One man and his dog

January 16, 2011 § Leave a comment

Bloody thing wants a bullet putting to it, the man’s thinking.

It’s not like he’s some nine-stone weakling, either – told the doctor fifteen stone but the scales said eighteen- but this bloody thing, it’s out of control.

When he took the job he thought he’d be doing security in shops, catching thieves, or maybe standing on the door of a pub, but they said he’d be having a dog. He did try to tell them, but his wife heard there’d be more money in it so he’d better just shut up, hadn’t he, and he knows better than to argue.

He doesn’t like dogs, never did. The dog knows it. Everyone knows it. Thing’s called Butch but the lads all call it Fang and Killer. Tell him it’s got a hell of a set of teeth on it.

He’s round the back of the mill – the half nine patrol – and it’s dark. Dog’s pulling on the lead and it’s all he can do to hold it.

Some days he thinks about taking the dog’s lead off, letting it run off into the trees and the shadows, and just going home. He knows, though, that what the dog might do to him would be nothing compared to the grief from her indoors. Or, worse, that the dog might follow him back and want to stay.

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