“Thisfoot-thatfoot-thisfoot-thatfoot…” the thought played on a loop through Applejack Trautman’s feeble mind as he wandered the neighborhood he called home. Even the simplest task required considerable intellectual labor for Applejack, the weak link in his noble bloodline. Slow-witted, awkward in posture, and dimly-lit behind his sorrowful brown eyes, he was an outlier in a lineage of champions and breathtaking specimens. Despite Applejack’s solemn expression, his spirit bore the joy of one who could not fully grasp that the world is an ugly and dangerous place.
The youngest of five born to an emotionally-distant mother and absentee father, Applejack’s very name suggested he was doomed to the margins from birth. Their names all plucked from Wes Anderson screenplays, the other Trautman siblings’ names suggested grace, poise, and a certain air of blue-blooded authority: his sisters, Margot and Rhett, were natural beauties, graceful and charismatic, his brothers, Gustave and Zissou, striking, well-muscled athletes. Each of them prodigies, meticulously trained from birth to be elite– the best of the best.
Applejack, however, was seemingly predestined to be his family’s supporting player, the comic relief. Ambling through life blissfully unaware of his shortcomings, Applejack was exempt from his siblings’ rigorous daily routine of grooming, instruction, and living performance-based lives. Instead, he relished in the role of neighborhood mascot—disarmingly affable and frequently the highlight reel of his neighborhood’s NextDoor feed:
“Applejack’s pissing on Old Lady Dillinger’s azaleas again… she’s screaming and banging on her window, and he looks SO happy to see her.”
“Don’t forget to secure your bins on trash day! Applejack’s out wandering again now that it’s warmed up. Let’s not forget what happened to that squirrel I ran over last fall. #EWWWWW”
“ATTN EVERYBODY– pls reassure that little immigrant lady on the corner of 12th and Sandalwood that Applejack is harmless. I think she got spooked when Applejack tried to smell her bellybutton at the farmer’s market.”
“Thisfoot-thatfoot-thisfoot-thatfoot…” Applejack hummed tunelessly to himself as he continued his familiar path down the treelined sidewalks of Sealhenry Meadow, the working-class subdivision he called home. Mid-stride, he froze, alert and excited as a fresh, fruity aroma filled his nostrils—the unmistakable scent of Bath & Body Works’ ubiquitous Cucumber & Melon body spray. That bewitching fragrance always heralded the arrival of his neighborhood crush, Claudine Blackwell, who today was pulling her younger brother’s Radio Flyer wagon, an array of tightly-packed cleaning supplies brimming over its faded sideboards.
Athletic, vivacious, and always the center of attention, Claudine had a soft spot for Applejack, although she found him inherently disgusting. She knelt down to greet Applejack, smoothing her bright yellow uniform tee, which read “SonShine Cleaners: Washing Away Everything but Your Sins!!!”
Applejack trotted hastily up to Claudine, anxious and lovestruck. Although Applejack had a rich, if limited, internal vocabulary, he was hopelessly nonverbal, but when excited would whoop, bellow, and wail loudly enough to alarm any passersby who did not already know him.
Luckily, today Applejack and Claudine had this treelined expanse of Edelweiss Way all to themselves, so Applejack hurried to greet Claudine, frantically jumping and whooping in circles all around the young lady, who merely smiled in amusement, because this was Applejack’s default setting upon meeting someone he fancied.
And then, losing steam as quickly as he’d accelerated himself into a frenzy, Applejack flopped gracelessly to the ground at Claudine’s feet, rotated himself slightly onto his haunches at an odd-but-just-right angle, and began to meticulously lick his balls.
And now, it is at this point of our story that you, Dear Reader, should know that Applejack Trautman was a dog. Slow-witted and sometimes frustratingly dim, even by dog standards, but a dog nevertheless, so if it weren’t for the fact that Applejack maintained direct, intense eye contact with Claudine throughout his cartoonishly-lengthy grooming process, the spectacle might’ve barely registered in her mind.
But today, Claudine had little patience, even for Applejack. Her boss, Sonshine Cleaners’ proprietress, Anna Beth Fitzgerald, had summoned Claudine to the eerie country church on the outskirts of town—the backwoods congregation’s Sunday worship experience had created an apocalyptic mess. Again.
So, determined that Applejack would not—today, nor any other day for the rest of eternity—lick her on the face as a goodbye, Claudine shuddered, composed herself, scratched Applejack on his velvety gray forehead, gave the overloaded wagon a vigorous tug to get it moving once again, and went about her way.
Applejack rose on his forelegs and tilted his head in a stupidly contemplative pose, about 85% stupid, 15% contemplative, as he watched Claudine trudge uphill into the distance, the wagon trailing her like a devoted pet. Applejack wished he could be someone’s devoted pet…
A small mercy of Applejack’s astounding stupidity was that even the tiniest of pleasures could dispel a sad thought in an instant. Soft footfalls rustled in the distance… a faint scent, not the sweet excitement of Claudine’s cucumber and melon body spray… something earthy, musky, not altogether pleasant, but to a dog, especially one of Applejack’s limited intellect, it smelled like ADVENTURE… and adventure was drawing nearer.
The footsteps grew closer, the scent in the air more pungent, as if something had scuttled out of the innermost reaches of a hobo’s bellybutton… the scent of untold dozens of exotic creatures alchemized into a single intoxicating essence, of faraway lands and mysterious experiences. Nauseating and foul, but tailor-made to the taste of a dimwitted, attention-starved dog, the scent proved irresistibly alluring.
At last, on the edge of the trailhead leading into the forest that bordered Sealhenry Meadow, a figure emerged. Small in stature, not even four feet tall, covered in ragged, earth-toned clothing, its face a wild maelstrom of crimson streaks and yellow flourishes, an uruly shock of multicolored plumes exploding from the crown of its head… its display brilliant, and exciting, and terrifying, all at once.
Overstimulated to the point of atypical stillness and quiet, Applejack sat and gawked in awe as The Tiny Thing slunk toward him cautiously. Brilliant cobalt eyes, shining like twin sapphires, peered from beneath wisps of dirty blonde hair, betraying a tenderness beneath the creature’s otherwise savage appearance.
It spoke.
Applejack tried to understand, but failed to recognize any of the limited verbal markers he heard frequently: “food,” “eat,” “outside,” “good boy,” “no,” or any of the litany of profanities directed at him on any given day. The Tiny Thing’s words were foreign, but delivered in a pleasing, rhythmic tone… it felt almost like—”what’s the word?” Applejack thought—”Music!”
Apprehensive, but undeniably and irreversibly curious, Applejack matched The Tiny Thing, step by step, as each crept toward the other along the forest’s edge. Entranced by the angelic voice, enraptured by the unrecognizable, but deeply intoxicating, words, Applejack felt his apprehension melt into longing; for the first time in his sadly unspectacular life, he felt welcomed… wanted… SEEN. He wanted more.
The small, savage thing, its uncharacteristically kind eyes steady and unblinking, opened its arms, extending them outward as it bent one knee in a welcoming posture. The soft pulse of the singsong rhythm beckoned to Applejack, as did the outstretched arms. The words were unclear, the message nevertheless unmistakable: “Come to me.”
Without hesitation, Applejack closed the remaining gap between himself and The Tiny Thing that knelt in his path. Finally close enough to touch, Applejack melted into The Tiny Thing’s waiting arms. Applejack’s existence had always been a happy one, but this feeling of belonging, of acceptance, of wholeness was beyond anything his senses had ever registered… until his senses registered something else… something different.
That smell.
The meaning clicked into place as if it had been waiting for the perfect moment to materialize.
That smell.
He remembered now.
That smell, on the unattended squirrel he’d plucked from the neighbors’ trash many months ago.
That smell, that lingered on the walkway outside Old Lady Dillinger’s house for months after she’d collapsed in her yard and convulsed until she stopped moving. The neighbors found her hours later—purple, bloated, the whites of her still-open eyes hemorrhaged to a bright red.
That smell, that sometimes overpowered even Claudine’s cucumber-and-melon body spray when she’d drag her wagonload of cleaning supplies downhill after cleaning up whatever abomination had gone down at that sketchy country church on the edge of town.
Applejack had no word for that smell, but he’d smelled it enough to know it meant bad things. And so he realized—too late for his own good—that he’d walked willingly into the arms of a Tiny Thing that would grow addicted to that smell and the myriad bad things it represented.
Briefly adrenalized with terror and fury from the most intense thought to ever rampage through his feeble mind, Applejack thrashed violently for a split second, gnashed his teeth in terrified desperation, released a drawling, mournful growl… then calmed.
The Tiny Thing was small, but its grip was sure.
In that instant, the brief, uncharacteristic flash of fury from Applejack Trautman subsided into a malaise of swirling, otherworldly hues, sparkling orbs, blurry traces of light as thick as syrup, and the bright-around-the-edges intoxicated bliss brought on via his oxygen-deprived brain. Applejack’s vision faded like an overexposed photograph into pure, white nothingness. His innate form acquiescing into its perfect essence, Applejack at last heard the soothing siren’s song from The Tiny Thing’s lips form into recognizable words:
“I know a place where love lives well,
the bright streets paved with gold,
everyone we love is there,
no longer sick, nor old…”
With those words, the sweet soul of Applejack Trautman left this Earth.
In its place, something darker opened its eyes.
Gerald Blevins had just made a friend.
Dark. Funny. Probably Cursed. 
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