A DOG'S LIFE

I wrote this when I was twenty-seven. I entered it into a short story competition a few years after writing it, but it didn’t do enough for the judges. I get why.

On a personal level and for personal reasons perhaps, it’s my favourite piece I’ve ever written.

—

IT HAD JUST STARTED to drizzle as I emerged from the bookies out onto the narrow street. In among the sea of people, all with somewhere to be and no time to spare. Some tried to open umbrellas, before quickly giving up as they realised there was no space for it.

I pulled the packet of Camel Blue from the back pocket of my jeans, inadvertently discarding an old bus ticket and a little red bookies’ pen to the pavement in the process.

“May I have one of those, please?”

The voice was timid. At first I wasn’t sure where it had come from, but then I saw her sitting on the ground by my feet.

“Sorry, but that was my last one. I suppose I could fish it out of that puddle, if you want it that badly,” I said with a straight face.

What began as a quick closed-mouth smile grew rapidly into a broad grin that showed her clean teeth. But then she caught reflection of herself in the shopfront glass window and quickly closed up again.  

“Aah… you meant a cigarette?” I said, now also grinning, “I’m sorry, I thought you meant an old bus ticket.”

I handed her a Camel, she put it between her lips and I lit it for her. She took a long deep drag, held the smoke in her lungs for a few seconds, turned her head to the side and exhaled the white cloud slowly. Then she turned back to me and said, “You can understand me, can’t you?”

What a strange question. But all I said in response was, “It seems that way, yea.”

“Are you a dog, too?” she said.

I took a drag on my cigarette and, while doing so, looked more closely at my new acquaintance. She had large, oval-shaped eyes, Caribbean blue, mesmerising. Clear skin that looked like silk. Long and wavy deep red hair that stuck to her forehead because of the damp. She was dressed in a hooded red woollen coat that came down to just below the waist.

I looked into her eyes: two brightly lit tunnels that stretched all the way to a dark past. Somehow an innocence had prevailed. Let’s call it naivety. I couldn’t tell you her age: could have been 21, could have been 31. Thin. Too thin to be healthy.

“You are the first one that has been able to understand me all day,” she said. “All these humans do is either ignore me completely, pretend I’m not here, that I don’t exist; or they smile patronisingly at me as they hurry past. I hate humans.”

It was then that I noticed she was tied to a bicycle rack by a metal lead around her neck. I looked up and saw that my bus, the number 17, had pulled into the stop and was letting people on. I decided I would wait for the next one.

I bent my knees and squatted next to her, to put myself at her level, and said, “This is my favourite time of year. And my favourite time of day. Late autumn, just before the sun goes down. I love the crispness.”

And, before waiting for her to respond, I said, “Who tied you up and left you here?”

“Alan,” she said. “He always comes back for me. Eventually.”

“But it’s getting cold. And you’re shivering. And you’re tied up like a dog. Outside a shop. Next to other dogs. And bikes,” I said.

“It’s because he loves me,” she said. “He does love me. Do you like this coat?”

“I do. It’s very nice. And it looks warm, too,” I said.

“You see! Alan loves me. He bought me this coat,” she said.

“It’s a beautiful colour,” I said.

“What’s a colour?” she said.

I stood up for a moment, took the packet of Camels from my back pocket, knelt back down and put another cigarette between her lips. Then I shifted my position and sat next to her, facing the world. We watched the people all huddled together under the bus shelter trying not to get wet. Some would catch my eye, but then quickly look away.

I leant over to the railings and untied the lead. Then I lifted the other end over her head and threw it into the kerb.

“I prefer spring,” she said. “When you first stop needing your coat in the evening. And when the rain brings out the smell of the flowers.”

“Come on, let’s go,” I said, and held out my hand.

Without questioning my move, she took my hand, stood up and followed me to the bus-stop. The number 17 pulled in and we stepped onto it together.

“I’m sorry, but no dogs allowed on this bus,” the driver informed us, as I attempted to buy two tickets.

“You what, mate? She’s travelling with me. And she’s not a fucking dog!” I barked.

But the driver ignored me completely and spoke only to the girl: “Look, I really am sorry, love, but I can’t let you bring him on the bus. Not at rush hour, and not when it’s raining.”

I snarled, confused, unable to understand. I took this bus home every other day. I even recognised the driver.

“What are you saying? Why are you doing this? It's me! You know me!” I pleaded.

The driver just looked at the girl sympathetically and said, “I’m sorry. I really am. But would you mind getting him off my bus now, please? You’re holding us all up.”

Without thinking, I undid my flies, took out my thing and started pissing on the floor and up the side of the driver’s little door.

“OH FOR FU- THAT’S DISGUSTING! JUST GET HIM OFF NOW!” The driver shouted.

The girl and I stepped off the bus and as it pulled away the faces stared at us through the steamed up windows.

“How far is it to yours?” she said.

"Not too far,” I said, “but we'll need to stop off for more cigarettes on the way. I’m almost out.”

—

Over to the judges: