In the hidden depths of my computer files,
A long lost piece of work was retrieved.
Apparently I had written this when I was 12/13 years old.
And I did not edit anything here, so this is my 12/13-year-old standard.
Thanks for any comments given,
And sorry for the non-dialogue-ness of this story. Makes it tiring to read.
Never knew I could write like this.
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Hours seemed like days as they crawled by. Time had transformed me over the years. Or was it months? I could not remember. Those glory days of my younger years seemed a distant dream. I was no longer the energetic and rowdy puppy I once was. The shimmering golden coat of fur I had once so proudly displayed dulled. The silky texture of my fur that was once my pride and joy had become coarse, wiry, the hands that once so adoringly stroked me now refused to lay a finger on me.
I had an exceedingly happy childhood, if I had recalled accurately. It ceased to exist anymore. The loving affection that my owner, my best friend, once harboured for me, steadily declined as I progressed into “retirement”. I realize now, that he had never truly loved me the way I thought he had. He was after those cute little things whose cuddly attitude would melt your heart. He never loved me for the loyalty and friendship I had entrusted in him.
I had willingly given him the best years of my life, all the joy I could possibly bring him, and he took this all for granted. I was nothing more to him than pure entertainment and amusement. Now that the youth had passed out of me, I simply became a space occupying object, able to be mistaken for an inanimate object.
I could very well be confused for something dead. My joints groaned with the simplest of actions, I moved slowly, my eyesight now a blur, my hearing deteriorating, even my olfactory senses had gradually lessened and no more sharp than a human. My body betrayed me with old age, and I conceded defeat.
I had anticipated that this day would come, but I had not suspected it would be this soon. My owner had finally lost any trace of interest in me, I had eventually become a burden to take care of and maintain. A sudden wave of desperation swept over me, and in a last attempt to persuade him that I was still worth keeping, I shuffled over, whimpering as pitifully as I could, hoping to invoke the merciful emotions in him. He stared into my eyes, face hard and tense, cold towards me, absolutely no sign of warmth in his flat black pupils. I let my body go limp and my tail dropped as it dawned on me that my effort had failed, and that I was truly unwanted, rejected.
He opened the door and motioned for me to get out of the house. I tried to be stubborn, and stood there, my eyes still pleading with any hope that still survived. He gave me a rough shove on my rear, and the force of it sent me skidding out the house, the claws on my paw failing to get any traction from the smooth, slippery marble-tiled floor.
He had made the call I had been dreading for so many weeks, my worst fear springing to life. I had heard the other canines in the neighbourhood talk about it. First, the owner would stop treating you nicely, secondly, he’d make a call and while talking, he’ll mention your name and look at you repeatedly; lastly, that man would take you away and you would never see your owner again.
I had once dismissed this as a silly rumour, it had stirred up a commotion, but I had pointedly ignored them, at that time, content with the care my owner had showered me with. This disbelief abruptly halted as one day I noticed the signs, we were warned to look out for, popping out of the blue. My enthusiasm ceased to perk up my owner, and when I licked him in a friendly manner, his hand would jerk away and I would be severely reprimanded. I was confused; I wondered what had I done to stir up such reactions from my owner. It was too late when I realized that what the other dogs had been chatting about were one hundred percent true.
Though I had to admit, they were wrong on one account. The man who took disowned dogs, who they were describing, was in actual fact a woman. Well, in my case at least, it was. She awaited me outside the door. She stared down at me, a wicked grin spread across her face, distorting her already unsightly features. I cringed at her greeting and backed away from her slowly, but she leashed me with one swift movement, my reaction delayed as I unsuccessfully dodged her. I tugged at the leash and the rope cut into my neck as I tried to break free from her powerful restraint. I caught once last glimpse of my owner, as he started to close the door on me, shutting me permanently out of his life. A dozen emotions played on his face, the most prominent being relief and hatred. I felt a stab of disappointment and agony as I failed to identify any traces of lamentation or regret on his face. He rolled his eyes at me, and with a final creak followed by a click, the door closed and he was there no more.
I was hauled away onto a van and by then, I was unaware of my surroundings. My senses appeared to be detached from me. I was lost in a whirl of thoughts. I was alone.
Ever since then, life was a meaningless thing that did not matter to me anymore. I was brought to a room, concrete on all four walls, crammed with rusty metal cages. A pathetically sized cage had become my new accommodation. I was a relatively big sized dog, and this cage would only be comfortable for those poufy, flamboyant, dainty little Pomeranians that I had chanced across, some time back, when I had an owner, and when he used to take me out on walks which I had so thoroughly enjoyed. I could not care less anyway, nothing mattered anymore. I spent my last months, awaiting death, awaiting freedom from all this misery. I could tell it was the twilight of my life as my aging caused my ailments to further worsen.
A couple of the dogs in the pound, as they called the place, were still optimistic despite their surroundings and their undesirable selves, always dreamed of being adopted. It was some process where the dogs would get a new owner, only those who still had some shine in them would have the luck of getting a new life. Who would want us? We were old, useless and ugly. This was the reason why we were here in the first place. Yet, occasionally there would be a human, who was unwilling to pay the full price for a youthful pedigree, resorting to such low means of getting a pet.
What would happen to those of us who were condemned to spend the rest of their unappreciated lives wasted in this forsaken place filled with nothing except desolation? Well, some called it salvation; some called it the one way ticket to hell. I did not really care. I almost rejoiced when my time had almost arrived. After months in this crazy place with desperate and deluded dogs who believed in a second chance, after years of heartless, empty feelings from the man I had regarded as my best friend, it was all finally going to end. After countless rejections from potential new owners, much to my relief, this much anticipated salvation had come. I did not know what would happen, but those dogs that went through that door, never came back. It could only mean death. There was no other possibility was there?
The sadistic lady who had snatched me away from my owner had long since left, and was replaced by a kindly man, who had tried to make my last few weeks here as enjoyable as possible, compared to the horrible treatment the dogs, including me, had received during her time here. I was grateful to him. He had tried talking to me, befriending me, but I was wary, wary of the deception that could have been lurking behind those gentle eyes. Sadly, I could no longer bring myself to trust another human. I responded, but I did not show much enthusiasm and eagerness.
I was coaxed and beckoned to enter that fateful room, though I did not need such persuasion, and walked in bravely on my own accord. It was brightly lit. The conditions in the room were much better kept than the room where we resided. There was a cool metal table in the center of the room which I was carried and placed on. The man picked up a syringe with a strange green liquid in it, and I suspected that the content was some poison that would kill me. He tried to soothe me, murmuring about this injection that would be putting me to sleep, reassuring me unnecessarily. The end had at long last arrived, and I welcomed it with open paws. I laid my head down, resigned, and patiently waited for the needle to pierce my skin.
When I was about four I knew a dog like that. An old Golden that would let me do just about anything he wanted with him. I knew another old dog, a Springer Spaniel this time, who would let me ride him like a horse. Little kids like dogs no matter what.