from Covid Conversations by Johnny Rodger

IV

Lockdown Dog

I was born again but I knew this time it meant I was dead. And I was reborn a dog. The worst thing though, was that I was a dog with no skin. My flesh was raw and sore -and ugly too, if you were looking at it. And if you did look at me, you’d see right through, for I had a hole as large as a football right through my torso. I was the dog, the dead dog, the skinless dog, the missing dog. No wonder I was howling!

I don’t doubt they started all these things with the best of intentions. Maturity would have blunted my fang anyway, and let’s face it death just doesn’t belong to the minors. Nobody I know whistled these new tunes to me, I never heard the request, but we were all expected to four leg it for them. I think that is when I came of age. It was the new birth, opening from the tunnel of bad to the unwanted, penetrating, windblown, painful, sharp as a knife light of some kind of day. A wire is fastened around my neck and you’re not allowed to run loose no more.

That is also when the body starts getting itchy and the fur begins to fall out in lumps. There’s no touching anybody else, no breathing in anyone’s face, and certainly no sticking your nose in their arse. There’s no body. It’s all muzzles, leads, walking pace and –Sit!

You get nervous of course. Why am I reborn to this? You sit back in your corner, scratch your ear, and start the chant, first under your breath, then it grows and grows, and you howl it until you’re beaten again. It’s a wonder they could find you to administer the beating. They’ve looked right through you so many times before.  But your song goes on: I’m the mad dog, the rabid dog, the sad dog, the bad habit dog. I’m the have to let me die before I’m born yet again dog.