I’ve been a dog my whole life, but it wasn’t until this morning when I awoke and walked towards the mirror, truly seeing all my messy fur, sharp claws, and mangy teeth that I accepted it. My owner always posts pictures of me online, but this is the first time where I have truly taken in my form. I quietly walk into the living room and await my owner.
My owner arrives, says “Good morning” to me, then reaches down to pet me and call me a good dog. This is all I live for. Society wants me to be a good dog so I may continue to live inside a house with food to eat rather than dying out on the streets cold and hungry like many others I've seen. Despite chasing this high of seeking approval from my owner, I’ve never truly felt like a good dog. I feel as if I only do it for praise, and when they leave, I become just as miserable. Perhaps I am too scared to be myself out of fear of being seen as bad. Despite my wishes of running wild like the wolves who came before me, society wants me to behave and work.
owner turns on the TV and I turn to watch. It's nothing more than white noise. I see people screaming and dying on the news, and actors living out my wildest dreams on the screen as a hero, or at the very least, as someone who is happy with where they are in life. On occasion, I hear a bark on the TV causing me to freeze and stare intently at the dog on the screen. It reassures me. It tells me that I’m not alone.
My owner prepares my food. For all three meals, I eat a bland flavourless sludge designed to taste like meat. I’ve never enjoyed a meal like others have. Despite occasionally being fed scraps of what my owner eats, it's always seen as something they don’t want rather than an opportunity for me to try their food. I’ve heard many good things about chocolate. However, if I were to eat it, I would die. I’ve considered commiting suicide that way. Feeling the sweet taste of the forbidden fruit on my tongue as my body shuts down would allow me to end my pathetic life on a high note. My owner’s cries and screams would be drowned out by my internal moans of pleasure, screams, and coughs of blood.
After breakfast, my owner takes me for a walk. I look around at the others who are more free than I. They can spread their wings while I'm stuck with a leash strapped around my neck and the occasional muzzle, like a patient in solitary confinement at a mental asylum who just made a noose. Walking around I see other dogs. Some want to fight me while others wish to fornicate with me. I never want to give in to wrath or lust. They only provide me with a momentary release from this Hell. Sometimes I see starving dogs on the street. While I sympathize with them, I wonder if I would prefer being in their position; cold, starved, and close to death, yet free. I can never run from my owner. Even if I were to escape, someone else would find me and adopt me. Truly, I am not man’s best friend, as man never wanted to and never will be my friend. Man exists alongside me, and man tries to kill me before they kill themselves and vice versa.