Dog

The Works

I am Dog. At least, that is what I have always been called, by the bird who always came to peck the crumbs off the floor. Every time I see the bird, I feel a little less free. The bird gets to fly wherever he wants, yet, I have to stay here, in The Works. The Works is a place that we, homeless animals, call home. It's an old abandoned barn, that hasn't been used in many, many years. What used to be my golden fur, is now my grey fur, from all the dust that falls on me. I never leave The Works — it is my safe place. I have heard stories — many stories — that tell about, what we call, The Skins. My friend, the bird, would tell me that The Skins are ginormous creatures that rely on technology in their daily life. I, on the other hand, don't need anybody, or anything, to rely on. I don't need anything to help me, right?

I have also heard that The Skins refer to themselves in a... different kind of name. For instance, there's a girl that my friend, Bird, heard and saw. The girl's mother did not refer to the girl as The Skin, but instead she called her Sophie. I do not understand the reason for this. I am fine being called Dog. I do not need a name for someone to know who I am.

I don't need things to change. I am okay with what I have. My name, my home, my friends. Change is bad, right?... At least, that's what I thought...