Dogs

Despite the deadlines I'm facing, and the fact that any free time should really go to this short story I might never finish, I'm going to tell three stories about dogs. Although I've never raised one, my encounters with three different (or perhaps not that different) dogs are making me muse enough to tear away from my readings of things less immediate, at least for this hour tonight.

I saw my first mysterious dog when I was thirteen, which was the goth period of my life, complete with late nights and eyebags, except I didn't wear goth fashion because I thought it was dumb, and I didn't cut my wrists because I was afraid of my own blood. Those days, because CCA commitments were minor, as they are now, I'd walk home from school, all 8km and 2 hours of it. Fact was I couldn't bear being at school or at home, so I preferred the solitude of the roadside curb, interrupted only by passing traffic and occasional joggers. Sometimes it rained and I never minded.

So one day, when I was walking home, I saw a dog stumble out of the foliage onto the pavement, which separated the forests and the road. It was far enough, around 10 metres away from me, so I wasn't bodily surprised, but its appearance intrigued me. In my memory, it was a white large dog, but it could also had been black. I stopped in my path, and the dog leveled its gaze at me and we stood there, staring, boy and dog. The general mood I had at that time was surreality - not dreamlike surreality, but a genuine, desperate expectation of other worlds, anything to escape this hopeless miserable life. I wished silently the dog would speak or beckon me to follow, and I would in return be entirely unquestioning, my faith rewarded with his. So silly and giddy with fantasy I stepped forward hesitantly, and the dog jerked its ears up and ran away, back to the place he had come from. I ran forward but it was already gone. Only later I wondered whose dog it was (I never saw any posters for missing dogs) and if it could ever survive in the wilderness (it was definitely not a local stray) - but at that time all I felt was unworthiness.

The second dog had a name. His name was Ruffer, and he's Kevin's dog. The first time I saw Ruffer I felt a great affection for him, namely because he displayed a great affection towards me. He was an extraordinarily pretty dog - a Siberian Husky-Golden Retriever mix. I was happy to let him lick my face or encircle me so I couldn't leave. His obsession for my attention was absolute, and when I left he always barked, like a love song. I liked him best when he laid quietly next to me as I sat cross-legged, smoothing his golden fur and scratching behind his ears. I didn't mind that he tried to hump me once, or that I suspected he was getting some sexual fulfilment from my petting and stroking. But eventually he began to gnaw on my hand - still with nothing but goodwill towards me - and I had to clench my hand to prevent my fingers from being bitten off. He became more aggressive, constantly running after me, disallowing me to leave, letting me go only when Kevin's father tapped the cane sternly on the table. Ruffer is still my favourite dog because I understand that he is loyal but starved for attention - like me, he needs reassurance and a single-minded love. But I have distanced myself from him, going straight into Kevin's house without lingering at the frontyard. Sometimes Ruffer stares at us in the living room, looking through the front window outside, like a jilted lover. But I hope he doesn't hate me that much or feel like I've abandoned him. I still like him a lot, but his desires and doggedness were too dangerous and ravenous, and I know the pains of being bitten.

The third dog I saw just an hour ago, when I was sick of structuralism and semiotics and went to buy some snacks from the local 7-11. As I was walking back home I saw another large dog, this time white with brown patches on its ears (already the details are blurring with the night), with a collar. He was wandering around the park, seemingly lost and hungry. I took note of the dog and walked on, paused, then walked towards it. It stopped, and raised its eyes to me, its tail straight. I was a little afraid that it would attack me out of desperation, so I didn't move. Then slowly I walked to a bench nearby, sat down, and stared at the dog again. Gingerly it approached me, and I saw it was slightly gaunt, and its eyes red around the edges. Admittedly I was scared - that it was rabid, that it was hungry and I had nothing to feed it, that it would bite me and I would allow it to. I could almost see the tag on its collar. Then, just as it was a few steps away from me, it turned and walked away. I absentmindedly watched it walk off into the blocks.

When it was out of sight, I suddenly got up, propelled by a wist of inexplicable guilt. I searched the area, eyes tricked by a clump of bushes or a large shadow, but I couldn't find the dog anymore. Perhaps it crossed the road into another district. Or somebody had a quicker heart than mine, with a ready hand of food and care, and took the dog in. But I had waited, wishing the dog would come and lick my hand warm of its own accord, always demanding the first step, never knowing the hunger of others.

So I went home without a best friend. Or that it was impossible to bring home one anyway. I don't have any dog food, and I can't afford the space. For the first time I felt as equally abandoner and the abandoned.