My skull is fragmenting like a hatching egg-shell -splitting, splintering, falling away from the sponge of my brain.
And I know Lucy’s is too. Poor, little, toy poodle, whose whole head fits smaller than a tennis-ball in the palm of my hand. How can she understand when she has no experience to relate it to? When all she knows is the discomfort – the audio pain – and that her human won’t stop it. There is no concept of ‘can’t’ in her canine mind.
Especially when her human – the one she’s with - is the one who’s brought her every pleasure and comfort before. And stopped everything that’s been wrong. Taken the pain away.
Wasted days with nothing but the trying to survive.
The human, spastic with disease. Just sitting.
The poodle (“Never call them ’dogs’, they don’t like it!”*) lying in her igloo bed, unsure, waiting. Hoping for some attention.
As the human hopes for love.
And all they have are the hammers and drills of upstairs neighbours wrecking lives for the sake of Mammon. No care. No consideration. For the short space of time left to the creatures below them.
Who only have each other for a minute.
I hold Lucy’s floppy ears tight to her face, so that, for a heartbeat, life feels good.
* I don’t know who coined this phrase about poodles but it’s so true: they really are like humans and far too dignified to be d-o-g-s!