The Red Hound

Over the course of a few weeks, Cara and I began to talk more and more until I saw her everyday, (except for the days I had off) and I was not the only one smiling in excitement when we greeted each other. If we were dogs, our tails would wag every time we crossed paths as we worked. Instead of her seeming to avoid me when I did my chores, she often worked beside me and talked to me incessantly, but I didn’t mind. I lent her my intent ears because I had never heard her talk so much in my life, and I was glad for the relief of finally beginning to know her as a person and not as my master. No one talks to a dog the same way they talk to a human.

“And school’s good to you?” I asked.

“Oh yeah, it’s going great. I’m doing well in all of my classes—finally—and though I can’t stand my math teacher or my art teacher, I can’t really complain much about it, unlike everyone else who seems to go there.”

She continued to talk for another minute, and only stopped when she had to hammer in a nail into the fence we were rebuilding. After she was finished, I took advantage of the silence and asked, “d’you like all your friends?”

“Of course! I love them. I don’t really have a problem with anyone that goes to my school; except for Martin and his friends. I cannot stand them.”

“Martin?”

I stepped back from fence, wiped my brow, and glanced at the evening sun. It would set in a few hours, signalling my release from this arduous work, and the sight would likely be a beautiful one; the sun would paint the sky the same orange and red colour as the trees that surrounded it. I turned from the sun and back to Cara, stretching and rocking back on my heels, taking a small break, and she did the same.

“He’s just this asshole I know. I thought he was really nice, and even had a bit of a crush on him for a while, but it turns out he was exactly as girls warned me he was. A douche.”

I laughed at her. I had never heard her swear before, and it amused me because she was so innocent and dainty the words sounded awkward on her tongue. “I’m sorry to hear that,” I said sincerely, “I’ve seen the type before. They’re bad news.”

“Blegh, tell me about it.”

We continued to work on the fence in silence, more or less, until the sun was beginning its gentle rest on the horizon. Then Cara led me up to the hill and we sat under that familiar great oak that grew its roots deep into the summit of the farm. The sun’s rays bathed everything with a soft yellow light, creating the autumn landscape into a xanthic sea. The lighting did wonders for Cara’s already perfect skin, bringing out a delightful gold colouring to her tanned complexion. She sat cross-legged, gazing at the land before us with a sort of wistful contentedness, a melancholic smile resting on her lips. As always, her thoughts hid from me behind her clear oceanic eyes, and as I did when I was her faithful canine companion, I stared into them as she observed the beauty around her.

“So Cara,” I asked uncomfortably, “can you tell me more about Red?”

“Red? Why Red?”

“Well, I don’t know. He seemed to mean a lot to you, and if he really meant that much then he must be one hell of a dog.”

She chuckled. “He was some dog, alright. He knew every trick in the book, I tell ya. I bet he understood English just as well as you or I can.”

“I don’t believe you,” I teased.

“Really! It was almost a little scary how well he could follow directions. Once I locked myself out of the house, and he was inside and went around to unlock the door for me.”

“You’re kidding!”

“No word of a lie. He really was a magnificent dog. I wonder who would’ve given away a dog like him to the humane society. I miss him to pieces.”

“It’s a shame he’s not around anymore.”

“It really is,” she said quietly, nodding and looking down at her hands, “it really is.

“He was a good dog, there’s no doubt about that. Once he got the hang of it, he was probably the best sheep herder in the whole world. I’ve never seen anything like it. He was my best friend; he followed my everywhere. I really miss him.”

“I don’t doubt it. A dog like that must be hard to let go of.”

“In a way I haven’t really let go of him. A dog’s love is unconditional and true, and that sort of love never dies. It sounds dramatic, because he was just a dog, but I’ll always love and remember him.”

A brief silence came between us, and I breathed a contented sigh, feeling exactly where I should be—by Cara’s side.

“That was quite some sigh. I hope I’m not boring you,” she commented, half-serious.

“No, of course not. I like hearing about Red. I really do.”

She blushed a little and smiled into her lap then announced, glancing over at me, “deja vu.”

“Me too,” I replied softly, “I feel like I’ve been in this very place with you hundreds of times before, just looking out over the farm like we are now. There’s a beauty about this place that is just...” I stopped myself. I felt emasculated whenever I began to describe anything to her because everything I said nowadays was soft-spoken and poetic. Not only that, but we had entered into a friendly and light mood, and I didn’t want to ruin that with my foolish musings about the scenery.

“Just what?” she inquired, providing me with her full attention, for once silence and willing to listen to me. I longed for her previous chatty nature.

I shifted uncomfortably, and only because she requested, spoke my mind. “It feels like home. Seeing the trees, listening to their elegy as their golden leaves fall from their arms... even looking over the stubborn sheep, I’m comforted and reminded of a safe place where I can let down my guard and relax, close my eyes, and dose off in a place like this, under this very tree. I’m filled with a sort of sadness because I know that this place will never be my home, as badly as I want it to be.”

She was silent as she turned from me, her eyes searching the land before her, trying to see the place she called home through my eyes. A silence so thick it was almost permeable fell over us, and I cursed myself for daring to speak my mind so fully and completely. My inner thoughts were not meant to be shared, because when they were originally formed I could not twist my tongue into the shapes to speak them. Such thinking banished the fear I used to have of perceiving things with passion, and strengthened a side of me that, as a human, remained dormant. I had begun to look at things without the anxiety and worry about what others would think of me, and instead looked at things with joy because my dog form brought an eloquence to my understanding of the world. I could not let anyone see this development within me now that I was human once again.

“How... poetic. You never struck me as a poet,” she commented.

“I’m not,” I answered bluntly.

She looked at me dubiously, laughed, “you sure speak like one.”

I blushed and looked away. “I try not to.”

“You should try. You speak beautifully. I wish I could think and talk the way you do. Some things you say sounds as if you’ve spent hours thinking about it, when you’ve only really taken a few seconds. It just... flows.”

“Well. Thanks, I guess.”

“You’re very welcome. You should try writing some of your thoughts down. Now that’s something I’d like to read.”

Would she really like to read what I thought? Would she like to read about the adoration and love that I constantly threw her way? Would she like to read about the great beauty she possessed? Would she liked to read things that she would never believe? Maybe if I wrote her the tale of what had happened she would believe it, but that’s a deep desire within me that will never become a reality. I realize now that the truth to where her beloved dog went would never be spoken aloud, and even if it was, it would never be believed.

“If I started writing down my thoughts and the events in my life,” I joked, “it’d make the big screen.”

“You think?”

“For sure. I know for a fact that people’d be interested in my story.”

“Oh really? I think it’d get terrible reviews,” she teased.

“Oh, no. You’d be surprised.”

“Yeah? And what would this box office hit be called?”

“The Red Hound. Because when it comes down to it, aren’t I a hound of a man?”

“I’m not sure what your mean, but now that I know there’s a poet inside you, I know I’ll never catch on to your metaphors,” she laughed, “but why red? Why ‘the red hound’ and not some other colour?”

“Because that was an old nickname of mine. Red.”

“Red.”

She grew quiet instantly, staring into my eyes with a shock so intent it would’ve made anyone else look away, but I held her gaze steadily, just as a dog would. I couldn’t follow her thought process, but I knew that it was circling around and around in her head, passing by the same facts without drawing the conclusion of who I really was. I smiled at her encouragingly, but I knew that, without a doubt, she would never guess that her best friend and I were the same soul.

Then there it was: somewhere deep within her, the truth presented itself, but it was a feeling so hidden and so absurd that it was quickly dismissed the instant it had entered her heart. I saw its nearly imperceptible path as it fleeted across her crystalline eyes, but of course, the mere thought of it was too preposterous for anyone to ever believe, even someone as whimsical as her. But because I knew she had dwelt on the truth for just a small moment, a triumphant victory rose within me so my heart was buzzing above me like a hummingbird, its beats just as rapid as the beating of its wings. Instead, the closest she would ever come to the truth was hidden in what she said next: “You remind me of him,” she said so quietly it was nearly inaudible, “you remind me of Red.”