He was a Dog

He was a dog; pure and chaste. He was of the kind who had fallen in love once in his life and had lost that love due to shyness to express his feelings. Some call this quality of his a form of excessive pride. But, I think he is a chaste dog; a chaste dog whose morale is only fragile when it comes to politics. Once upon a time, he was a revolutionary. I do not recall in which place or year. I heard he was hanged once, but survived the execution by a mere coincidence the details of which I do not recall.

Such a handsome dog he is: fit and muscular, as white as a bridal dress of a virgin bride, stainless and with big curious eyes. He rarely barks and if he does, it is a gracious bark; one that has rhythm and commands respect. He looks seemingly indifferent to his immediate environment. But, he observes with the eyes of an eagle. He finds humans excessively boring and finds their ideas outdated and colorless. He especially hates those horrific animals, otherwise called humans, who violently show him affection as they pass by his owner and compliment the owner for her handsome dog. In particular, among the human race, he resents his owner. When his eyes meet hers, he conveys silent hatred and ridicules her when she misunderstands this revengeful glance as a sign of love and affection of the dog for her.

Her former lover called him disturbed. He thinks she was right. They only met once on the sidewalk when her owner was pulling her away from him. They fell in love on sight; or at least this is what he thinks. He thinks she was incredibly smart for detecting his disturbed soul on the spot. In fact, this might have been the reason for why he fell in love with her. Ever since, he embraces his own disturbed soul with pride as this is the only souvenir of that failed love extravaganza; as he calls it.

He does not recall when he was born a dog; he only speculates that it must have been when he faced the misery of his own revolution. He remembers giving a speech to a nation of sorts. He recalls millions of hopeful eyes staring at him in search of their prosperous future. He remembers killing them in the name of some glorious revolution of sorts. And, he remembers long evenings saturated with night letters, clandestine political lovemaking and glorious laughter filled with orgasmic fear of death and execution. He remembers dying and he remembers rising a hero who participated in bloody rebellions against his own revolution. But, nobody ever listened to him anymore.

He became a heroic statue glorified as a patriotic solider who lived and died for his own nation of sorts. And, once a hero, nobody cared about what he had to say anymore. He stood there with his lifeless body to represent death and cruelty in the name of some glorious revolution. They executed thousands in that square in front of his eyes and when he cried his tears rolled over his statue-body. Nobody ever noticed his tears, his screams, his regrets, his self-beatings and self-hatred. They only praised him and eventually when the time came they threw pebbles at his statue. He enjoyed the intolerable pain of the pebbles thrown against his statue-body beyond words. He remembered her say, “you are disturbed!” and he remembered that failed love extravaganza that had yet to happen.

He is not there anymore; wherever that was. He does not know where he is. In fact, the reason he does not escape the miserable life of his owner might be that he has no clue where in this world he is and he is afraid of getting lost; or at least this has been his excuse for staying around in the past years. “Such a handsome dog!” the owner’s neighbor disgustingly compliments him as she walks by.