THE KIND OF DOG I AM

I am not dreaming. This is real life. I blink my eyes a few times. I consider literally pinching myself, just to make sure I am not actually dreaming. But I can't pinch myself because I have no hands. Instead of two hands I have four paws. Suddenly I understand that I am now a dog.

The road I am on is littered with garbage. With my newly long, fanged mouth I take up a parcel and follow my master as she continues quickly down the street, buried in her phone. It is autumn, morning, cold and wet and bright. I wonder what kind of dog I am but I cannot move my head in such a way as to fully examine myself in the glass doorways, while continuing to rush ahead after her. I hope I am a big dog. I hope I have rich, luscious fur and an extremely long tail. And I hope that, if say, a tall and attractive man were to turn the corner with the wrong look in his eye, I would be able to jump forth and bite his neck until he is dead. I hope that when we got home she would take me in her arms and stroke my fur and tell me what a good dog I am and that we will be together forever and never be dead.

But of course there will be an investigation. I have committed a mortal offense. The deceased; tall, creative, charming. Engaged to be married. Successful in his own right and his father even more so. His family will do all in its power to have me put down, even though my crime was in defense of the only one who I have ever loved. They will come for me. Four policemen at the door. The words that are spoken, I no longer understand. Papers will be produced. My owner is sad, yet understanding and without much ado they take me away and put me down later that afternoon. The needle sinking deep and silently into my beautiful fur. The life slowly thawing from my eyes as they gaze up uselessly at an ugly florescent light built into the ceiling.

And when I am dead they will throw me in a dumpster out back with all the other dogs and cats and horses and birds who have been put down trying their best to live and love and survive. Those now dead, but who have fought the darkness and evil they encountered every day in their miserable animal lives..

We stop at the intersection and these thoughts drift away. With my deep, dog eyes I dare to glance upwards towards her beautiful face. From around her phone, she notices me. What is that? Garbage? I unlock my jaw and let the parcel fall to the ground. She kicks it away with her tall leather boot, pulled tight, the blackness shining in the morning sun. 

As we wait for the street light to change I can just notice my reflection in a window across the street. I turn my head up and squint my eyes so I can try to see the kind of dog I am.