A. Marie Silver

A. Marie Silver

There’s a New Sheriff in Town

Dear Diary,

Oh the agony! The upset! The heartache! My happiness and well-being are spiraling downhill. And it’s all Boy-Dadda’s fault. This whole thing started when he got hit by a dump truck. Dumbass! I mean, at first it wasn’t so bad. When he came home from the hospital he kept to himself in the bedroom. But not long after, Grandma showed up with her dog. RUDE!!!! Apparently she didn’t get the “No Dogs Allowed,” memo that I sent her after her last stay in December. So here she comes to help Momma with Boy-Dadda and she brings this dog. What the hell did she think the dog was going to do? Licking him wasn’t going to fix him.

The first night Grandma arrived, Momma didn’t feel well and decided to sleep on the sofa downstairs. Grandma went upstairs to the guest room and left her dog downstairs with Momma. I did not like that at all. First of all, the dog thought she was allowed to sleep on the sofa. Momma didn’t feel well and I had concerns that she wouldn’t be able to defend herself against this disgusting, flee-bitten, musky mutt. So I stayed downstairs too. At first, everything was fine. When the dog saw me she jumped off the sofa. Good! I parked myself on the floor next to the sofa and watched the dog circle around the living room, searching for a way to jump up on the sofa with my Momma. MY MOMMA! Who the hell does that dog think she is?

At some point, I lost site of the dog so I got up and walked over to one end of the sofa. I peeked around the corner and there was the dog!  She barked at me. I slapped her. She chased me! I jumped onto the coffee table.

“What the hell are you doing?” I asked her. And then you know what happened, Diary? The dumbass dog actually smiled at me. She smiled! That’s when I knew I was trapped inside of a Stephen King novel.

“There’s a new sheriff in town, Gwennie,” she said as she jumped up onto the sofa and curled up by my Momma’s legs.

At this point I realized I was going to need help. Unfortunately, Dwayne Johnson, Sylvester Stallone, Ryan Reynolds, and Regis Philbin were unavailable for consultation.

 That left me with only one alternative. Little Missy.


Little Missy is my sister. I barely tolerate her existence. She’s a repugnant cat who actually begs for food. Begs! No self-respecting cat would ever beg for food. We demand it! And if we don’t get what we want when we want it, things get broken. That’s the way it is. But not with Little Missy. I realize that in this day and age it’s politically incorrect to slut-shame anyone. However, I’m a cat. And if you haven’t figured out by now, I’m proud to be politically incorrect. Therefore, it should come as no shock to any reader when I say that Little Missy would whore herself out to Big Foot if she thought he’d give her kibbles and a belly rub. She has no shame.



I found Little Missy upstairs, sleeping on the foot of Boy-Dadda’s bed. 

“Little Missy! Get off your ass! We have an emergency.”

“What?” She asked, rolling over onto her right side.

“The dog downstairs has challenged our authority.”

“That’s nice.” Little Missy yawned, stretching out her paws. “We can talk about it in the morning.”

“In the m—” What was wrong with her? In the morning? She actually wanted to wait until the morning to take back our house? “No!” I jumped up on the bed and slapped Little Missy.

She jumped up. “I’m sleeping, Gwennie!”

“Not anymore! Now get downstairs and help me take back this house.”


“What?” Was this really happening? First I get bitch-slapped by an inferior, flea-infested species and now Little Missy was trying to be bossy? 



I slapped Little Missy. Little Missy slapped me back. Then I scratched her ear with my teeth. She let out a scream and bit the back of my neck. I howled. Boy-Dadda woke up and kicked both of us off the bed. Little Missy chased me out of the bedroom. I flew down the stairs, skidded on the wood floor and narrowly missed the dog who stood there smiling at me like that stupid, balloon-obsessed clown who hides in sewers.



I jumped up onto the back of the sofa and stared at the dog. The dog stared back.

“I said it before and I’ll say it again. There’s a new sheriff in town,” she said.

Diary, it doesn’t seem like there’s much else I can do. I’ve been overtaken by a frickin’ Yorkie. Well….maybe there is one other thing I can do. It might be time to contact my connections in Ohio. I’ll let you know what happens.


Gwendolynn Anne Marie Stefani Collins-Silver


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A. Marie Smith

Your short bio telling the story of why you are a writer and the things that you think are important.