It’s a Dog

"No, he's a dog," the woman said, gesturing needlessly.

 "Obviously," the desk clerk argued, "that's a hippo."

 "I've had him since he was a pup. He likes bones. He fetches."

 “He's a hippo. We don't allow hippos. Even if he was a dog, we only allow service dogs."

"He is a service dog. I have anxiety, and he calms me. He has a vest, a yellow one, but he outgrew it."

"Ma'am, he's larger than a car. I'm tempted to ask the valet to park him."

"How dare you insult my sweet dog. He's awfully conscious of his weight. It's not even his fault. He stress eats."

"So do I, and I plan on eating an entire pizza alone while watching Happy Days reruns and perhaps have a good cry later tonight. Now, please, take your hippo to the street, or better yet, the savanna."

"My five second internet search assured me this hotel was of the highest class, yet I find myself in an establishment run by a lady so uneducated that she can't tell a lovely purebred dog when she sees one. One no better than a greasy motel with a flickering light."

"Perhaps a place like that would allow your hippo in the room with you. If not, use their dirty pool. Now, please leave before I phone the zoo."

"Fine. I see the service needed is not the service offered and will leave, but I will let my sweet pup, Ham, do his business on your business's steps, and nobody will be able to come nor go."

Scott Seibel is a writing teacher in the dusty Oklahoma plains where he lives with his wife, Elizabeth, and their two kids, Isabelle and Jeremiah. His published work includes poetry as well as short fiction. If he didn't write, he wouldn't be.