The Brief: Write from the perspective of a 15-year old Papillion dog being left with the neighbours for the afternoon. 

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The Date: Unknown.

Weather: Moody AF. Stormy, brooding.

Location: Hamerstraat, Amsterdam Noord.

 

I was with the babysitters — neighbours of ours two doors down (though technically one of these doors led to an empty room, so I’m not sure if this counts). It had been a good day. Food, water, walkies, and as always, a couple of extra biscuits since it was the weekend. My poop earlier had been similar to a small twig, which left my caretaker wondering whether it was even worth picking up. They put the inside-out bag on their hand, and did the right thing. Good boy.

As the afternoon clouds rolled in, I could taste the humid thickness in the air. Since my tongue hangs out the side of my mouth these days, it’s much easier to pick up on environmental flavours. Caretakers opened the window, unafraid of the storm coming in. Brave neighbours. But the real hero of this story? Me. I sat, for hours, perched on the window sill, looking out over the River IJ. I was busy retelling stories in my head of past lives as a captain’s dog, fierce battles at sea, lands undiscovered until I, Richie, set paw upon them. 

 

I looked majestic, sat in that window, on that unremarkable afternoon. That is all.
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