A dog’s story

My friend Hafiz signed up for a short story writing course recently. I’ve been reading up on his pieces nearly every week; i personally find them fascinating. This was his assignment on symbolism.

With permission from Nor Hafiz Hassan, 2007.

A Dog’s Story

That’s a good dog.

That’s a good dog.

When I was a puppy, I was not good when I was with my original master.

But that was many years ago.

I wish I could explain.

Around 6:30pm most evenings, I reflexively start to get sad.

I start looking around the house for something that is missing.

I pretend to not know what i am looking for.

So I start tossing balls to myself, or chasing my tail.

I do anything to not sit quiet with the thoughts in my head.

My original master, a young boy, used to play with me in the evenings.

We’d steal away to a room of our own.

It wasn’t just to be together.

It was to be away from everything else in the world that didn’t care about us.

It was so we could be only with someone who loved us.

It was a space only with love. No loss. No pain.

Holding at bay the fears of the future. The fears of the next day.

But I was not an ideal dog.

I never bit hard or played too rough. But I ventured away from home too often.

And I always wanted to play. I never wanted to stop playing.

I returned one day from running away one too many times.

And the boy I loved with all my heart had moved away.

I stayed in a shelter for awhile until a kind man came and took me home.

But like most dogs who have spent time in a shelter, I was not going to trust again.

I distrusted everyone. I was difficult to train.

But the master that took me in was relentless with his love.

And over the next decade, I learned to trust again.

He became the most loving and intellignet master I’ve ever known.

But I would be dishonest if I denied taht around 6:30 most evenings

I start looking around the room for my first master.

And remind myself he is gone forever. Not for better. But for always.

And it hurts me more than I can politely or safely say.

I wish it didn’t. But it does.

It is not that the love I receive now is lacking anything.

It is that like most dogs, I imprinted on that first boy.

And for reasons I haven’t ever been able to control or change.

I’m sorry. I have genuinely and repeatedly tried to stop.

But enough of this.

These are not things that a good dog reveals to their master.

And who would care anyways?

I must pick up another ball and busy myself.

Must chase my tail.

And teach others to do the same.

Never backwards. Always forwards.

Sit up straight.

That’s a good dog.

That’s a good dog.