Outdoor rock concerts were the best for caninekind.

There were myriad things to sniff, of course. Effie could feel a thousand pungent and delectable odors fill her nostrils, each a thousand times stronger than any human could perceive. It was like a novel, a story, and if most canines weren’t able to appreciate it, Effie certainly was. She’d been around long enough to know that peoples’ stories were concentrated in their scent far more than in the gibberish that spilled out of their mouths.

Then, of course, there were the tastes. Bins and fields overflowing with the most delectable edibles, many tossed uneaten by the wayside by indolent rock fans. Effie delicately sampled many an entree as she passed through he arena, from pizzas to pretzels to pies. She shied away from the rare piece of chocolate and the much more common alcohol–one try of each had nearly killed her, and once was enough.

Music was an entirely different experience to sensitive canine ears. Not as meaningful as people seemed to find it, but interesting nonetheless. Unlike most canines, Effie didn’t shrink or shy away from the noise; rather, she sat at a safe distance and wagged.

Getting bumped into or stepped on was a very real thing, of course, but most of the concertgoers in outdoor venues were either too preoccupied to notice Effie, or friendly enough that their only reaction was to smile and pet or feed her. Some eco-warriors always tried to capture her for spaying, but she always managed to wriggle away.

That night, after the music had trailed off, Effie made her way into the tent city that housed the concertgoers and curled up on a sleeping bag. The next morning, someone scratched at the half-open door of the tent she’d passed out in.

“Hey Effie, you in there? Feeling better?”

“Just a sec, Jace,” Effie said. She pulled on a tank top and a pair of boxers before unzipping the door.

“You missed a hell of a set, Effie,” said Jace. “Didn’t even need half of those lights thanks to the full moon.”

“Oh, I know,” said Effie, wrinkling her nose with a sly smile as her fingers ran through her mussed-up pixie haircut. “I know.”

Inspired by the song ‘Dog crying in the distance’ by Hiroki Kikuta, released under a Creative Commons Attribution 4.0 International license.

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“So what’s the name of this band?” Jeanette asked.

“The Bad Electronic Twilight Cowboys,” Leif replied.

“Okay, what is is about bands these days?” Jeanette said, waving her arms. “Is it asking too much for a normal name, or does every single one have to be spat out of a Weird Word Generator? It’s like freakin’ Mad Libs, only they get taken seriously.”

“No,” said Leif, “the Mad Libs are playing in the second set.”

“What genre do the Bad Electronic Twilight Cowboys play?”

“Punk/ska/rock fusion.”

“That’s another thing!” Jeanette cried. “Why does every freakin’ band have to be its own genre? Why can’t we just call them punk? Or ska? Or rock? And why fusion–is that some sort of magic word that makes genres that have nothing to do with each other get along? What are the Mad Libs, a hair metal/chamber music fusion? Or maybe country/Andean panpipes/Tibetian yak horn fusion?”

Leif calmly took a sip from his energy drink. “I’m sensing a little hostility here. We still going?”

Jeanette sighed and gave her head a shake. “…it’s just the coffee talking. Let’s go.”