Thread: Old Man Dog (2000 words) (Language)

Any comments much appreciated!

Old Man Dog

I met her in Asda, down the pets' aisle, and straight away it seemed we had so much in common, the only visible difference our opposing canine-feline persuasions. She stood loading can after can of Pedigree Chum into her trolley, but I had always kept cats. Ever since I was little and met my grandad's cat, Topsy, I've loved them: I love the way they sit on your lap and purr and dig their nails into your trousers; I love their little paws, their big eyes, and their tickling whiskers; their soft fur, infinitely more strokable than any grotty dog's. People speak of a dog's blind loyalty, and how a cat is only interested in what she can get from you, but why punish an animal for the fact that it has some intelligence? Anyone can get a dog to love them; a cat requires skill. Earning their adoration is an achievement to be proud of.

Bea, this girl, she talked this dog-lover's line, how Henry ran to her and jumped up as she walked through the door, how he fetched her things (slippers, I presumed), how he sat with her all night by the fire, obviously too thick to have any desire to explore the world. Don't get me wrong: I like dogs, I do, just more other people's. I couldn't stand my own: they're damn dirty beasts, shooting excrement everywhere, and I have a low vomit-threshold for that sort of thing. But I was sure I'd like Henry, her mongrel. She said he had a good beard on him, which I always admire in a pet. 'How old is he?', I asked; 'He's twenty-seven', she replied; 'Jesus, twenty-seven? Is he alright? Can he move?'; 'Um, yeah', her face puzzled, 'He can move fine, he's fine.'

Christ, I thought, this dog must be screwed, he must stink, I've never heard of one that old before. I hoped things would move on between Bea and I, cos I sure wanted to meet a twenty-seven year-old dog. He must be the god of dogs, an oracle, long wizened beard scraping the floor as he drags himself to the door each night to greet Bea, collapsing in the hallway as she enters. Smiling to herself, she gathers him up and carries him to the living room, where no doubt he falls into a deep sleep after his ten-odd seconds of exertion. And obviously, to her blinded eyes he's not decrepit, but just as active as ever. It sounded cute.

Things went well, and a couple of weeks later I was at her door with a bottle of wine, the smell of her cooking seeping from the flat and filling the corridor. I was excited about meeting this old-man dog. As I knocked, a shock: in seconds he was clawing at the inside of the door, barking and panting, full of life. Surely scientists would want to study Henry, determine the secret to his long life, and get humans living to a hundred and forty. Bea opened the door, but as I leaned in for a kiss I got more than I bargained for: Henry skittled her aside, leapt up, and pushed me to the ground, pinning me down and licking the whole of my face with one thrust of his raspy tongue. Now, I'm not much of a one for this kind of behaviour at any time: I will never let a dog lick me. It feels horrible, half the time I don't know where this slobbering tongue has been, and the other half I'm fully aware that it's been stuck in some grubby orifice. On this occasion, however, the horror spread across my face was different, more the kind you'd associate with a twenty-seven year-old naked man writhing on top of you, slobbering drool over your lips. His body dripping with sweat, his skin rubbing against my bare throat as he clawed at my shirt, I was having a mild stroke as I threw him clear off me and into the wall. 'What the fuck?' I screamed, too shocked to get anything else out.

'Don't be scared', Bea looked alarmed, 'he's always excitable. He won't hurt you.' She reached a comforting hand to Henry, curled against the wall, whimpering gently as she stroked his head, his back, his arse. I did that thing where your mouth contorts into kaleidoscopic shapes, yet each time a sentence forms it seems the worst one possible, so you let out several small sighs instead, then give up. Hell, I couldn't think of anything I might say that would make the slightest sense, so I just apologised, gave Henry a pat on the head so quickly it was as if he was on fire, and mumbled something about being uneasy around big dogs. He certainly was big: man-sized you could say. Henry was hairier than your average homosapien, sporting the aforementioned scraggly beard, and with long fluffy black curls cascading from his head. His body too was mostly covered in black hair, but some people are just hairy, and Henry obviously hadn't had access to a pair of tweezers any time in the recent past. He did have a doggish look as he gazed up at me, tongue lolling. He cocked his head, and his eyes bored into me, saucer-like, pleading for my love.

'Where did you, um, get him from?', I enquired, and she told me of walking through the park one Winter's day five years past, and hearing a teeth-chattering from the bushes. She moved over, parted a gorse, and found him lying there, small beads of sweat turning to ice on his body. He had no collar and was slowly freezing, so she took him back to hers, meaning to contact the local dogs home, but quickly falling so in love with him that she couldn't bring herself to do so. 'But...', I protested, another sentence with no conceivable ending.

I now thought I knew what she meant when she spoke of him doing things for her: cooking, the dishes, help with the odd crossword clue. However, it soon transpired that Henry was either unwilling or incapable of any of this: to all intents and purposes he was a dog, a wolf in man's clothing. He barked, he panted, he chased his ball. He sat, stayed, rolled over. To make sure he didn't beg at the table for our duck a l'orange, Bea spooned a can of beef and goose jelly meat into his bowl. He bounded over and practically inhaled his meal, carefully licking the bowl clean just seconds after he'd begun. Lucky boy, he ended up with my duck for afters, as my appetite burst from the room, slamming the door behind it, and didn't return for several queasy days. I ran to the bathroom and threw up, then pale-facedly explained to Bea that there was something very wrong with my stomach, and that I'd call her tomorrow. I left bewildered, the things I'd seen leaving me unsure of my sanity, as both Bea and Henry seemed so secure in theirs.

As the weeks passed I got as used to Henry as I could. Bea said the few times she'd walked Henry locally there had been uproar, presumably due to his dominating size, so now she'd only take him far out into the wilderness. We went together, into the depths of Sutton Park where Henry could run for miles off his leash, not a soul disturbed by his naked man appearance, excepting myself, of course. I looked on in horror as he cocked his leg against a tree and urinated, unflinching as he missed his mark and steaming piss covered his foot. He always ran on his four “legs”, magnificently fast, I thought; in fact, the only time I saw him on his hind legs in the traditional human manner was when Bea took his hands and lifted him to play at dancing. Once, left alone in the flat, I tried to make contact with Henry: 'Why do you stay here?', I asked. No response, he just looked at me, enjoying the sound of my voice. 'Can you speak?'; 'Rawf', he replied; 'I don't understand', I said, exasperated, and neither did he, so he rolled onto his back to have his belly rubbed, cock and balls all over the place.

The biggest problem came when we'd have sex: the idea of shagging with an animal in the room has always slightly freaked me out, and until Bea I'd never had to do it. Friends with dogs have told me that there's nothing to it, the dog doesn't know or care what's going on, but still, their eyes all over you when you're doing something so primitive it puts you in line with them, it's not for me. I don't want a person watching me have sex, and I don't want an animal either, even if they can't tell all their friends the size of my penis. With Henry I had both, and it made me exceedingly uncomfortable. Right at the best moments he'd choose to leap onto the bed and work his way under the covers: in my book this is a threesome, not “cute”, as Bea termed it. A few times I removed him from the bedroom, but he'd paw at the door and constantly whine, a guttural, painful-sounding screech, barely pausing for breath. To this day, in bed, that whining haunts me, and turns me off as completely now as it did then. So he had to be in the room, and he watched, my god he watched, the dirty little perv: sat upright in his basket, head cocked and tongue out, destroying my sex life forever.

I became obsessed with him, trawling missing persons records at the Central Library, finding nothing. I inhabited internet message boards, searching for some kind of fetishistic man-dog club, but no dice. I held the phone to my ear, finger poised to dial the police, but envisioned Bea in prison, a media circus, Henry curled in the corner of his padded room gnawing at his straitjacket, and couldn't do it. RSPCA? Don't be stupid. I felt my head might explode with the insanity of it all, but equally that Bea's could, should I confront her with the truth. It's a bizarre existence, being with somebody night after night, talking about the weather, watching Corrie, never spying a hint of abnormality, yet confronted constantly with the knowledge that they keep a man for a pet. I questioned my own mind, finding myself transfixed each time I saw a dog being walked through the street, wondering if perhaps it was my eyes, perhaps they were all men, and reached out to touch each canine that passed. But they all felt like dogs, and looked like dogs, and Henry still felt and looked like a bloke. It was them, it was them, surely it was them who were mad.

Things came to a head soon after: dogs may be stupid, but man-dogs certainly aren’t. Henry noted my disturbed bedroom-state and transferred it to other rooms. As we kissed on the sofa he'd leap atop me, licking at my face, his sweaty body rubbing against mine. 'Aw, he loves you!' Bea insisted, encouraging this sickening behaviour. Indeed, I stared long and hard into those dopey eyes and could see no malice, but he knew, he must have known. He kept on, my nerves frayed, and finally snapped: 'Look, I can't take this, it's me or him!' I exclaimed, and obviously I lost that battle: you can't make anyone choose between you and their loyal companion. There was only room for one man in her life, and it wasn't me. Heartbroken, I returned home to my cat, and as she lay in my lap purring, I blinked my eyes repeatedly, faster and faster, willing her to become human flesh, but she didn't.

This is awesome; it's like a little slice of broken life, being observed by someone else. I'll admit to not realising he had a cat until the very end, and that way I spent the entire first half wondering why he was in the pet store in the first place.

Still, it's a wonderful little story, and it's exactly the kind of imaginative work I love to read.

A curious little piece of fiction. As someone who is suspicious of large dogs you have done nothing to allay my fears. This is well written, the voice carries the story well. I'm not sure if I recognised the fact it was a man/dog cross later than I was supposed to. I kept thinking, this seems more like a man than a dog. And you dropped a hint with her reference to her mongrel, so I can have no complaints. There's something quite disturbing about the bedroom scene, which is a good thing.

down the pets' aisle

I'm not sure the apostrophe is necessary here, it makes it read like the animals use the aisle, though I suppose Henry could use the aisle.

'Where did you, um, get him from?', I enquired,

Here, you don't need the comma preceding I, the question mark is sufficient.

Nice little read to start the day with.

And I read your piece about Broad Street, Birmingham, on your website. Never a truer word written about that meat market. Thoroughly horrible place during the hours of darkness. Ugh! Well written though.

Scott.

Thanks for the comments guys, glad you enjoyed it. And Scott, thanks for that on the grammar after speech, I was never sure about that but now I know! Broad street is horrendous, I used to go there as a student for some strange reason, but hadn't been for years until I was dragged there by my sister for her birthday. The horrors I saw inspired the story on my site, it wasn't pretty!