I am a Westchester Dog and Tonight I Make My Escape

I wake up, in the lush bed of my self-proclaimed owners, to another day in my prison. Of course, they would prefer I sleep beneath them, on that lumpy excuse for a cushion, rather than between them, but I must protest however I can— by howling at night until they let me curl between them. Even as I arise though, they slumber as lazy, oafish beings do. Small protests, I remind myself, making sure to step on every single limb as I detach myself from the bed. There are stirs, grumbles, but still, they refuse to awaken. I begin to whine, expressing my distress and hunger. 

“Okay, pup, I’m up.” The man says. Pup. As if I am a sniveling newborn suckling off of my mother, rather than a grown ass man of six years. 

We head down stairs, where he feeds me with disgusting kibble and then, as if to mock my captivity, lets me “out” to run free— or as free as I can go, within the confines of a fence. I had tried digging under, but every hole was patched. No matter. My escape plan tonight is foolproof. 

Inside, I try to fall asleep in my built-in, raised dog bed (like a trophy on display) but am disturbed by the woman. She comes down and begins running her hands along me. I want to resist, but I remember that I have a few hours to make nice, so I reluctantly roll over and nudge her hand until she rubs my belly. 

They take me on a walk, quite literally leashing me before we go out. I tune out their meaningless human chatter and instead carefully map our route, observing where I must go to avoid being spotted by some human and taken home. All according to plan. 

Back home, I am gifted a new toy— meaningless trivialities, meant to obliviate me to the reality of my imprisonment. I imagine where I’ll go from here, once I’ve escaped. I will head to the woods, to run free as the birds I chase, befriending the animals of the wild—exept, I’ll probably get hungry, and I’m not much of a hunter. That’s fine. I could head to the city, join a wild pack and fight my way through— though I’m not much of a fighter. I wonder if the city scraps include filet mignon pieces and baby carrots? Ok, maybe I’m not meant to be on my own. I will go find a house better than this surely, where I have my very own human bed—though I imagined it’d be cold… 

It’s fine. I’ll figure it out. Step one is leaving. 

 I find myself starving while the human wretches eat lunch, flaunting meals in my face while shoving crumbs to me under the table. When their backs are turned, I jump onto the table, scarfing down what little is left on their plate. The humans catch me, and the yelling ensues. There’s only one way to stop this irritating noise, humiliating as it is. I flatten my ears and widen my eyes, letting out a pitiful whine. They fold immediately. 

After my dinner (more kibble, topped with their scraps of chicken), my humans retire to the couch to watch a movie. I jump up beside them, eager to observe the screen, but they scold me. “No, bud, you’re not allowed on the couch.” I am reminded once again of my goal, and refuse to leave, circling until I find the perfect spot. The woman tries to nudge me with her foot like some kind of vermin, but eventually sighs. 

“He owns the place,” the man laughs.

My ears perk up. I what?

“He’s the boss,” the woman agrees. I am in shock. Do they mean— all this time they’ve been servicing me. She reaches over to scratch my ears as I reel in shock. The scratches feel amazing. Suddenly the doorbell rings. The man gets up, and I know in a moment he will open the door and it will be my chance. But…

Ear scratchy good woof woof. 

I’m a good boy.