Maybe it follows you home. Slinking in the distance, tail between legs, like you might turn around any moment and chase it away. You don’t. You take pity on the mangy critter and invite it closer.
Just a few days, you think. Until he’s strong enough to go.
With a sweep of your arm, you invite the stray into a corner of your room, with a soft cushion to curl up and sleep. Ah, that’s better. Good dog.
You scratch an ear and it licks your hand. Might be nice to have a companion. You never realised you were so lonely.
A growl reminds you it’s feeding time. There’s a touch of the wild in this one. In them all.
In time, the dog becomes fat and its coat grows shiny. You make sure there’s always enough, even if that means going without. Its tail wags as you approach.
You have to make it stay in the corner, not follow you from place to place, getting underfoot, tripping you up. Go on. Git! Stay where you belong!
Then, without warning, it lashes at you, teeth bared, ears back, drooling like a wild animal. Why? And after all you’ve done! You try to yell, no, but you have no voice.
Don’t you remember before? Wasn’t it better then? Before the dog got strong. Where did it come from? How long has it been?
And how do you make it leave?
I arrived at this post. It feels dark and brooding, but interesting. What is happening here?
Also, as a storyteller, it reminds me of quite some old stories about black dogs, and they are not good news. Thank you for sharing and making me ponder today.
Thanks for sharing how it made you feel. We’re having some mental health challenges in our family this year and this was me venting my inability to help.