It is cold and dark here. That is a lie. It is nothing here.
If I was smarter, I would tell myself it was cold and dark, because then I could comfort myself with the thought that I still exist. But I am not that smart. I am a dog.
I was a dog.
The boy? The boy was fine. Fed, watered, loved. As much as a dog could want. But I do not have much memory. I am a dog. Mostly I remember the pain. When you are a dog (I used to be a dog) you can only remember yesterday and maybe the day before. And yesterday was pain. Today was pain, until today was sleep.
Some spark of training remains. Sit, stay. Sounds, not words. Lifted into the car. Up on the table, girl. Sit.
Stay.
The boy is not there. I lied, there are memories that do not leave. The pack. Pack of two. The boy and I. But he has been gone so long. Grown up, gone away. Just the mother and me and the pain. Sometimes he comes back. But he has not come back today. Today the mother put me in the car and we drove and she cried and it hurt so much. Today I went to the place with all the other dogs, but they were not my pack. When I fell asleep my pack was not there.
A smarter person would say "The boy was there in spirit." "He loved you even if he couldn't be there." "He wasn't told that you'd be gone by the time he came home." But those are people thoughts. Those are the comforts of intelligence. I am a dog. I was a dog.
My name was Hannah, and now I am where it is not cold and it is not dark, and there is no pain.
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