A Short Story

 This showed up in my FaceBook feed - a short story that I wrote for a friend a year ago.
Back story:  I have a friend who at the time was taking a lot of long walks for a fundraiser.  He usually takes a camera and shoots pictures - many of which are very beautiful.  But this time he didn't like any of them.  Nick is bipolar (I think - he's something) and posted that he was having a hard time, thought the pictures were lousy, and that it would help him if people would try to see some beauty in them, and maybe their story.  So I started writing - and this sort of flowed out.  Looking at it a year later - y'know, that's not bad.  So I decided to save it.

There are two black dogs in this story.  The long nose dog is Finn, his greyhound.  The other black dog is his name for the depression that follows him sometime.

The man is walking. My writing professors would say to use a more interesting word. Is he trudging, or clipping along, or dragging, or is there a spring in his step? Is he strolling, or ambling, or sauntering?

But honestly - tonight it's not that interesting. He's just, well, walking.

Sometimes he forgets why he's doing this. He doesn't have a destination; he's not going to see friends, or out to dinner. Sometimes he forgets why he's walking; he thinks it has something to do with promising someone he would walk - maybe he can't remember why they want him to walk, but they do, so he walks.

He has two dogs with him, both black. One is sleek, long of nose and leg. He tugs the man forward, or drags behind, or to one side or the other. The man snaps a picture of some architecture; the dog is more interested in the flowers growing through a crack in the sidewalk (miraculously alive even though to the dog's nose it's obvious that many other dogs have visited these flowers. He hopefully tugs towards the warm smell of sausages and meat pies coming from the pub, but the man merely continues walking (perambulating? No, still just walking.)

There are not many people out; it's that in-between time, when the day people have gone home to dinner and families, and the night people have yet to emerge. The dog pokes his long nose towards to few people he sees, so get their attention, their pats, their fussing over him.

The man gazes at the light of a church. The dog is more interested in a street sign, covered in messages only a dog's nose can read.

There is another dog, another black one, not on a leash, following behind. This one does not sniff out hidden reminders, or respond to odd noises in the hedges. People do not stop to look at him, or ask about him. He just pads along quietly (is "padding" more interesting than walking, or just a bit more quiet, or perhaps more ominous.)

The man continues to - wend his way? Nope. Just walks. The long-nosed dog is starting to sulk a little. His legs are designed for a sprint, not this slow-speed marathon. The man takes pity on him, circles back to his house, drops the dog off, and continues to . . . meander? No. Just walk.

With the long-nose dog not tugging at him, the man is more aware of the other dog, quietly following behind, maybe with the occasional click of his nails on the sidewalk. The man does not change his steady pace - he knows that if it changes, or, God forbid, he gives in to the urge to run, the black dog will chase him, narrowing the gap between them. He busies himself with the camera - taking pictures of running water, or a truck or the sky which, like the people, is in that in-between state between day and night. In a few days he will look at them, or share them, and see beauty. For the moment, he's just snapping to distract himself.

It's getting darker. The man, like the long-nose dog, is getting tired. But he knows that he has to keep walking. He sees buildings, roads, the shifting light in the trees. He wonders if it would be safe to head back to the place where he left the long-nose dog.

He walks. He realizes that he does not hear the click of nails, or the soft placement of paw pads. He turns a corner, then risks a glance behind. Like the long-nose dog, the other dog has grown tired of this endless . . pacing (have I used that one yet?), no, walking. He has drifted off elsewhere - maybe to follow someone else, maybe to rest.

For the first time tonight, the man quickens, eagerly (footing it? I'm running out of synonyms) towards that one place in a row of places, that place that he calls home, that place where he is loved and wanted and safe.

He walks (I'm out of words) into the home, to be greeted with a warm hug and kiss, and a thump of the tail from the long-nose dog, who is too tired to get up from the couch where he is sprawled.

The man gets a cuppa and maybe a biscuit? Or a pot noodle. Let's make it a pot noodle; he likes those, and these days it's a rare treat. He sits on the floor (the long-nose dog is taking up the couch) with his cuppa and his pot noodle and maybe there is something on the television and the woman who loves him talks about her day and at least here, for now, he is safe, and everything is all right.

The End