Trigger Warning: Animal Abuse
You don’t know what you’ve done, but once again, you’re left standing in the yard. The leather is tight around your throat, breath coming in huffs, white clouds billowing away from your muzzle. The chain weighs you down, dragging your body closer to the mud, rattling through the dirt as you drag it along—back and forth, back and forth.
You pace and whine, whine and pace. The ground is cold—almost frozen, but just damp enough to seep through your brown and black fur to the soft flesh underneath. You long to curl up somewhere the bitter bite of winter can’t reach, to rest for only a little while, but there is nowhere to lie down. Nowhere that is not puddled with ice-cold water, and the chill is already digging its claws into the white fur of your underbelly.
If not for the collar, you could run, wild as a wolf. If not for the chain, you could fly, feet singing over the hard earth, the drum beat of your elongated paws landing, rolling, pressing, springing, your tendons snapping, muscles straining, body lithe and free.
But you are not free. You’re chained to a stake in the cold, dead earth, the wind freezing the damp on your nose, balls of mud and half-formed ice clotting in the pads of your feet. A snowflake drifts by, heralding the storm. You put back your head and howl, the leather vibrating against your throat, the gibbous moon winking at you from between the misty gray clouds.
You hear his voice, screaming obscenities.
You fall silent, choking on another howl. You know what comes after yelling. The smacking of flesh hitting flesh, knuckles to palm, a miasma that, if ignored, turns rapidly into fists raised and falling, pain arching through to your very bones, your legs twisted out from underneath you. This happens when you’re too loud, or when you get in the way. When they do not let you outside soon enough. When you pin your ears, raise your hackles, bare your teeth and snap a warning. When, left unfed, you pulled an abandoned platter of scraps down from the counter. When your feet left muddy tracks on the floor, or rain stuck your damp fur to the walls of your corner.
When you have done nothing at all.
This is one of those times. One moment, you were huddled in your corner, trying to compress your body down, avoiding the harsh words thrown between the male and female. She threw one of those objects that all two-legs like to put over their feet and banged a door shut. The object slid to a stop near you, the smell enticing. You knew how sweet a treat that was, the delicious feel of the rubber and leather crushing in your jaws, the tang of earth and sweat twined together.
You thought about taking it, but you remembered the last time the male caught you with your nose deep inside one of those tall, black rubber objects he wears when he leaves each morning, how you limped for weeks afterwards. So you didn’t take it. But he grabbed it from the floor and smashed it into the side of your skull, a treat turned to a weapon, your ears going flat, tail tucked under in surrender.
But when did surrender ever do you any good?
He hauled you out into the cold, cursing the mud, the ice, the wind. And now here you are, pacing to keep from freezing, not long before the first snowfall of the season. Soon, the two-legs will begin hacking down pieces of the forest and dragging the trees into their houses, prolonging the death by propping the pines up in a water bowl, adorning the almost-corpses with edible and breakable things you are not allowed to touch, that you’re yelled at if you so much as sniff at them.
There was no tree in your house last year, which is just as well. At least this way, the cat cannot claw his way up the branches, then trick the two-legs into blaming you when the mess of branches topples, coming crashing down nearly on your tail. Your gait is still a bit sideways from the aftermath of the crash, and the anger of the male. You reeked of pine for weeks afterwards.
You lift your nose. Your memories have called the cat forth, like a mangy little demon, pupils slitted, luminous eyes narrowed, breath carrying the stench of blood and death. What might once have been fluff is matted and ragged and falling out in great, trailing clumps. His graying whiskers droop. Like a feline bantam, he hisses at you, unprovoked. You put your ears back in warning and give a low, soft growl, the sound scraping your throat. He can come and go from the house as he pleases, roaming the field for food when there is none provided. He could be curled up inside, soaked in the scent of the two-legs but tucked away from the reach of the wind and mud.
He stalks to the door, scratching and mewling, but either the two-legs ignore him, or they cannot hear him over the wolfish wind. You feel a twinge of pity for him—no one likes to be locked out in the cold. But then he spits at you, tail bristling high over his head, so you give up and pace away again. He sits beside an abandoned mass of rubber, round with rusting metal at its core. He is small enough that it blocks the worst of the gale, just within the reach of your chain if you really strain. You don’t.
Instead, ignoring the ragged creature, you find the driest patch of earth you can and curl up, the fur on your back ruffling with the frigid fingers of a winter’s night, and do your best to find solace in sleep.
You are sore down to your very marrow when you wake. Every muscle is stiff, joints ready to break every time you move. You rise slowly, fur matted with frozen bits of mud on one side, a layer of pristine frost glimmering in the dawn light on the other. You shake, doing your best to get the muck and snow off, then walk. Your blood begins to flow again, pain lancing through your legs as feeling returns. The chain is heavier and colder than ever, encased in a thin trimming of ice.
The cat is hunkered down by the rubber mass, a huddled ball of fur. He is not moving. You approach, cautious, sniffing at him for hints. The air is still, and it only takes you a moment to discover that he has not borne the chill of the night as well as you. Your chain is at its full length, nose extended, tail lifted high, when the front door bangs open.
The female two-legs stumbles outside, layers of fabric draped over her body, feet hidden in black rubber. She staggers closer, shooing you off. You can smell her concern and worry, but it isn’t directed at you. She’s always liked the cat better—as though there is something despicable about lolling tongues. You meant to make her smile when you licked her toes, but she seemed to take it as a personal affront. There is no sense in the two-legs, especially not this pair.
She crouches over the cat, reaching for him, realizing what you already have. Her shrieks split the morning air. Her mate comes running, spitting curses and hauling on clothing as he goes. She screams obscenities at him, something about you. Your violence and aggression. How you never liked that cat, how you could swallow him whole if you had a mind to. She swings on her mate. He dodges, then watches her storm back into their den. You can tell nothing good will come of this, the scent of anger burnt and crisp in the air, and you know your suspicions are right the moment he turns his gaze on you.
He drags you from one of the metal monsters the two-legs are always sitting inside of, speeding off even faster than you can run. Those races are never fair—if they ran on their paws as you do, they wouldn’t stand a chance. Once, the male two-legs let you hang your head out of his metal monster, and though the black, grass-less stretch below you reeked of death and impurity, the wind whipping by was fresh as a snowdrop, whistling through your ears and flopping your tongue out behind you. This journey was not like that one, and now that it has ended, he yanks you to the ground. Though you do not try to resist, he drags you by the leather collar to the squat, brick building, and hurls open the door.
The pungent odor of other dogs coats the place. Already your ears are tired from the cacophony of yipping and yowling. Once you might have been thrilled to meet these fellow canines, but now, you’re too tired, too cold, too desperate to avoid the coming punishment. The male is talking to another male, this one taller and better-smelling. You sit on the floor, head cocked, knowing that he is spewing lies about you killing the cat. You cannot argue in any way but with your demeanor, and so you do your best to look innocent. You don’t know if you succeed, but the male leaves, getting back in his metal monster and roaring away. His fists swing close to your nose as he goes, but leave you untouched.
This new two-legs leads you into a hallway, and then into the room with all the dogs. Each one is fenced in, three walls and a gate, and the tang of too many canines too long in one place overpowering. Their yowls hurt your ears. The floor is hard beneath you, but there is a plastic shelf that’s a bit better. There is much less space here than in the yard, even with the restricting chain, but at least it’s warm. And though this new male pens you in, trapping you, he does not smell of hatred, and he does nothing to hurt you. For this at least, you are grateful.
Your life in the dog house isn’t as bad as you’d thought it would be that first morning. There is always food and water, and though there is nothing soft, it is warm and dry. You’re kept always in your small pen, except for when a two-legs comes to walk you. They put a rope around your throat so you can’t escape and take you on a grass-less path through the woods. You could walk until sunset. You could run for miles and miles, the earth stretching out beneath you, but most of the two-legs are old and slow, and struggle to make any progress in the cold. Once the heavier snows come, they barely manage a walk at all.
The two-legs keep the dogs apart, though you’re almost glad. Many of the others smell of insanity from being cooped up so long. When the two-legs come, they howl and throw themselves at their gates. You sit, calmly, silently, head to one side. Sometimes you press yourself up against the wire mesh, licking at fingers. They always treat you better if you’re good—sometimes, there’s even extra food. You’re taken out of your pen and allowed to roam free inside a small room every now and again. There isn’t room to run, but you can trot, and so you do. Up and back, round in circles, sometimes with one or more two-legs watching you. Sometimes there are mated pairs, and once an entire pack with pups. The little ones pulled your ears and fussed over the smaller dogs, leaving with a yappy mutt instead of you.
One of the mated pairs did take you home, but they brought you back only a few sunsets later. You do not understand why—you did everything they asked of you, or at least, what of it you could. Sit, stay, lay down. There was more you did not know, but you wagged your tail and licked their hands and proudly brought them the half a possum you found outside their house, lying on the black path the metal monsters follow. You meant it as a gift, a sign of your gratitude and willingness to be their beta, but in the nonsensical way of two-legs, they were not impressed.
They returned you to the dog house that day, which you did not understand either. How can they be a pack with only an alpha male and female? Who will help them guard the den from the strange two-legs who comes with a sack when the sun is high, stuffing papers into the box at the edge of their yard? Who will raise their pups, teach them how to romp and roam and tussle, to hunt and to trample their sleeping area flat before bedding down at night? You would have liked to play with the pups to come—the female smelled of motherhood and would soon be carrying more heartbeats than just her own, though she did not seem to know it yet. But they, like all the others, have left you alone once again.
Sunsets slip past, and two-legs come and go. Though some are indifferent or harried, most are kind—but still, the dog house is not a home. These two-legs are not your pack. You’re an outcast, a loner, an omega left to die in a pen you’re seldom permitted to leave.
You wish desperately for someone to call your own.
After a length of time you cannot name but know is at least a season long, a two-legs comes to visit who seems different than the rest. The other two-legs treat her as a pack would a lone wolf: some glance away, and some stare a challenge as they walk past all the dogs. At last, they leave her alone—something they never do. She doesn’t make a beeline for a certain kind of dog, as so many of the two-legs would have. She doesn’t seem to care about shape or size or who can sit. She squats down to the floor, looks each dog in the eye. Some, she takes for a walk in the early summer warmth, gentle and patient, though the sun rises to its zenith, then sinks as the process drags on. At last, she gets to you. You aren’t the final dog in line, but you’re close.
When your faces are on a level, you see why the other two-legs looked oddly at her: her eyes don’t match. One is the bright color of an almost-summer sky, the kind overhead on your walk earlier; the other the warm, rich hue of fresh-churned earth. You tip your head, and she does, too. You don’t care what her eyes look like; she smells right. Hesitant, you wag your tail, and she smiles. Her tongue pokes out between her teeth, and, mimicking her, you let your own loll out. She laughs. You lick at her fingers from between the intertwining strands of metal, and it’s like clouds parting to reveal a glittering nighttime sky full of shining stars. This one is the right one. This one is meant to be yours.
She says something, and though you don’t understand the words, you know enough. Her voice is gentle, her touch soft. She doesn’t pull on the rope she loops around your neck before releasing you from the pen, and you don’t give her reason to. You rub against her legs, happy when her hands caress you, carefully, tenderly. You would lick her chin in affection and deference if you could, but standing, her face is too far out of reach. She leads you away from the dog house, and though you have no idea where you’re going—no idea what lies ahead—not once do you feel the need to look back.
Your new two-legs doesn’t just take you for walks at your new home—she takes you for runs. When the sun is still new to the world, the box by her bed makes noise. You lick her nose and then, after a bit of fussing and tussling, off you go, always far enough that your need to fly is sated. At first, it’s hard. Your joints are stiff, your muscles unconditioned for exertion after so long lying on the hard floor. When you come back to the house, she refills your water and stands in a miniature rainstorm for a while. She is gone for long stretches of time and returns tired. She kicks off the spikey objects she straps to her feet each morning, leaving them on the floor. They look unpleasant—you wouldn’t want to chew on those even if she let you.
You wag your tail and drool and lick her all over, eager to see her every time she returns. You fear that one sunset, she won’t come back at all, so every time she does, it’s a precious gift. She rubs your ears and kisses your muzzle, her favorite spot to press her lips. You don’t understand what the two-legs have against licking, but you suppose this is her way of expressing affection. Her touch is always gentle, and she always smells sweet—like kindness.
She usually gets one of those rectangular objects full of paper that she can stare at for hours, then lies down on a squishy object you have learned is called couch. The first time, you looked at her longingly, then slunk off to find a corner, just as you would have in your life before the dog house. She laughed, held her arms out to you, and crooned sugared words. You wagged your tail, hopeful. She rubbed your head, and then invited you up! Now, overjoyed each time she pats the place beside her and murmurs this new word, you sprawl on the couch next to her—sometimes on top of her—the cushions soft underneath your body, her hands gentle as they stroke your thick fur.
She cooks food, clattering around, radiating good smells, tossing you odds and ends. You snap them all up, sometimes catching them midair—all but the leafy bits that smell of mud, something you’ve never seen before. She eats at the table by herself, and though she tells you lie down and no beg, she lets you drool on her feet. She drops bits and pieces down to you. You wait for permission, then gobble up the scraps, tail thumping against the floor. Your own meals come twice between sunrise and sunset, always, as regular as at the dog house, but different somehow, made better by her hands. She has no mate, and at night, she puts you in her bed, curls herself around you, and plays with your ears. Sometimes she smells your feet. She always laughs when you lick her chin, and so you lick her chin a lot. You adore the sound of her voice, the way she smells—even how she bats you away when you try to stick your head between her knees while she marks her territory in the giant white water bowl.
But not everything in your new life is perfect. Every once in a while, your two-legs’ smell will change, souring ever so subtly. Then her head will fall forwards and she will lie still, as though asleep, for the span of a dozen heartbeats. You lick her fingers and face, tangy with sweat, and wag your tail when she starts to wake up. She always smiles, pats your head, tells you something in a singsong voice that makes you wag even harder. It is almost as though she simply falls asleep, but it is not sleep. There is something… wrong about it. You don’t like when she slips into these spells. You whine when you smell the change coming on, but there’s nothing you can do to stop it.
She doesn’t seem to know when they are about to happen, but when she notices you whining, she immediately sits down. She fell from standing once, and though she seemed to wake up unharmed, the crash of her body hitting the floor jarred you to the core. It is not a sound you ever care to hear again, and so you take to shepherding her towards the couch if she does not sit right away when you whine at her. She finds this enormously amusing and shows it off to the older, mated male and female who come to visit her once in a while. The female’s eyes match her blue one, and the male’s her brown. They come to visit once or twice a season, staying for sunrises on end. They take your place on the couch and your two-legs often forgets your runs when they are there. But they seem to worry after her, bringing her food and tossing bits to you, so you don’t begrudge them a short amount of time with your two-legs.
They’ve been there for several sunrises when you catch that foul scent on her. Your ears prick and you begin to whine. The two-legs mutter among themselves. Yours laughs, holding out her arms. She remains on her feet. You whine more insistently, pushing her towards the couch. She lets you guide her there, then sits. You leap up beside her, curling around her as she lays her head on your side. Her eyes close as the strange not-sleep overtakes her. The other two-legs approach, their scent concerned; still, you watch them warily, protective of her. But the spell is brief, as it usually is, and then your two-legs is up on her feet again, tousling your ears. The other two are unsure of your efforts. When they leave, they smell worried, and you think that they must wish she had had a two-legs in her home, instead of you.
Still, you are happy. The spells do not occur very often, and usually, you have your two-legs all to yourself. Sometimes, you find her looking wistfully out the window, watching other two-legs go by. Most are in their metal monsters, their own homes beyond the trees, but some pass on foot. Those are the ones she watches when she smells sad. You wriggle your way into her lap, though your tail and hind legs do not fit, and lick her chin until she turns back to you. You roll across the floor, chasing your tail, flapping your ears—anything to make her smile.
You are devoted to her, and will do anything she asks. No matter how many times she hurls away the ball you just brought to her, you will always fetch it again. You wait for permission to eat, even when she has stacked treats up on your nose, tempting you to no end. On the rare occasions that her eyes leak salt water, the times when you cannot draw her away from the window, you let her bury her face in your fur, or you lick the liquid off her cheeks. When you walk in the snow, you plow ahead of her, clearing a path, breaking trail so she won’t have to. When she takes you out in front of other dogs and their two-legs, you are on your best behavior, showing them all how a real dog treats his two-legs, and showing her that you can be all that she needs. She rescued you from the dog house and the yard where you were chained out in the cold, and you will forever be devoted to her for that, belong to her because of it, and owe her your life in trade.
One night, your two-legs comes back to your den later than usual. It’s past dark, though the sun has taken to lingering longer in the evening, and soon she will close all the windows as though it were winter, making the air springtime cool again. You’ve been lying on the couch in a patch of sun, and though the sunshine has gone, you remain in the same spot until you hear her metal monster outside. You spring down, prancing to the door, thrilled that she has come home to you at last. You wag your tail furiously as she rattles around on the other side. Two-legs take an appallingly long time to open doors, regardless of which side they are on, but you just wag harder, tongue lolling, your sharp-pointed ears perked up.
She greets you as she comes in, murmuring words and rubbing your head, but it’s half-hearted. It lacks the scent of real affection, carrying only the tang of routine. She dumps her things by the door, feet already bare, and you scurry to get your paws out of the way. You don’t understand. What have you done wrong? You think hard, but you don’t remember breaking anything or making a mess, or behaving badly. Has your two-legs grown tired of you? Has she decided she doesn’t care for you as you do for her, and that she wants to return you to the dog house? Or, worse—will you be turned out into the cold once again?
You want to whine and scratch at the floor, but you decide that this will only make the situation worse. Maybe if you are good—better than usual—she will decide she wants to keep you. Maybe all she needs is rest, and then everything will be okay. Maybe the time she was gone felt as long for her as it did for you, but she doesn’t want to bother with you right now. You wish you could give her some of the daylight you squandered lying on the couch, but you don’t know how. Instead, you follow her to where she cooks food. She is moving things around, from the big white box that’s cold inside to the small black one that beeps and whirs and dings. You show her every trick you know. There are quite a few now, many of which she taught you. Sit, lay down, roll over, high five, paw, sit pretty, play dead.
She is busy crinkling something and doesn’t see. When she trips over your prone body and nearly falls, her words are not soft or crooning, as they often are. You scramble out of her way, but it is too late. She already smells upset, the stench of anger underlying the exhaustion. You cringe away. A few sunrises ago, she taught you the word dance. She’d pulled your front paws up to her shoulders, balancing you on your hind legs, hands on your sides, stepping and swaying until you leapt down. You didn’t like having your feet off the ground for so long, but it made her smile. You try again now, rearing up, front paws landing lightly on her chest.
Your two-legs, caught off guard, staggers back a step—you’re too heavy. Your paws slide off and you drop back to the ground. She grumbles something and brushes you away, returning to her food. Your head droops. She continues to ignore you. You go and lie in a corner, something you haven’t done since the yard with the chain. She putters around, eating, ruffling paper, pressing something cold to her forehead. You wonder if she is ill, though she does not smell sick. At last, she fetches your dinner and looks around for you. She spots you in the corner and calls out to you, soft and sad.
You go to her. No matter what, you will always go to her. After you eat, she wraps you in her arms and murmurs to you. You aren’t sure what the words are, but they sound like regret. Maybe she doesn’t wish to be rid of you after all. This thought brightens you, and you lick her chin. She smiles, strokes your head, stands. You watch her walk away, and then you smell it under the clinging tumult of aromas—the sour scent that happens before the not-sleep.
You leap up, racing towards her, but it is already too late. Her knees are folding, her body curving, graceless, as it falls through the air. You throw yourself between her and the floor. Her weight crushes you, bruising your ribs, your spine calling out in protest, but you don’t care. You let her bear you down to the ground, cradling her head as best you can. You thump your tail and lick her cheek, as you usually do, but her mismatched eyes do not open. Instead, her body shakes and rocks, spasming on the floor. The smell, instead of abating, grows more pungent, and you know, deep down, that something is very, very wrong.
You whine. You lick her face. You roll free of her head, setting her skull down as gently as possible. You nip at her fingers, drag at the fabric swathing her body. Still, she only lays there, shuddering, unresponsive. You throw back your head and howl, but there is nothing you can do. You cannot save her, and in that moment, you realize—you are not enough.
You need a two-legs.
But there are no two-legs, not here. You are all she has, and because you cannot operate the infernal, round knobs the two-legs use to open their doors, you are useless. Trapped. Unable to find someone who can save the only living creature you have ever loved.
The windows are covered with a thin black mesh, finer than the gates back in the dog house, but not unlike them. You walked into one once, and your two-legs laughed and laughed at the startled look on your face. But you felt it bend. You felt it bow. You knew, even then, that with a bit more force, you could tear through. Your two-legs will be mad, but you would rather her be awake and angry than jerking around on the floor, so you launch yourself at the window. It hurts your nose, but the mesh rips and you tumble through, out into the night.
Your two-legs does not live close to other people. You run for the nearest house, far off down the black path, heart pounding, feet flying, your two-legs lying on the floor somewhere behind you. At last, you reach a door. You howl like a dog gone mad. You paw at the door, barking, but no one answers. You run to the next one, and the next, your flight becoming more and more desperate until, at last, a two-legs answers. You don’t know him. You don’t know where you are, but you can follow your own scent home. You hope that this male will be able to help.
He looks at you, perplexed, says words you don’t know. You whine and nose at him, looking from him to your house, frantic to make him understand. You take a few steps away, then turn back and circle him, walk away again. You do this two more times, ignoring the smell of confusion radiating from him, until, at last, he follows.
Urgency floods through you, and you begin to race again. He breaks into a run, keeping pace behind you, but you must be careful not to outstrip him. He doesn’t know where you’re going—and all two-legs seem unable to follow a scent, so he won’t be able to find your trail. The run goes on forever, but at last, you see your den come into view, lights still burning, the doors all shut. You’re both panting hard. The house is still, and the door doesn’t open when the male tries it. You bark at him again, and he follows you around the side to the window you leapt through. It isn’t as easy getting in as it was out, and the two-legs has to boost your hind legs through. He clambers in after you, then follows you to where your two-legs lies.
When he sees her, he swears. You each take up a post on either side of her. The spasming has stopped and she is still. Too still. She smells all wrong, sour and withering. The male takes out a metal rectangle and presses it to his head. He speaks words. You stay by your two-legs’s side, holding vigil until the flashing lights and shrieking sirens arrive. The male opens the door from the inside and more two-legs pour in. They pull you away from her until the male says something. Then, as some of them lift her into the back of a metal monster, others pat you on the head and call you a good boy. You do not wag. You do not lick their hands. You push past them, trying to follow your two-legs.
They stop you—all but one. A female who, like your own two-legs, smells a bit different than the rest. It is hard to be sure under the reek of the metal monster and something that burns your nose, but you think you detect the scent of another dog. This two-legs lets you into the metal monster, and you lick the back of her hand in gratitude. Then you climb onto the narrow bed beside your two-legs and curl up, careful not to crush her chest. Careful to make sure she still breathes. Her scent is returning to normal—she’s going to be okay.
At long last, her mismatched eyes flicker open. They’re the prettiest thing you’ve ever seen, and you squirm with joy, wagging your tail so hard that it smacks something out of a two-legs’ hand. Your two-legs laughs, and it’s the most wonderful sound in the world. She kisses your muzzle, right between your eyes, the spot she likes best. You lick her chin, where you always lick to make her smile. The other female is speaking. Your two-legs looks from her to you and back again. You give her your best doggy grin, and tip your head to the side, as you did so long ago, when she first saved you.
Your heart is heavy, but you look at the other female and wag your tail. You try to tell your two-legs that this is okay. You think that maybe, just maybe, this other female will take care of your two-legs, will do the things that you cannot. Instead of distracting her from the window, this female will keep your two-legs from looking out the window at all. Maybe, together, they will be happy, and this is the least you can do for the two-legs you love. If they are together, they will not need you—but for her happiness and safety, a life in the dog house is a small price to pay.
You look into those mismatched eyes one more time—the last time. And yet, when your two-legs looks back at you, you forget your fears of being sent back to the dog house, or of being chained in the cold yard. When she looks at you, you forget your terror for her life, a life lived in loneliness. When she looks at you, she is happy and shining, and her blue-brown eyes are full of nothing but what beats in your own heart. It is what binds you together, no matter what may come, no matter who may join your life. You do not have a word for it, but you do not need one. You understand that you are a bright star in her clouded sky, as she is in yours, and neither of you will ever have to be alone again.
