The Apocalypse Can Wait

By Deeon Brown

The air vibrated with a low, ominous hum. Usually, that meant the refrigerator was acting up again, its door rattling just enough to dislodge any unguarded treats—and my cue to position myself for any falling bits of deliciousness. But this hum… This hum was different. It was laced with the subtle snap of static, like when a particularly fearsome thunderstorm is about to roll in. Miriel, however, seemed utterly oblivious.

The sound turned from a hum into a guttural growl that resonated in my bones, making my teeth ache, and my doggie fur stand on end. Through the window, the sky, once a calming blue, had ripped open like a poorly knitted sweater. Flaming rocks the size of human homes started raining down, leaving smoking craters in the neighbor’s prized petunia patch.

All the while, Miriel sat on her knees in the garden, preoccupied. Popping my head out the doggy door, I watched her wispy white hair escape her haphazard bun, a trowel clutched in her hand. The object of her rapt attention? A patch of leafy green things, dotted with tempting red strawberries. Sweet, juicy, heavenly strawberries. And that infernal masked bandit, the raccoon, had his beady eyes on them, too. Miriel, bless her cotton socks and her seemingly endless supply of yarn, remained blissfully unconcerned. Or, more accurately, blissfully strawberry focused.

I tried to warn her. A deep, resonant bark, the kind that usually got someone’s attention. I tried a mournful whine that echoed the groaning sky. Then a dramatic sigh that fluttered my jowls. Nothing.

That was it. Clearly, indirect warnings weren’t cutting it. With a surge of determination, I squeezed the rest of my Saint Bernard bulk through the doggy door and lumbered out into the garden. She just patted my head and muttered, “Matteo, dear, these strawberries are delicate. We need to protect them.”

The very fabric of reality is unraveling; the sky is cracking open, literally, like a giant egg revealing—well, I’m not entirely sure what… but it isn’t good.

Outside, the air shimmered with heat waves. A frantic, discordant symphony of alarm rose from the birds. My entire body trembled. This was wrong. A primal fear clawed at my gut, urging me to drag Miriel away, to bury her under the sturdiest bush I could find before a meteor turned her and her precious plants to ash.

I nudged my massive head under her elbow, then took her apron fabric gently in my mouth, giving a gentle but insistent tug. When that failed, I shifted, putting my chest against her back and pushing with all my might. But she wouldn’t budge, her focus locked on those infernal strawberries. Frustration howled in my chest, a trapped and desperate sound.

“And these seedlings need just the right amount of sunlight,” she chirped, adjusting a tiny, knitted sunshade. She’d even made miniature scarves for some of the plants—little woolly things that looked utterly ridiculous to my Saint Bernard eyes.

The ground trembled, sending a wave of panic through my furry frame. I could feel the vibrations in my paws—a low, ominous rumble that promised destruction. A fissure opened in the garden path, spewing forth a cloud of acrid smoke. Meanwhile, Miriel, her brow furrowed in concentration, simply continued meticulously adjusting the tiny, knitted sunshades over her precious plants and wrapping little scarves around the smaller plants.

Then, the masked menace arrived. That raccoon—likely emboldened by the general breakdown of civilization—slunk out from under the shed, his eyes gleaming with avarice. He clearly thought that with the world ending, strawberry rules were out the window.

I put my whole chest into my most intimidating woof, the one I’d been practicing in the mirror, but it didn’t faze him. Usually, that kind of canine authority rarely fails. But the raccoon, that audacious creature, simply hissed and bared his teeth. He was a seasoned veteran of strawberry raids, I could tell.

Clearly, this situation called for more than just a stern vocal warning. Miriel was counting on me. With a deep-seated sense of duty, I lunged, a mahogany-and-white avalanche of fur and teeth, ready to defend Miriel and her strawberries from this furry fiend. Just before I could reach him, Miriel straightened up, her gray eyes flashing with a surprising ferocity.

Her expression shifted from serene gardener to determined defender. “Oh, you wouldn’t dare,” she warned, her voice sharp as a knitting needle. She brandished her trowel, the sharp edge glinting in the strange green light.

“Not today, you little thief.”  With a swift, precise movement, she flicked the trowel, sending a spray of dirt and pebbles toward the raccoon. He yelped a high-pitched squeal of surprise and indignation and scurried back under the shed, his tail tucked between his legs.

“There now.” Miriel smoothed her apron. “Those strawberries are for my jam, not for thieving raccoons.”

I watched, bewildered, as she returned to her precious plants, completely unfazed by the chaos around us. Meteors streaked across the sky, casting long, eerie shadows. The ground trembled. Humming a cheerful tune, Miriel carefully adjusted the little plant scarves.

“This isn’t my first apocalypse, you know, Matteo. Just another Tuesday,” she added casually.

I slumped to the ground, my head resting on my paws, a deep, mournful sigh escaping my chest. Some dogs chase squirrels. Some dogs guard sheep. I guard a woman who was determined to make jam while the world ended. And, secretly, I hoped she’d drop a few strawberries, because even in the face of oblivion, a dog’s gotta have his snacks. And maybe, just maybe, she’d notice the sky was falling.

ABOUT THE AUTHOR

Deeon Brown, driven by storytelling, explores the vibrant spectrum of human experience. His narratives range from humorous observations of everyday life to thrilling journeys into complex worlds, offering insightful glimpses into identity, power, and the connections that shape us. He remains endlessly curious about how the world works.

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