My names Charlie. Im a Labradora goldenhaired boy who makes everyone smile. Sometimes, though, I get fed up with the world and have to snap. Look after my rear end! I also have a mistress, and I love her, no matter what she does or who shes become. Thats not up for debate. I love her, period.
She bought me when I was only a month old; she was 408 months old34 years, for those who need the math. The very next evening she was perched on the floor of our cramped twobedroom council flat, nursing her fourth glass of cheap red wine, stroking my head while tears streamed down her face.
Go to hell, I tell you, she slurred. Now Ive got a dog wholl never betray me. Tell me, Charlie, whats wrong with me? Shed confessed she couldnt cook, so shed signed up for a French cooking course and, finally, stopped mumbling about it. Then she started ripping my wardrobe apart, calling my baggy coats potato sacks and saying it was mortifying to have me standing there. She overhauled the whole closet, with help from her mum and Nana, who donated a heap of their own clothes. She stopped looking at me, then dropped hints about intimacyhow dull our love life was compared to the movies, where passion and professionalism meet. What movies? I spent two months on YouTube watching tutorials on oral pleasure, almost bankrupting myself on banana props. Nana rescued me again, hauling two buckets of corn. All for him. He left, you hear? Charlie, youre my one and only. Dont ever leave me, okay?
I stared into her reddened eyes and licked her cheek. What else could I do? I could swallow anythinghat, boot, you name itbut a puppys usefulness is limited. She hugged me and we fell asleep. I told her the red wine was to blame for everything.
As the puddles on our flats floor grew, so did I. She poured all her energy into me. Id catch glimpses of a TV show about fivestar Spanish resorts, allinclusive. During that time I lived the ultraallinclusive life: fed to the brim, Saturdays blessed with avocado. No dutiesjust escorting my mistress to work each morning and waiting for her return. Honestly, I mostly slept on my haunches. When she came back, shed kiss me, feed me minced meat. We were happy. I love her with all my heart.
Then a stranger appearedsomeone from her work, a colleague. They came back from the cinema, drank cheap red wine in the kitchen, then retired to the bedroom. By the sounds, she seemed pleased. If she was happy, I was happy too. But the next morning, for the first time since wed been together, she forgot to feed me. The culprit? The strangers shoeswell, the shoes vanished. I wanted to punish the man, but the way she looked at him with such affection made me hesitate.
The man turned out to be a decent fellow, bringing meat home. He hid the shoes in the fridge, weirdly enough. He only visited at lunch and occasionally stayed overnight. In the evenings, my mistress glued herself to her phone, texting him, and grew quieter. Weekends became a hollow ritualshe stared at the screen while the cat prowled the hallway. One night, amid another glass of red wine, she petted me and sighed:
Bless my soul, Charlie, why does everything feel so tangled? Hes married. Ive found a solid, understanding man, and yet here I am, tangled in his gifts. Im watching every like he gets on Instagram, cant tear myself away. Im better than his wife, Charlie. Look at my chestgift of fate, right? Im showing it to you, my dog. The holidays are near, and you and I will be alone again.
She wept softly. Damned be that man, I thought, snarling with resentment.
The next day, he arrived for lunch in a crisp suit, only to lose it in her bedroom. As soon as he slipped away, I went to work. For every tear she shed, Id answer in kind. His suit dissolved into nothing but buttons and cuffs. Luck struck when I found two phones charging on the floorhis and hers. I chewed both, refusing to stare at those devices and weep through the night.
He stumbled out of the bedroom in a bathrobe, realized he had nothing else to wear, and the phones were gone. He grabbed me by the leash and tried to shove me into his car. She screamed, trying to protect me. He shoved her aside, bundled me up, and shoved me into the boot. I imagined breaking free as the car pulled away, but he hauled me to a clinic instead. They locked me in a cage, injected something, and my strength faded. When I came to, a strangers aunt was stroking me through the bars, speaking into a phone:
What are they doing? Theyll bring a dog, play with it, thenno use. Theyll offer a thousand poundseuthanise, dear. Ill call you back.
She sat closer, one hand petting, the other aiming a syringe at my side. I wasnt dumb; I understood. I felt pity for my mistresshow would she cope without me? I let out a mournful howl.
Suddenly the doors burst open and she rushed in, eyes bloodshot.
Stop! No, dont! Ive found you! Ive found you!
The aunt growled that she wouldnt get her thousand back, but we had no time for that. My mistress lunged at me, and I lunged at her.
Charlie, Ive been to every clinic! Forgive me, forgive me! Hear me?
They say dogs dont cry. I cried oncejust once. Keep it to yourself. We returned home and collapsed together.
Later, her job was stripped awayhed had a hand in that. Meat vanished from my bowl; I survived on porridge, becoming a passive vegetarian. She didnt give up. We started morning runs. Mostly I ran, while she admired the birches lining the path. A brief pause, then another sprint. Months passed, and she grew spryer, nearly giving up the red wine. Only Nanas visits, with corn and old skirts, kept her from falling completely.
She also enrolled in a course shed long wantedfloral design. I nudged her, hinting that bouquets could include meat. A meat bouquet, the finest thing on earth. Yet she chose flowers, so I followed suit. I filled our flat with bouquets, declaring:
If nobody gives me flowers, Ill make my own and share them.
She understood and, on our next run, I presented her with a hefty, green dandelion root. She praised the gift, hugged me, and kissed me. Sentimental, indeed. Soon she landed a job at a flower shop, which thrilled both of us. All the floral clutter moved to her workplace, turning our flat back into a proper home instead of a strawladen mess. My meat rations returned.
Two years later, Serge entered our lives, claiming to fix a fridge, then staying on. Serge was decent, never hurt her, and they laughed together constantly. A tiny Serge arrived later, a puppy she begged me to guard and love. Well do it, she said. Thats the only way, after allIm a dog.
