The Red Hound

Monday arrived slower than the springtime did after the longest of winters. I occupied myself to the extent where my actions were so intense not a single thought could run through my head. I felt that if I thought about what was to come, anticipation would rear its ugly head and leave me trampled in its furious wake. But even though I drowned out all thoughts with intense and heavy physical activity and mental stimulation, I couldn’t help but become jittery from my steadily increasing impatience. I had been impatient the first moment I grew my hands, legs, and tongue, but this impatience could not be sated by what was to come on Monday, and would only be fulfilled when Cara was mine once again and I could fill the void that I had left in her and vice versa. A dog feels nothing but agony once separated from its master, and though I had the mind of a human, I had the heart of a dog. My suffering was no less than that of the most faithful of dogs.

It was a terrible letdown once I arrived at the farm, as I was expecting something exciting and marvellous to happen and instead I ended up toiling in the barn and fields alone to throw away my expectations in shovelfuls of manure and disappointment. Cara was at school, and I was trapped outside of her house elbow deep in chores and things to be done. For some reason I had expected I would be working side-by-side with Cara just like it had always been, but instead I barely encountered her and when I did, it was fleeting and she gave me nothing but a thin-lipped smile and continued on her way. Frustration buzzed around me in my head like a swarm of mosquitoes, and I tried to swat them away by finding and attempting conversation with Cara, which surprisingly, despite all of my knowledge of her, fell flat.

On the end of my first day, however, I was invited inside for supper. I had streaks of manure across my face and my clothes, my forehead was dotted with dried sweat, and I smelt worse than the sheep did. I was a complete wreck, and I had to impress Cara while all of this dirtiness plagued me. I slid into the cushioned chair in front of the polished yet rickety table and was careful not to touch anything unnecessarily and spread my filth on it. I apologized, “sorry for my state. It’s been a hard day.”

“That’s alright. Cara and I both know the feeling, don’t we, sweetie?”

She laughed. “Oh, I know it. Don’t worry about it, Dawson. It’s not your fault.”

“I remember Cara used to come in at the end of the day covered in God knows what with Red in much the same state, who smelled worse than the manure he was covered in.”

“Red?” I asked.

“Our dog,” Cara clarified.

“He used to help us herd the sheep,” Jim elaborated, “but he ran off not too long ago.”

I looked down at my plate in shame at the mention of my disappearance. “Oh. That’s too bad.”

“Cara was devastated. That dog was her best friend.”

I looked back up and asked conversationally, “what kind of dog was he?”

They shared a glance, then turned back to me and shrugged at the same time. I smiled fondly at their similarity. “We’re not sure. A mutt, I guess. Looked sort of like a dingo. He had red fur, which I found unusual,” Cara said.

“Red fur! How red?”

“It wasn’t like a bright red or anything. It was a really deep red. Almost brown, but quite obviously still red. Like... burgundy.”

It was interesting hearing my previous physical appearance being described by someone because I barely knew what I looked like as a dog. I caught glimpses of myself in the reflection of the water in my bowl, and I’ve encountered a few mirrors here and there, but never really examined myself in any detail.

“He sounds like a beautiful dog,” I said, a little arrogantly, “and he herded the sheep?”

Her dad nodded. “Damn well, I might add. That dog could move those sheep anywhere he wanted. He could’ve driven them off a cliff if he was so inclined.”

“I wish he was still here so I could meet him. I’ve always liked dogs.”

“Me too,” Cara said silently, “I wish he was still here, too.”

The sad look on her face killed me.