Charlie

My name is Charlie, and I am ten years old. I tear over the field and trot through the long grass, whisking my head about me in searching for my master. The beings around me think I’m cute because my face is soppy, I wear this soppy expression – it hangs from my cheeks in bunches of jowls, black, furry. To them, I smile and I frown, I sense sadness. And I can sense sadness. Sometimes, I sit completely still in front of one of them, the one with the long hair and the glasses who wears this hanging thing that covers the things she supports herself with, and I look up into the round glassy things in the thing on top of this being, and I swear I can see all the sadness of the world in them, even though I don’t quite know what sadness is. And this being’s glassy orbs go weak and watery in return. So I nestle my head down there on her lap, and she pats my head, and I breathe deeply and calmly, my tongue hanging out slightly as I pant.

          Sometimes, I wee up on these huge things. My god, they’re huge – I can’t tell the colours, mind, but they’re huge! I get so excited when I see them – but I don’t let my masters know. Some of them are so tall that I can only see them when I sit on my haunches and look up. And after I’ve cocked my leg and done my thing, I can smell it, and it smells so strong and sweet! And I can smell the wetness of the other ones, too – I gotta make sure I cover up over them. I don’t know why – god knows I ain’t got no place to call my own. But I do it anyhow. And these other ones, they remind me of myself. And I don’t know why they do – I’ve never seen myself, and god knows I wouldn’t recognise myself if I did. God. God. God... I wonder what that word means. I’ve heard the bigger ones say it, usually when they’re shouting. I think it must mean something pretty bad.

          When I was a puppy, I was the cutest thing. I was little and black and cuddly; my skin not quite tight enough on my body, my ears not quite right – they hung from my head like slack sails to the wind, wobbling about like they had a joyous life of their own. And I used to play all the time. I couldn’t run very well, mind, but I’d toddle hither and thither, chasing things, fetching things – always excitedly, with an abundance of life and vigour. But now my joints are beginning to stiffen up a bit – I can’t run quite as well as I used to. I don’t chase cats or birds anymore; I only run when I have to. I don’t know what’s happening to me. It feels like I’m running down, and running down. Maybe I’ll become a puppy again! I don’t know – I ain’t quite got the word for it.

          My owners are calling me now. I’d better go. I can hear the clink-clink of food falling into the thing they put my food in, and I can hear the running of water. I’ll eat that, then I’ll go lie on my bed and rest for a bit, I think. I’ve still got life in my bones yet, mind: I don’t rest all the time. Now, where did I leave my bone? Maybe I am getting old, after all.