4. Posh asshole on the stray dog

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The afternoon, this afternoon, had met me with bouts of depression. Hello old friend. I had travelled across the world to find something and have found nothing but my same old self. The day from the last smack of the keys was divine. I'm afraid I need writing more than it needs me. I'm afraid of what? Something I have already nurtured and put to sleep. I walked along the skirts of the beach. The Indian ocean, The Arabic sea, which one I am not sure. The browns jumped in with their jeans on. Slapping the salt as if it’s the first time they’ve seen it, and probably is. I hopped in. I swam towards the horizon. this was my element. I put my head under the water and saw a shark. It was about the same size as me.

“You're an Aussie?” he said with his eyes blacker than a crows wing, “you are too tough, I'm not going to eat you”

“Thanks mate”, I replied, “Try one of these boys in jeans, they’re full of paprika”.

He turned his long snout up, “No thanks, I'm a picky eater, don’t enjoy spice. I'm going to go eat an octopus”

I showed visible dismay,

“They are very smart creatures you know?”

“Not smart enough” he said, and we laughed together.

I walked to a restaurant that looked over the water. Drank the beer that made everything easy. Two scousers to my left butchered the queens English. I would walk over to them and offer them my services, in love and conversations. But I wasn’t there yet, I wasn’t lonely enough yet, and it was too hot. I walked along the beach and sat in a bar that looked upon a four-way intersection. The beep had replaced lines, lights, rules and direction. It was a language that exceeded my own. As foreign as the native tongue. Like a dogs bark or a ducks quack. To an outsider it seemed benign, but it had its ways. And yes, I could tell the obvious, the common beep, the one that said I'm here or look out for me. But for many it was like a sick tick, like a swearing Tourette. Strolling down a free street hitting that fucking horn. But it worked, like a Basquiat painting. It didn’t look like it should, it seemed too simple, but it worked.

I sat there and drank the beers. They did not have the usual Kingfisher strong I had quickly grown accustom too. They had Kingfisher storm. In a blue bottle. A big disgusting blue bottle. Now I don’t see blue as a crude colour. It’s the colour of the sky, nice jeans, Van Goghs starry night, Picassos greatest era, the eyes of the sweet. But a beer bottle, a flavour? it was just too childish. But I drank them and it got me far beyond where I needed to be. I was drunker than a bug who fell into a stiff whiskey. Women walked past and smiled at me sitting there with my blue bottle. They smiled and kept walking. One girl in particular with enticing eyes.

I wanted to yell, “I am not a novelty, I am a man with needs”.

And I knew my eyes matched my teal shirt. I know the light sat within them and shined on the lost. I knew all this but I still needed someone to hold. Not necessarily to talk to, that required too much energy, but possibly someone to wrestle with. I took the lift and went to the rooftop. Ordered food and a mojito. Whilst I waited i played pool by myself. I play pool like a down syndrome with new runners. I just cannot seem to work it out. As if this is the first carnation to have ever seen the sport. I sat after potting all the smalls and ate my meal. It was hot and my mouth screamed like a homesick child at kinder. I walked out of there feeling like I was the king of India. I booked an uber and it wouldn’t arrive. I decided to begin the walk home. A dog worked me out and my drunk and loving heart opened to him. He looked like a dingo, but he was a dog. I love dogs. I loved him. I offered him the back of my hand. He touched it gently and I patted him. We had collaborated and now in love. The walk was down a stiff narrow and busy street. He walked beside me and it felt good. I stopped. He stopped. I walked. He walked. The other mutts, the ferals of the road barked at us out of jealousy. I stamped my foot and told them to fuck off! he wasn’t bothered, parading his curled tail in the air, showing them all his posh little asshole, he was no longer a stray, but domesticated and loyal . As he walked I thought of my beloved Ralph. My beautiful boy who was taken from my grasp by the harsh teeth of destiny. This is him, I thought. Everyone was him. We all share the same light, but this dingo was close enough to realise that. We walked together and an uber accepted my ride. I cancelled it because I couldn’t leave him. I stopped at a little shop with sweat pushing its way out of me.

“Do you have any dog food?” I asked the young man behind the packets of chips that fall from the roof,

“Biscuits? yes”

“And water?”

“Yes”

He walked off and got two packets of biscuits, and a bottle of water, I asked for another bottle as my beautiful dog waited beside me.

I paid him and then gave him and extra 100R, he smiled at me like I cured an illness his mother had been dealing with for years.

Together, my new dog and I crossed the street. I sat on the park bench and tried to offer him water. He didn’t want the biscuits either. I opened them and put them on the floor. He had a few. He stood up and he walked off., following another man. Following another man as if it was me. I had been played, played a fool by a K9 whore, like those silly cucks at the strip clubs. I was smart enough to have my guard up against them but never have I seen a dog of the night; so suave and charismatic, to fool me into giving him my soul. I watched his dumb little asshole trot off into the direction we came and I booked an uber home.

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