The old dog.

His insides rumbled. It sounded like metal kitchen pans and pots tumbling against one another. He got up, though it was night and the streets were empty, but he was hungry now, starving actually, and it was not the moonlight that would stop him. In truth, this battered old bony dog was always hungry, but always being very similar to never, he had forgotten just how hungry he was, until his insides rumbled so loud. So loud that his ears hurt – everything hurt – and he had no real choice but to walk on his battered old bony legs to find anything he could sink his teeth into.

So he walked, pretending to be led by the scent of a bone, somewhere out in the distance. He sniffed, though there was nothing to smell, save for the night rain on pavement. His nuzzle dived in rubbish tips, though they’d already been emptied. His grey hair was dull in the glow of the moon, but smoothed down by the rain. His insides rumbled again, an inward howl of pain. Can anyone hear me?, he wondered.

It then occurred to him that perhaps, he could use his imagination to satisfy his hunger. Perhaps he could think of the most filling, tasty, nutritious, delicious food on the planet, and think of himself being so full of this food that he would never again have to have his insides twist, clang and rumble. Perhaps he could make his way back to his corner, tucked away in the dark, alone, unloved, ugly, and fix his hunger by lying to himself.

Because that is what it would be, wouldn’t it? He would be feeding himself, but with lies. With illusions. And as soon as those illusions disappeared, what would he be left with? Nothing other than his insides still rumbling. No, that didn’t seem like a wise solution anymore.

Another growl. He bowed his head, his tail curved between his legs. He could give up. He could die. Just then, just there. No one would see, no one would ever have to know. After all, he was an old rag of a dog who had nothing going for it anymore. He could really just starve. He pictured himself, lying on his side on the pavement like a statue being caressed by the gentle stroke of the rain; his insides quiet; breathless, defenseless, but at peace.

But another rattle came from deep in his belly. He was too famished and empty to give up. His head shot up and he stood straighter and straighter on his legs, so straight and so full of this need to be filled that he really looked twice his usual size. He howled loudly, and it echoed around the lonely streets, the sound bouncing off the washed walls and the shut windows and the locked doors, and through the leaves and the grasses and the cracks. The sound went everywhere, and everywhere knew that the old dog was starving and that it was going to come out and get whatever it could.

He set off in a mad fury, his paws barely touching the ground. He ran, jumping over the puddles, wild and driven. He pushed his way where he’d never had the right to go; he forced the openings of the doors he had been locked out of; and in those places, he found the remnants of bones, some still fleshy, but tasty. Tasty enough to calm the interminable hunger that he lived with everyday. And all through the night he ran and jumped and bit into flesh and created wounds until morning came and the town was dirty because of all the crumbs he’d left behind.

And he knew what would be coming next. That the people he’d hurt and stolen from would regard him with fury just as intense as the fury that had driven him to hurt and steal. They’d come and find him and turn him even more into a battered old dog whose hair only is dull even in the moonlight. So as the town was waking up, he made his way back, back to his dark little corner, and he dug his hole a little deeper, so that he could hide a little further.