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hp_friendship2012-07-12 06:00 pm
friendshipmods) wrote in hp_friendship2012-07-12 06:00 pm
"Dingo" (Marge Dursley, Ripper)
Author: ![[livejournal.com profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/external/lj-userinfo.gif)
jean_doe_27
Prompt/Prompt Author: Friendship is where you find it, and a soulmate is a soulmate. Our animal friends know us best. --lash_larue
Title: Dingo
Characters: Marge Dursley, Ripper
Rating: PG
Warnings: A drunk Tory? Other than that, none.
Word Count: ~1600
Summary: Ripper is Marge’s best and only friend, and that’s exactly how she likes it.
Author's Notes: I doubt if I did the prompt justice, but under the circumstances, I did the best I could. I want two thank my two wonderful beta readers for helping me focus and for weeding some errors. All remaining errors are my own doing.
Nobody’s really my friend, my friend, hummed Marjorie Dursley to herself, petting her little Ripper, her favourite dog by some distance, fondly. Her visit to her brother’s had ended disastrously, and she found herself recalling those events ever so often. Sitting on the comfortable sofa in her large house, she cupped the glass of brandy and looked at it, as if answers could be found in the amber fluid. She sipped, gave the delicate glass another glance and put it back on the coffee table. Circular Brandy stains indicated that this was not the first glass she had drunk this evening.
“No Rippy, that was a brutal lie. No way could I have crushed that glass due to, how did I call it then? My firm grip. Of course, I do have a firm grip, but Petunia’s glasses were never as delicate as the ones Fubster has.”
She wished she could remember what had happened on that last day of the visit. She should have known better and refused that one last drink. Even though it was just a drop (well, maybe a tad more than just a drop), it had seemed to wipe out her memory in its entirety. All she could remember was that by the time she had woken up the next day, that nasty boy hadn’t been there to be seen, and good riddance, that. Not that she could understand why Petunia appeared to be upset about it. Indeed, she had been only mildly upset, but nonetheless, it had seemed as if she had actually cared for the boy. How weird.
She did remember the conversation before her glass had broken, though. The boy had been extremely annoyed, but what about was completely beyond her. She sighed and went to feed Ripper. She seemed to be wandering in her thoughts today, and Ripper, sweet little Ripper, was underfed.
It was Ripper’s fourth feeding of the day, but he didn’t complain. He jumped from the sofa and trotted after his mistress on his short legs. Waiting for another meal to be served, he licked his mistress’s leg with force, wagging his short little tail. Ripper was a proud dog and would normally growl and bite, but not at his beloved mistress. He didn’t like staying on his own and made his point very clear. His mistress, in turn, took him with her wherever she went, saving him a stay with this horrible fella, Fubster. Ripper was white and tan. He had the typical wide head and shoulders, with the thick folds of skin, and black, round, wide set eyes just as any purebred bulldog should have, and he was, after all, purebred. Since his plate was ready and on the floor, he shoved his short muzzle into the bowl and tucked in. Content after his meal, he lay flat on the kitchen floor, closed his eyes and began snoring softly.
Marge bent with effort to scrub behind his ears on her way to the sitting room. Indeed, Ripper was a nice and peaceful dog, despite what some may have thought.
Back on the sofa, she continued with her train of thoughts. Taking that boy in had been such an error; they should have left him on their doorstep, just as she had suggested. At one year of age it had already been clear that he was weak and damaged and had that ugly scar to prove it. How often had she seen that happen in litters; a pup that could not, that should not, survive. A pup that should, for its own good, be put down. Of course, one could never do that with humans, unfortunately, and how that reflected on society! Just the other day she had read that story in The Mirror, about one such useless boy with a useless father and a mistreated dog. Axe, had been the name of the boy, whose dog had ripped a two year old to pieces. The father, surprise surprise, had been unemployed, and Axe had been notoriously known for delinquent behaviour. Marge was not the least surprised to learn that they had been of, how should that be called, a certain background. Ah! They should have never been let in into the country! And the poor dog, the abused little pit bull that had ended up near killing the toddler. And of course now the dog was the one that was being put down rather than that obnoxious boy! Unthinkable! The thought made her sad.
“Ripper,” she called, “Come to mummy. Mummy is feeling lonely without you.”
Ripper raised his heavy body and ran as quickly as he could to his mistress, giving her a little smile.
“You sweet little animal, you and your little nosy smiles! Come to mummy, dear, come sit next to me.”
Ripper obediently jumped onto the sofa, giving in to all the petting and squeezing that were in store for him. He loved the attention and accepted it willingly. After all, he was her favourite dog; the leader of the pack. What else could he have wished for?
Marge hugged Ripper and kissed him on his head, back, and stomach. “You sweet little animal. How would I ever live without you, my dearest? I am never, ever, lonely when you are near me. You are the only one who really understands me; the only one who really cares. You know, I sometimes wish that I could even marry you! Make you my special one, as you already are! But no, what am I saying?! In this twisted country of ours they will probably allow faggots to marry before they will allow me to officially make you my family. And you are so much better than any of the men I dated! Certainly much better than old Colonel Fubster, who thinks that simply because I am single I will find his pathetic flirtation flattering, or, God forbid, tempting!" She finished with another big hug of her four-legged companion, and sipped some more of her brandy.
Ripper accepted all her advances with pure pleasure, lying on his broad back, exposing his tender chest, stomach, and doghood. He may not be the smartest dog on this planet, but he was certainly the most loved one. He understood nothing of what his mistress was saying, but he could sense that it was full of kindness and love, and couldn’t care less about the exact meaning of it all. He didn’t mind the good scratching, either.
Feeling Ripper’s velvety skin under her fingers, Marge let her mind wander again to last month’s events. She had never experienced such a blackout before. And she could admittedly enjoy a glass or four of stiff drink here and there. Had it really been the wine and the brandy she’d had that night? Undoubtedly, she hadn’t been drinking excessively then. Was she getting too old? But she was only a few years older than Vernon. No! It hadn’t felt like a drink-induced blackout; she remembered clearly that there had been no hangover the next morning. Actually, it had almost been as if somebody had cast a spell on her, only she knew better than that, of course; she knew there was no such thing as magic. Not being able to get a better understanding of the missing timeframe in her brain, but still too determined to let it go, she went back to recalling the events of that evening. Why was Vernon still keeping that useless boy in his house? He had always been too kind for his own good. One should hope that there were no more freak family members on Petunia’s side. Marge had never really liked that slim, bony woman. It had never made sense to her how a handsome man such as her brother had chosen someone who was so clearly supporting different moral standards! Nothing else could explain that sense of care she had so obviously seen when that boy had disappeared. Marge had always been so perceptive that she couldn’t understand why people kept trying to hide things from her. As if she needed Vernon to tell her that the boy had been a criminal! Luckily, Dudley did not seem affected by that terrible company.
Marge sighed a big sigh, sipped the last of her brandy, and made her way to her king size bed. Ripper followed her steps and by the time she was ready to climb in, he was already curled on her pillow, watching her with his lovely wet eyes, all too ready to sleep. Nobody’s really my friend, my friend, Marge hummed hugging her little Ripper, but when he looks at me and smiles with his nose, la la la. She had no idea where she’d heard that song nor could she remember all the lyrics, but it was about a beloved dog, and she knew that the dog next to her was the closest soul to her that she’d ever had and this was exactly how it should be: a sweet hearted, kind and beautiful, purebred bulldog. One of the finest she had ever had, if not the finest of them all. She loved him, and simply knew that he loved her, too. Marge turned off the light and turned to kiss Ripper on his wrinkly forehead. They had each other, and this was exactly how she wished her life would be.
Author's Notes 2: This story was inspired by this song, Dingo, by The Witches, even though Marge would probably deny ever hearing it if she knew the band’s name. :P
jean_doe_27Prompt/Prompt Author: Friendship is where you find it, and a soulmate is a soulmate. Our animal friends know us best. --
lash_larueTitle: Dingo
Characters: Marge Dursley, Ripper
Rating: PG
Warnings: A drunk Tory? Other than that, none.
Word Count: ~1600
Summary: Ripper is Marge’s best and only friend, and that’s exactly how she likes it.
Author's Notes: I doubt if I did the prompt justice, but under the circumstances, I did the best I could. I want two thank my two wonderful beta readers for helping me focus and for weeding some errors. All remaining errors are my own doing.
Nobody’s really my friend, my friend, hummed Marjorie Dursley to herself, petting her little Ripper, her favourite dog by some distance, fondly. Her visit to her brother’s had ended disastrously, and she found herself recalling those events ever so often. Sitting on the comfortable sofa in her large house, she cupped the glass of brandy and looked at it, as if answers could be found in the amber fluid. She sipped, gave the delicate glass another glance and put it back on the coffee table. Circular Brandy stains indicated that this was not the first glass she had drunk this evening.
“No Rippy, that was a brutal lie. No way could I have crushed that glass due to, how did I call it then? My firm grip. Of course, I do have a firm grip, but Petunia’s glasses were never as delicate as the ones Fubster has.”
She wished she could remember what had happened on that last day of the visit. She should have known better and refused that one last drink. Even though it was just a drop (well, maybe a tad more than just a drop), it had seemed to wipe out her memory in its entirety. All she could remember was that by the time she had woken up the next day, that nasty boy hadn’t been there to be seen, and good riddance, that. Not that she could understand why Petunia appeared to be upset about it. Indeed, she had been only mildly upset, but nonetheless, it had seemed as if she had actually cared for the boy. How weird.
She did remember the conversation before her glass had broken, though. The boy had been extremely annoyed, but what about was completely beyond her. She sighed and went to feed Ripper. She seemed to be wandering in her thoughts today, and Ripper, sweet little Ripper, was underfed.
It was Ripper’s fourth feeding of the day, but he didn’t complain. He jumped from the sofa and trotted after his mistress on his short legs. Waiting for another meal to be served, he licked his mistress’s leg with force, wagging his short little tail. Ripper was a proud dog and would normally growl and bite, but not at his beloved mistress. He didn’t like staying on his own and made his point very clear. His mistress, in turn, took him with her wherever she went, saving him a stay with this horrible fella, Fubster. Ripper was white and tan. He had the typical wide head and shoulders, with the thick folds of skin, and black, round, wide set eyes just as any purebred bulldog should have, and he was, after all, purebred. Since his plate was ready and on the floor, he shoved his short muzzle into the bowl and tucked in. Content after his meal, he lay flat on the kitchen floor, closed his eyes and began snoring softly.
Marge bent with effort to scrub behind his ears on her way to the sitting room. Indeed, Ripper was a nice and peaceful dog, despite what some may have thought.
Back on the sofa, she continued with her train of thoughts. Taking that boy in had been such an error; they should have left him on their doorstep, just as she had suggested. At one year of age it had already been clear that he was weak and damaged and had that ugly scar to prove it. How often had she seen that happen in litters; a pup that could not, that should not, survive. A pup that should, for its own good, be put down. Of course, one could never do that with humans, unfortunately, and how that reflected on society! Just the other day she had read that story in The Mirror, about one such useless boy with a useless father and a mistreated dog. Axe, had been the name of the boy, whose dog had ripped a two year old to pieces. The father, surprise surprise, had been unemployed, and Axe had been notoriously known for delinquent behaviour. Marge was not the least surprised to learn that they had been of, how should that be called, a certain background. Ah! They should have never been let in into the country! And the poor dog, the abused little pit bull that had ended up near killing the toddler. And of course now the dog was the one that was being put down rather than that obnoxious boy! Unthinkable! The thought made her sad.
“Ripper,” she called, “Come to mummy. Mummy is feeling lonely without you.”
Ripper raised his heavy body and ran as quickly as he could to his mistress, giving her a little smile.
“You sweet little animal, you and your little nosy smiles! Come to mummy, dear, come sit next to me.”
Ripper obediently jumped onto the sofa, giving in to all the petting and squeezing that were in store for him. He loved the attention and accepted it willingly. After all, he was her favourite dog; the leader of the pack. What else could he have wished for?
Marge hugged Ripper and kissed him on his head, back, and stomach. “You sweet little animal. How would I ever live without you, my dearest? I am never, ever, lonely when you are near me. You are the only one who really understands me; the only one who really cares. You know, I sometimes wish that I could even marry you! Make you my special one, as you already are! But no, what am I saying?! In this twisted country of ours they will probably allow faggots to marry before they will allow me to officially make you my family. And you are so much better than any of the men I dated! Certainly much better than old Colonel Fubster, who thinks that simply because I am single I will find his pathetic flirtation flattering, or, God forbid, tempting!" She finished with another big hug of her four-legged companion, and sipped some more of her brandy.
Ripper accepted all her advances with pure pleasure, lying on his broad back, exposing his tender chest, stomach, and doghood. He may not be the smartest dog on this planet, but he was certainly the most loved one. He understood nothing of what his mistress was saying, but he could sense that it was full of kindness and love, and couldn’t care less about the exact meaning of it all. He didn’t mind the good scratching, either.
Feeling Ripper’s velvety skin under her fingers, Marge let her mind wander again to last month’s events. She had never experienced such a blackout before. And she could admittedly enjoy a glass or four of stiff drink here and there. Had it really been the wine and the brandy she’d had that night? Undoubtedly, she hadn’t been drinking excessively then. Was she getting too old? But she was only a few years older than Vernon. No! It hadn’t felt like a drink-induced blackout; she remembered clearly that there had been no hangover the next morning. Actually, it had almost been as if somebody had cast a spell on her, only she knew better than that, of course; she knew there was no such thing as magic. Not being able to get a better understanding of the missing timeframe in her brain, but still too determined to let it go, she went back to recalling the events of that evening. Why was Vernon still keeping that useless boy in his house? He had always been too kind for his own good. One should hope that there were no more freak family members on Petunia’s side. Marge had never really liked that slim, bony woman. It had never made sense to her how a handsome man such as her brother had chosen someone who was so clearly supporting different moral standards! Nothing else could explain that sense of care she had so obviously seen when that boy had disappeared. Marge had always been so perceptive that she couldn’t understand why people kept trying to hide things from her. As if she needed Vernon to tell her that the boy had been a criminal! Luckily, Dudley did not seem affected by that terrible company.
Marge sighed a big sigh, sipped the last of her brandy, and made her way to her king size bed. Ripper followed her steps and by the time she was ready to climb in, he was already curled on her pillow, watching her with his lovely wet eyes, all too ready to sleep. Nobody’s really my friend, my friend, Marge hummed hugging her little Ripper, but when he looks at me and smiles with his nose, la la la. She had no idea where she’d heard that song nor could she remember all the lyrics, but it was about a beloved dog, and she knew that the dog next to her was the closest soul to her that she’d ever had and this was exactly how it should be: a sweet hearted, kind and beautiful, purebred bulldog. One of the finest she had ever had, if not the finest of them all. She loved him, and simply knew that he loved her, too. Marge turned off the light and turned to kiss Ripper on his wrinkly forehead. They had each other, and this was exactly how she wished her life would be.
Author's Notes 2: This story was inspired by this song, Dingo, by The Witches, even though Marge would probably deny ever hearing it if she knew the band’s name. :P