THE DOG IN THE MIRROR

I was merrily walking past a lively street, the way the auburn trees touch the skies as if asking for a peck, just for a while, just once. Well, it’s been a while since I have noticed such lively streets; not because I am old, but because they stopped existing a long while ago. It was hustling and bustling everywhere. I believe it was the day where all humans stay at home, trying to grope the void for comfort, for meaning, for purpose, for life. Oh, how will I know all this? After all, I am just a dumb dog. And so, I walked and I walked in search of scattered food, specifically leftover meat, my favorite. Why is it so surprising? Am I too not a being? Am I just a muse for your kind? I was hungry, and scavenging for food was the only thing which could have given me temporary happiness, just like how you humans get happiness from your daily goings that have not much of a meaning nor rhyme. But what is there that one can do?

I entered a neighborhood, the roads wet as it had rained the day before. The bushes with flowers so colorful, so enigmatic; trees so tall with white barks. I couldn’t bear to see it all, for the sun shined too brightly, making blurred bubbles in my vision like a faint, nostalgic, jubilant memory. All this reminded me of something.

The reddish pavement felt familiar. The chirping gray-blue herons were a melody heard before. The incoherent chatter and, of course, how can I forget? The busy neighborhood noise. It all was just making me giddy: the sight of the humans smiling with their offspring, the sight of the evening scenery and the way breeze felt on my fur. It felt as if a current ran through my spine, perhaps of memory, bringing thousands of goosebumps to life. It all felt feverish, so mellow, so sweet. I was very exhausted from all the walking. A boy passed me by on a cycle, giving way for more cool air with tiny droplets of water to touch my face. I haven’t felt this alive in years. I kept on walking at a slow pace for a bit more time, passing by houses with kids playing, couples walking together and chattering about things I don’t quite hear nor understand.

I almost lost my conscience about my whereabouts when I felt as if I had just been thunderstruck by a memory long forgotten. It came before my eyes in a black and yellow tint. I couldn’t make out what it was about, but It was surely something that churned my gut. It was not the hunger, no. It was something petrifying: the echo of screams and disappointment. Like I had walked this road before and I have been here before and have led a complete, unfortunate memory here. But I refuse to believe it. I have to hold myself high, because if I don’t, who will? I must not be swayed like this, for I have pride, and my pride would never allow me to be frail. Hence, I continued to walk despite all the things around me, for hunger and myself have always been a great priority to me.

Only to come across a house. Yes, there were many other houses. Something peculiar about the neighborhood was that the streets had a yellowish-lukewarm scene, but the houses had an icy blue and cool one, all thanks to the houses which had white on the borders and sky-like blue paint inside the borders. Of course. But this one was something else. It had no other distinguishing quality apart from the fact that I felt as if it were buried in my memory somewhere, the feeling so constricted. Maybe that’s what they mean when they say emotions are the greatest weapons to us beings with feelings.

And I was moreover curious. What could be of such high caliber that it made a noble dog like me give attention to nothing but a mundane house?

The house had a front yard, so did all the other houses. Some were more well maintained than the others, showing off their wealth with the amount of mindless money they can put into the maintenance of, well, grass. Something peculiar about this house was that when I entered the yard, every other voice apart from mine disappeared. It’s as if I was forced to listen to my own voice. For just the musings of others, I could hear every thought of mine with crystal clarity, and my hunger too did not persist. It was as if the yearning in my heart made the hunger forfeit. The garden in the yard had many bushes, different in size and shape. Some so high and mighty, some coward and low. The only thing in common with the sequenced bushes were the flowers: marigolds, who spoke to my heart and mind. The scent of the flower reminded me of wrongdoings, not memories of my wrongdoings, but just how unfair everything in the world is. It was like the flower was speaking to me. I must control myself. My mind is searching for something; no wonder why I keep on getting stuck on miniscule details.

The yard of this house had a lot of furniture, house items and odd junk that was probably overused or of no use any longer. No human being was there. I entered the front yard, letting my emotions take the best and even the better of me, like I repent. I always had, but not anymore.

On the tables, everything felt like it had a story. A chipped teacup, edges rough, like it had been held a thousand times and still survived. A brass key lying there, like it was waiting for someone who would actually notice it. Letters, yellowed and stacked, heavy with things nobody said out loud. Glass jars catching the light, empty but full of something. A faded scarf draped over a chair, like someone just left it behind but didn’t really go. Coins scattered, little circles of chance and choices and what-ifs. And all of these things, just sitting, watching. Like they knew something. Like they were waiting for me to see it.

I began sniffing everything. I swear I remember these scents. I am pretty sure I do! Although I am quite an old dog, I am unkempt and pretty shabby, a few parasites here and there in my fur. But my eyes, I often look into them; they still have the happiness of youth, or so I believe.

My mind is hazed, my identity shattered, my state just a remnant of who I used to be. But then why can’t I stop recollecting thoughts? I forget and I remember just to forget again. It’s a cycle that’s been going on for a long time, definitely because of my age.

My brain knits and tears any weaving that it finds. Yes, it is quite absurd a dog like me talks about all this or even talks at all. I understand things greatly, but I don’t speak. And because I don’t speak, you think I am daft, but I am certainly not! But it is quite common with my kind, you see. We all are just on this earth differently, for different reasons. At least that’s what I believe.

Seeing different kinds of trinkets, furniture and what not, it was all so rusted. All of it looked like lost treasure a pup would pick up from the side of the road. There were many things I could identify from the tables and the items that were kept on them: daily use items used by humans. Although I don’t know the names, I can recognize them. I felt a bit hopeful rather than dreaded with smudged memories when I saw toys for me. Well, not me specifically, but for my kind: a lot of loud squeaky and chewy toys that were very bright, very interesting.

It was all fine till I came across the image of a creature. It could reflect, but only a bit. It had the image of a little pup. The pup was quite cute, but something just enraged me to look at him, and no, it wasn’t cute aggression. I was just blatantly enraged. Staring into it for about a few minutes gave enough time to help my brain solve this perplexing puzzle. It was me! The pup was me when I was young. It was all so real; the scar on my eyebrow gave away that it was me! Has it been so long I cannot decipher me from some other?

Right away, the rage became real. I could feel the disgust on my face and the anger in my head. It was a struggling sensation that made my body jolt, tightened my muscles. I remember how stupid and foolish I was. I could have been a better dog. I could have lived a better life. I repeat to myself as if it was a mantra.

In those days, to a certain length, I believed humans really loved me regardless of what I did; that love meant no efforts; that it was something I could take lightly. But unconditional love is as fictional as I am, and I am one not to differ. I may never know why I walked the planet as if every being here owed me something.

I remember how aggressive I was, but wasn’t it expected? It was inevitable, for the anger I held back had to take a life, whether mine or some other dog’s. How impulsive I was, how deep in sins I was. How I didn’t care about anyone else. How I thought that I was unlovable, and when I actually did have a good owner, I behaved the way they did with me at the shelter: cruel, without sense, betrothed, and unaware of the fact that it wasn’t the way to be. But it’s not my fault. I had always been the victim of unfairness. It is a dog eat dog world, and in the shelter, it was worse.

It was the cages I remember: cold bars that kept me in, kept me small. The noise was endless: whining, barking, crying, but no one ever listened. No one does now either. Food came in a bowl too far from me, and when I ran, bigger teeth pushed me away. My belly ached for days. I regretted life in those days. I felt as if the uncertainty that pertained after life was better.

Hands came sometimes, but never generous, never gentle. They shoved, pulled, smacked the bars when I got too close. I still remember the burns. Once, I thought maybe someone wanted me. I pressed my nose out, but the broom came down hard. I learned to stay back, to forfeit, to accept defeat.

Water came in blasts from a hose, cold and stinging. The floor was always wet, always stinking, and I lay in it anyway because there was nowhere else. Worst were the doors. They’d open, and dogs would leave, tails wagging, eyes bright. I waited for my turn. It never came. Until it did, but I was too dumb. I was too me.

I always let my feelings, my surges of impulse get the best of me, and my owner had to struggle with me. He was a great man who always wore cotton clothes and had a warm, welcoming smile. I remember because I used to chew on his clothes. I remember because his kindness was what stood out so fiercely to me. I remember because humanity was something I was alienated from. I would see his polite smile even on the toughest days. I would often think that if I were in his shoes, I would surrender. I would always wonder: when you have the decision to be in the comfort of misery, why would you choose happiness? A trap, something that I was conned out of since the moment I became, and now I am. He had a family too, you know, how all humans do: a woman, children. And he even considered me as his own. How I never thought he could be something to me, for I am and remain to be the only one who remained constant throughout my life. I don’t remember his woman or children, nor do I remember his face, but what I still remember are the creases of his cheeks that always appeared like a blooming flower when he smiled.

I wish he is living a good life. I truly do, especially after I ran off after thrashing his house. I wish God would forgive me the way my owner would have forgiven me.

I always wanted liberty, but not the good kind. The kind that let me be animalistic in my own manner. But does it matter? I have changed. I surely have. I have my control on my actions. I truly believe I have changed. Sure, my memory is rusty, but I am not the same person who attacked other dogs unprovoked; who betrayed the mother of my children back when the scent of heat could shatter my dignity like glass; when I mistook desire for love, and desire for destiny. I am free of my cynical chains that bind me to misery. Right?

I have changed. Yes, I am capable of change. I am not suffering from the same behaviors I had inculcated in the past. I know that I can change, yet still something makes me wonder.

Could I be the one I suppose I am? The one whom I boast about, the one whom I make everyone meet, the one whose back I patted generously. I stare for what seems to be around an hour, but then again, it is just my mind playing tricks. After all, my mind is my confinement and I, the dictator. I dictate and dictate till I exhaust, then I curse my world for being so cruel. Perhaps if I had seen it all differently, it would have been all different. And maybe what I see is not my past self but a reflection.

I heard ringing in my ears and suddenly became aware of my surroundings. Now I could hear the birds more clearly. I feel birds surrounding me, but one just flies in front of me. I can’t move; I can only stare. It’s a magpie, covered with black and white, and its tail. I can hear it whispering secrets to me.

It’s staring at me. I gaze at Its beauty as it cocks its head towards me, piercing my soul, bringing about so much ambiguity within me. Gazing into the eyes of the chirping magpie, I felt as if it had something to tell me: a story, my fortune, something, anything. The longer I stare into its eyes, the longer I feel as if it’s all an illusion, a figment of my imagination. All of this, a cruel trick on me.

I snap out of it the second the broken clock near me starts ringing powerfully, as if it would cause an earthquake right then and there.

Ah! I see it all clearly now. It is my reflection, but that is not something to rejoice about. I thought I changed. I believed that I had. Perhaps I still am the same mutt pup, not a wise, haggard dog that I am. It shatters my reality, and a tear sheds from my eyes. It seems more painful than my hurt. I cry not because I am weak (that I am), but now I cry for I tried so much to be better every single day, only to have failed in the end, only to have a pile of regret. For the tears contained the promise I made to myself long back. My throat asphyxiates itself from remorse. It drops down my cheek with all the faint memories of promises I made to those I loved. I wish I had enough control I could have kept. I wish I had enough sense that I would have kept my word. As tears drop, they flash me memories of all that could hurt me. I was too arrogant, thinking I could do it all as if I am a showman and the world is my audience, only to find out I am the caged lion who has no might and qualities of a domesticated kitty.

Someone said once that people never change. I thought so proudly that I was right and that someone was fake. And now my body shakes while it unmasks me. I stare at the creature in the mirror—or is it a photo? A memory? I cannot tell. It looks like me, but it doesn’t feel like me. Not anymore. Perhaps it has always been me.