Abel and Iris

Abel makes a new friend!

A Short Story About Abel who always likes to pee on everything.

Abel is my pet and he always thinks he is 10 feet tall. :)

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Abel and a Flower named Iris

In a tiny town called Fairfield,

by a tiny little lake,

in a tiny little house,

lived a tiny little dog named Abel.

Abel was not like most dogs.

He would not fetch.

He would not chase.

He would not stay in one small place.

Why, you say?

He had no reason.

It was simply, plainly, just because.

Abel had a human named Colt,

and Colt was his best friend,

his person,

his pal.

One particular morning, Colt had to go away.

“Be a good boy,” Colt said.

But what Abel heard him say was:

“Guard the house.

Watch the yard.

Bark at strangers.

Bark real hard.”

So Abel stepped out onto the porch

with his nose held high.

He understood his mission.

Trouble would not pass by.

He barked at the mailman.

He barked at a chair.

He barked at the neighbors

who waved from over there.

But nobody trembled.

Nobody cried.

Nobody ran off.

Nobody even tried.

Abel barked louder.

He gave it his all.

But no one was scared

of a dog quite so small.

Abel was tiny.

Not very tall.

But in Abel’s mind,

he was ten feet tall.

Bigger than the porch.

Bigger than the tree over

by Miss Kimmy’s fence.

Abel loved being outside.

He loved the warm sun on his back.

He loved the cool grass under his paws.

He loved barking at people

for breaking no laws.

Because someone had to keep order

in that tiny little town.

And it sure wasn’t the crazy hound next door

who ate grass and flopped down.

One bright spring morning,

when the sun was warm

and the flowers woke smiling

with dew from the morn,

Abel trotted outside

with his nose held high,

snorting and sniffing

as he strutted by.

Snuffle, snuffle.

Sniff, sniff.

Then suddenly—

Abel had to go.

He rushed toward his favorite spot

near the old backyard tree.

He had made it there before,

many times, you see.

But today?

Not quite.

The tree looked too far.

His legs felt too slow.

So Abel spun around and thought,

“Well… here I go.”

He lifted his leg by the flower bed

and sprinkled a purple flower

right on the head.

The flower stood stiff.

The flower looked sour.

Her petals all dripped

from Abel’s rude shower.

Then she leaned forward and shouted,

“HEY!

How dare you do that?

Not now!

Not today!”

Abel froze.

His ears popped up.

His eyes grew wide.

He looked to the left.

He looked to the right.

No one was there.

The flower shouted real loud,

“No, sir! No way!

This is not okay!

Not on me,

you will not pee!”

Abel jumped back

and tripped over a vine.

He tumbled so hard

he nearly lost his mind.

He stared at the flower.

The flower stared back.

Abel squinted and said,

“What do you mean?

You’re just a flower.

Maybe a weed.”

The flower leaned closer

with a serious grin.

“I am not just a flower,

and I am not a weed.

My name is Iris,

and you were rude indeed.

This is my bed.

This is my place.

I grow here.

I glow here.

I lift up my face.

I drink the rain here

with all of my friends.

We bloom every spring

when the cold winter ends.

None of us asked

for a smelly dog shower.

Especially not me.

Especially not this hour.”

Abel tilted his head

and gave a small huff.

“I always go there.

Well… close enough.

The tree seemed farther.

The yard seemed wide.

I really, truly,

could not hold it inside.”

Iris blinked slowly.

Then she rolled her eyes.

“I have lived here two springs

under these skies,

and never — not once —

has this happened to me.

Now kindly, sir,

go find another tree.”

Abel gasped.

“Another tree?

But that tree is mine!

I’ve sniffed it for years.

It smells just fine.”

Then Abel looked around.

For the first time,

he could really see.

Iris had friends,

all standing and green,

each with a color,

each dressed for the weather.

Some were bright yellow.

Some pink.

Some blue.

Some stood up tall.

Some barely peeked through.

Each had a style.

Each had a name.

No two were alike.

Not one was the same.

Abel grew quiet.

A little ashamed.

He had seen the garden

as just a place to go,

a place to sniff,

a place to bark,

a place to run to and frow.

But to Iris,

the garden was home.

A place to grow.

A place to glow.

A place to come back

when spring winds blow.

Abel’s ears drooped.

His tail sank low.

“I did not know flowers had feelings,” he said real low.

“I did not know this was your bed.

I did not know this was your home.”

Iris crossed two leaves

and gave him a stare.

“Well, now that you know,

show us you care.”

Abel opened his mouth.

Then closed it again.

Then opened it once more

like a dog counting to ten.

“I have manners,” he said.

Iris raised one petal.

“Then prove it.”

Abel looked at the tree.

Then at Iris.

He gave a tiny nod,

though he liked this not.

“Fine,” Abel said.

“I will not use this spot.”

So Abel stepped away

from the flower bed

and found a plain fence post

to go on instead.

He sniffed it once.

He sniffed it twice.

He lifted his leg.

And everything was nice.

No one screamed.

No one shouted.

No flower cried out,

“You’re a sprinkler with paws!”

Abel smiled.

Then he paused.

Maybe Iris was right.

Maybe tiny things

had homes too.

Maybe flowers had feelings.

Maybe gardens did too.

And maybe being big

did not mean being loud.

It did not mean bossy.

It did not mean proud.

Maybe being ten feet tall,

even when you are small,

means knowing when to step aside

and make room for all.

So from that day on,

Abel guarded the yard,

but he guarded it kindly —

not bossy, not hard.

He still barked at the mailman.

He still barked at the chair.

But he gave Iris space,

and he showed her he cared.

And every spring morning,

when the dew sparkled bright,

Abel nodded to Iris

and kept the fence post in sight.

Because a tiny dog

can have a very big heart too,

when he learns the world

is not only for you.