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Thelma & the Bulldogs

Written by Kharl Daley

Buff! sounded the stone as it landed in the side of the Bulldog. “Y’u wretch y’u!” exalted Thelma as she earnestly surveys the surrounding to find another stone. All she could come up with is a piece of paper. In desperation she threw that too at the howling limping mongrel as it makes a rapid retreat under the barbwire fencing, heading down the marl surface lane in severe pain.

“Tink a neva did a set fe y’u noh…too dyam stinking feisty,” said Thelma in reference to the dog. The evenings of the last couple days are filled with excitement and thrill for the Teenagers living in the Tenement Yard in which Thelma resides. These teenagers are fascinated by the actions of the bulldogs in their sexual explicit attempt to father Sheila’s soon to be expected litter. The daring ones openly cheer the erotic encounters while the others are sneak about it, doing so in grins, not wanting to ever draw their parents’ attention to their observation.

Shelia the bitch had become fertile, “she’d call bull,” it’s her mating time and so the neighborhood bulldogs were always there, lurking around, each hustling its turn to mount Sheila. Today, Thelma would have none of that, no more is she putting up with it. Her only child Chance was too young to be exposed to the graphic nature of animals’ sexuality, let alone Sheila’s promiscuousness in broad daylight.

Brushing her hands on the sides of her frock she now leans on the verandah where Chance was standing. He was awaked by her loud chastisement of the other bulldogs that have not yet arrived but would most certainly show up. “Tonight me an dem,” she proclaimed.

“A wha Mama?” “Nothing Love,” is the answer as Chance questioned her comments. “Go back inside and go sleep babes, an don’t y’u hear me say y’u musen talk like dat.” “Y’u mus say what it is.” Rubbing his eyes, Chance makes his way back inside to bed and soon falls asleep. In the meantime, Thelma is gathering stones, piling them in a heap near her doorstep, for as she earlier vowed, come tonight, it was going to be a war. Yes, a war between her, Sheila and the bulldogs.

The evening hours fade away as fowls make their way to roost and birds in different formation fly to their nestling. Thelma patiently waits by her rickety verandah, seating her rump on the termite eaten roach infested board step, lapping the sides of her shabby frock-hem between her bandy legs. She is stunningly beautiful with a body-shape to that of a goddess, with brains of an intellectual scholar, the idiosyncrasies of a radical and a mouth that condemns injustices where ever it reigns. She is poor monetarily but rich in knowledge, and she is much desired.

Crickets are creaking and lizards croaking as darkness slowly befalls the land, yet not for long. Gradually the moon becomes visible; peering betwixt drifting clouds and with the stars, cast its light upon the earth, thus setting the stage for a well-lit night.

One by one entered the bulldogs in the yard. Thelma makes no move; she prefers a lot, the more the better the odds of hitting the target. She thought for a moment of seeing Palestinians youth stoning Israelis tanks and hope she could join them in their defense of their homeland. It’s in the very same desperation of human dignity and self-worth with which she will fling tonight in defiance to the bulldog invaded yard of hers, hoping to hit as many targets with precision as Iraqis do against Yankee invasion.

Soon the place was full of bulldogs sniffing at Shelia’s genital. All are fully “excited,” jostling for position and creating skirmishes in their eagerness. They are quite vicious in the attempts. None seems to want to wait on the other. And, if any is successful in its bid, it never seemed to have enough, showing no signs of ever wanting to dismount in allowing the rest a “share of the pie.”

Five, six, seven she counted, and now its time to go into battle. Rising from the verandah, she releases excess air in a ripping sound from her anus, stretched and flexes her muscles like a Kingston College athlete prior to the start of a discus event. “Now let the game begins,” she declares, and in lightening speed picks up half a dozen stones in her left hand, transferring them one by one to her right palm, each leaving her grip like a fastball from Roger Clements’s arm. How! How! How! How! wailed and groaned the dogs as the stones struck them like laser guided scud missiles. They scattered in different directions, leaving Thelma in euphoria and laughter as she gathered more stone for their return.

About the author

Kharl Daley