The Man

“Ouch”

“Ouch”

“Hey, dude, stop.”

Ok, you won’t listen to me through a warning, how about this. I began to bark.

“OW! What the actual fuck dude?”

Sigh. Ok, I’m going to cower now. I am so scared of you and your big wooden stick. Ow, ow, ow. Fuck, this hurts. I wish I could just run away. I tried, but for two things. One, he hit my leg first. I don't think he meant to. I don't think he’s that smart, just malicious. Two, I smelt it on him: that anger, the kind that will make him pursue me, and hit me harder, for trying to run away.

He is sweating now. Beads glistening on his forehead, I can hear his heart beating, veins in his head throbbing, I can see his jugular. I look around, there are many there. I feel a huge surge of anger. None of them give a shit, they heard my yelps. They don't care. Fucking assholes. But I know they will care if I tear his jugular out of his throat. I know what will come after that. Men with metal sticks that will spit out silver steel balls that run faster than any living being. I’ve seen the rows of the bodies of my kind laid out, and men with smiling happy faces, taking photos next to the evidence of genocide. If I tear out his jugular, they will murder hundreds of us. So I cower.

He had stopped. Now he begins again. I wince, and against my best efforts, let out a yelp. My eyes water. I can smell his anger abating. Any time soon now, please.

The ground comes at me, as his stick pushes me down, I am terrified. What if he breaks my back. I can lick my wounds, I can lick my paws, that even now are leaking blood that the ground yaps up hungrily. Wounds will heal. But a broken back. A broken back in this place means death. I have heard of people who capture those of my kind, I assume they save them from the streets. If you wanted to kill us, why would you take us away in a car. People would laud you for killing one of us. Why would you not do it in public. So the only logical explanation is that they take us away to save us. I have heard tales. But I have not seen any of them. If my back breaks, in all likelihood, I will die. As I am thinking this, I have rolled onto my side. My stomach hurts, and I clench it in, baring my teeth. He won’t stop, he isn’t afraid of me. My vision blurs. If I pass out, and I die, at least it won’t be in pain. That doesn’t sound too bad right now. I am drowsy. I close my eyes. As I begin to fade into nothingness, I hear the stick clatter as it hits the ground, I hear the unique thump of his feet fading away from me, and I smell satisfaction on his sweat. I pass out.