Dog

A cold wind blew in from what he thought was the west. It pressed the loose t-shirt and tracksuit pants tight to his frame. Goose pimples pricked up on bare arms and sensation led to thoughts that dulled any further sensation. Swirling senseless thoughts. How unseasonably cold it was, how only one generation removed from agriculture that kind of information was only relevant as small talk, how he liked the frame the clothes pressed tight against, how he disliked his vanity, how like possessions and property it all trapped you, owning you rather than you it. He smirked, feeling juvenile.

The dog bounded ahead, turning now and again in a demonstration of canine loyalty. His enthusiasm tempered by his devotion resulting in the dog running haphazard circles with his master as a centre point. The master believed he could see happiness in the dog's face but knew he probably couldn't. Belief versus fact, and the swirling thoughts were back.

Once inside, the dog calmed and nuzzled into the side of his leg. His master's thumb found the familiar notch between the eyes, the starting point for a series of gentle strokes around the muscular head and jaw.

Settled into this routine he began to speak. Ostensibly to the dog, who greeted the words only with a lolling tongue and further nuzzling, but more to give shape to his thoughts in the hope that expressed he might better understand them. "hound, it's over. It never really got going. She sent me a dear John text message". The dog replied by absently scratching himself. "I know, it's like I'm fifteen or something. Pity. I had high hopes for this one. What was the Shawshank quote? You don't know you're a dog", delivered with an extra pat. "something about hope setting you free or driving you mad. Either way I suppose this is better than the self doubt. Maybe right after you survive a plane crash, before you have to eat anyone, you're elated. Before the bleak expanse before you threatens to ruin you. Eh, Hound?" No response. "Fuck ya then. Where's my skipping rope?"