nothing more, nothing less. I keep myself busy, usually to a fault, although I am working on that. I am kind and generous, usually to a fault, this I cannot help. I find beauty in many things that most would regard as ordinary or otherwise not noteworthy. I love deeply, if given the opportunity, and I care often fathoms deeper than I may outwardly express. I am working on being more open, though I have always been an honest canine. I hold my friends in the highest regard- they are the ones that make everything possible. I do what I can when I can. In return, this is all that I ask of others.