I was merrily walking past a lively street, the way the auburn trees touch the skies as if asking for a peck, just for a while, just once. Well, it’s been a while since I noticed such lively streets; not because I am old, but because they stopped existing a long time ago. It was hustling and bustling everywhere. I believe it was the day when all humans stayed at home, trying to fill the void for comfort, for meaning, for purpose, for life. Oh, how will I know all this? After all, I am just a dumb dog. And so, I walked and I walked in search of scattered food, specifically leftover meat, my favourite. Why is it so surprising? Am I not a living being? Am I just a muse for your kind? I was hungry, and scavenging for food was the only thing that could have given me temporary happiness, just like how you humans find joy in your daily routines that lack much meaning or rhyme. But what can one do?
I entered a neighbourhood. The roads were wet as it had rained the day before. The bushes with flowers so colourful, so enigmatic; trees so tall with white bark. I couldn’t bear to see it all, for the sun shone too brightly, making blurred bubbles in my vision like a faint, nostalgic, jubilant memory. All this reminded me of something.
The reddish pavement felt familiar. The chirping grey-blue herons were a melody heard before. The incoherent chatter and, of course, how can I forget? The busy neighbourhood noise. It all was just making me giddy: the sight of the humans smiling with their offspring, the evening scenery, and the way the breeze felt on my fur. It felt as if a current ran through my spine, perhaps of memory, bringing thousands of goosebumps to life. It all felt feverish, so mellow, so sweet. I was very exhausted from all the walking. A boy passed me by on a cycle, giving way for more cool air with tiny droplets of water to touch my face. I haven’t felt this alive in years. I kept on walking at a slow pace for a bit more time, passing by houses with kids playing, couples walking together and chattering about things I don’t quite hear or understand.
I almost lost my conscience about my whereabouts when I felt as if I had just been thunderstruck by a memory long forgotten. It came before my eyes in a black and yellow tint. I couldn’t make out what it was about, but it was surely something that churned my gut. It was not the hunger, no. It was something petrifying: the echo of screams and disappointment. Like I had walked this road before, and I have been here before, and have led a complete, unfortunate memory here. But I refuse to believe it. I have to hold myself high, because if I don’t, who will? I must not be swayed like this, for I have pride, and my pride would never allow me to be frail. Hence, I continued to walk despite everything around me, as hunger and personal needs have always been a significant priority for me.
Only to come across a house. Yes, there were many other houses. Something peculiar about the neighbourhood was that the streets had a yellowish-lukewarm scene, while the houses had an icy blue and cool appearance, all due to the white borders and sky-like blue paint inside them. Of course. But this one was something else. It had no other distinguishing quality apart from the fact that I felt as if it were buried in my memory somewhere, the feeling so constricted. Maybe that’s what they mean when they say emotions are the greatest weapons for us beings with feelings.
And I was moreover curious. What could be of such high calibre that it made a noble dog like me give attention to nothing but a mundane house?
The house had a front yard, so did all the other houses. Some were more well-maintained than the others, showing off their wealth with the amount of mindless money they can put into the maintenance of, well, grass. Something peculiar about this house was that when I entered the yard, every other voice apart from mine disappeared. It’s as if I were forced to listen to my own voice. For just the musings of others, I could hear every thought of mine with crystal clarity, and my hunger too did not persist. It was as if the yearning in my heart made the hunger forfeit. The garden in the yard had many bushes, different in size and shape. Some so high and mighty, some coward and low. The only thing in common with the sequenced bushes was the flowers: marigolds, which spoke to my heart and mind. The scent of the flower reminded me of wrongdoings —not memories of my own, but just how unfair everything in the world is. It was like the flower was speaking to me. I must control myself. My mind is searching for something, so it’s no wonder I keep getting stuck on minuscule details.
The yard of this house had a lot of furniture, household items, and odd junk that was probably overused or no longer useful. No human being was there. I entered the front yard, letting my emotions take the best and even the better of me, as if I were repenting. I always had, but not anymore.
On the tables, everything felt like it had a story. A chipped teacup, edges rough, like it had been held a thousand times and still survived. A brass key lying there, like it was waiting for someone who would actually notice it. Letters, yellowed and stacked, heavy with things nobody said out loud. Glass jars catching the light, empty but full of something. A faded scarf draped over a chair, like someone just left it behind but didn’t really go. Coins scattered, little circles of chance and choices and what-ifs. And all of these things, just sitting, watching. Like they knew something. It was like they were waiting for me to see it.
I began sniffing everything. I swear I remember these scents. I am pretty sure I do! Although I am quite an old dog, I am unkempt and pretty shabby, with a few parasites here and there in my fur. But my eyes, I often look into them; they still have the happiness of youth, or so I believe.
My mind is hazed, my identity shattered, my state just a remnant of who I used to be. But then why can’t I stop recollecting thoughts? I forgot, and I tried to remember but failed again. It’s a cycle that’s been going on for a long time, definitely because of my age.
My brain knits and tears any weaving that it finds. Yes, it is pretty absurd that a dog like me talks about all this or even talks at all. I understand things considerably, but I don’t speak. And because I don’t talk, you think I am daft, but I am certainly not! But it is pretty common with my kind, you see. We are all just on this earth differently, for different reasons. At least that’s what I believe.
Seeing different kinds of trinkets, furniture and whatnot, it was all so rusted. All of it looked like lost treasure a pup would pick up from the side of the road. There were many things I could identify from the tables and the items kept on them: daily-use items for humans. Although I don’t know the names, I can recognise them. I felt a bit hopeful rather than dread with smudged memories when I saw toys for me. Well, not me specifically, but for my kind: a lot of loud, squeaky and chewy toys that were very bright and exciting.
It was all fine till I came across the image of a creature. It could reflect, but only a bit. It had the image of a little pup. The pup was quite cute, but something just made me want to look away from him, and no, it wasn’t cute aggression. I was just blatantly enraged. Staring into it for a few minutes gave my brain enough time to solve this perplexing puzzle. It was me! The pup was me when I was young. It was all so real; the scar on my eyebrow gave away that it was me! Has it been so long I cannot decipher me from some other?
Right away, the rage became real. I could feel the disgust on my face and the anger in my head. It was a struggling sensation that made my body jolt and tighten my muscles. I remember how foolish I was. I could have been a better dog. I could have lived a better life. I repeat to myself as if it were a mantra.
In those days, to a certain length, I believed humans really loved me regardless of what I did; that love meant no effort; that it was something I could take lightly. But unconditional love is as fictional as I am, and I am one not to differ. I may never know why I walked the planet as if every being here owed me something.
I remember how aggressive I was, but wasn’t it expected? It was inevitable, for the anger I held back had to take a life, whether mine or some other dog’s. How impulsive I was, how deep in sins I was. How I didn’t care about anyone else. How I thought that I was unlovable, and when I actually did have a good owner, I behaved the way they did with me at the shelter: cruel, without sense, betrothed, and unaware of the fact that it wasn’t the way to be. But it’s not my fault. I had always been the victim of unfairness. It is a dog-eat-dog world, and in the shelter, it was worse.
It was the cages I remember: cold bars that kept me in, kept me small. The noise was endless: whining, barking, crying, but no one ever listened. No one does now either. Food came in a bowl too far from me, and when I ran, bigger teeth pushed me away. My belly ached for days. I regretted life in those days. I felt as if the uncertainty that pertained after life was better.
Hands came sometimes, but never generous, never gentle. They shoved, pulled, and smacked the bars when I got too close. I still remember the burns. Once, I thought maybe someone wanted me. I pressed my nose out, but the broom came down hard. I learned to stay back, to forfeit, to accept defeat.
Water came in blasts from a hose, cold and stinging. The floor was always wet, always stinking, and I lay in it anyway because there was nowhere else. Worst were the doors. They’d open, and dogs would leave, tails wagging, eyes bright. I waited for my turn. It never came. Until it did, but I was too dumb. I was too me.
I always let my feelings, my surges of impulse, get the best of me, and my owner had to struggle with me. He was a great man who always wore cotton clothes and had a warm, welcoming smile. I remember because I used to chew on his clothes. I remember because his kindness was what stood out so fiercely to me. I remember because humanity was something I was alienated from. I would see his polite smile even on the toughest days. I would often think that if I were in his shoes, I would surrender. I would always wonder: when you have the decision to be in the comfort of misery, why would you choose happiness? A trap, something that I was conned out of since the moment I became, and now I am. He had a family too, you know, like all humans do: a woman and children. And he even considered me as his own. How I never thought he could be something to me, for I am and remain the only one who remained constant throughout my life. I don’t remember his woman or children, nor do I remember his face, but what I still remember are the creases of his cheeks that always appeared like a blooming flower when he smiled.
I wish he were living a good life. I honestly do, especially after I ran off after thrashing his house. I want God to forgive me the way my owner would have forgiven me.
I always wanted liberty, but not the good kind. The kind that let me be animalistic in my own manner. But does it matter? I have changed. I surely have. I have control over my actions. I truly believe I have changed. Sure, my memory is rusty, but I am not the same person who attacked other dogs unprovoked; who betrayed the mother of my children back when the scent of heat could shatter my dignity like glass; when I mistook desire for love, and willingness to destiny. I am free of my cynical chains that bind me to misery. Right?
I have changed. Yes, I am capable of change. I am not suffering from the same behaviours I had inculcated in the past. I know that I can change, yet still something makes me wonder.
Could I be the one I suppose I am? The one whom I boast about, the one whom I make everyone meet, the one whose back I patted generously. I stare for what seems to be around an hour, but then again, it is just my mind playing tricks. After all, my mind is my confinement and I, the dictator. I dictate and dictate till I exhaust, then I curse my world for being so cruel. Perhaps if I had seen it all differently, it would have been all different. And maybe what I see is not my past self but a reflection.
I heard ringing in my ears and suddenly became aware of my surroundings. Now I could listen to the birds more clearly. I feel birds surrounding me, but one flies in front of me. I can’t move; I can only stare. It’s a magpie, covered with black and white, and its tail. I can hear it whispering secrets to me.
It’s staring at me. I gaze at its beauty as it cocks its head towards me, piercing my soul, bringing about so much ambiguity within me. Gazing into the eyes of the chirping magpie, I felt as if it had something to tell me: a story, my fortune, something, anything. The longer I stare into its eyes, the longer I feel as if it’s all an illusion, a figment of my imagination. All of this was a cruel trick on me.
I snap out of it the second the broken clock near me starts ringing powerfully, as if it would cause an earthquake right then and there.
Ah! I see it all clearly now. It is my reflection, but that is not something to rejoice about. I thought I had changed. I believed that I had. Perhaps I still am the same mutt pup, not a wise, haggard dog that I am. It shatters my reality, and a tear sheds from my eyes. It seems more painful than my hurt. I cry not because I am weak (that I am), but because I tried so hard to be better every single day, only to fail in the end and have a pile of regret. For the tears contained the promise I made to myself long ago. My throat asphyxiates itself from remorse. It drops down my cheek with all the faint memories of promises I made to those I loved. I wish I had enough control I could have kept. I wish I had enough sense to keep my word. As tears drop, they flash me memories of all that could hurt me. I was too arrogant, thinking I could do it all as if I were a showman and the world is my audience, only to find out I am the caged lion who has no might and qualities of a domesticated kitty.
Someone said once that people never change. I thought so proudly that I was right and that someone was fake. And now my body shakes while it unmasks me. I stare at the creature in the mirror—or is it a photo? A memory? I cannot tell. It looks like me, but it doesn’t feel like me. Not anymore. Perhaps it has always been me.
