Done

Duke, the dog.

Hello, peeps! Hope you're having a wonderful day!

This story is a different idea than most of the stories on wattpad who're narrated by actual human beings! Pfft! This story is from the perspective of a dog named Duke, and I hope you'll enjoy his story.

-.-.-.-.-

This morning is different.

After an extremely long time, I can smell the flowers of the garden ahead instead of the bitter, stingy smell which always comes from the dark, murky yellow bottles that Jack brings home.

The pleasant floral smell takes me by surprise. I am thrown back by nostalgia, remembering the first day I had smelled this smell.

That day was different, too. Peculiar.

Ever since that day, I had my own small plastic bed at the side of a bigger wooden one, instead of sleeping in a metallic cage which gave a strong smell of some soap that never really cleaned any of the mess that my two friends and I made in it.

Ever since that day, I didn't get even one, let alone the scores of pats and scratches that I used to get before.

Ever since that day, I had a bigger cage from which I've not been excused for walks, like I used to be from the smaller one.

On instinct, I had begun to hate that smell, but I was naïve.

Today, it's different. Unique.

I sniff around to find the source, but it seems as if I'm smack in the middle of a garden full of dewy grass, blooming flowers, and moist soil, because that's all I can smell.

It feels strange to think that I am at the other side of the high cemented walls and wooden doors. New.

I try to paw the things around me, careful with each step so as to not trigger any more of the yelling that I had to hear yesterday. It was the type of resounding yelling that one remembered as long as they live, loud and echoingly clear.

It was all my fault too, so I feel bad for walking towards his yellow and grey self when he didn't want me to.

Yesterday was a night I can't think of ever forgetting, not till the day I die. It's just so vivid in my memory, playing smoothly like the moving, blue-yellow pictures on the big, flat screen which is hung up permanently in front of the long and thin, oddly dark grey, and small, fabric bed that no one really sleeps on.

He had said something in his own language.

"I can't believe I'm talking to my dog about it, again!"

Needless to say, I didn't comprehend a single word.

He kept on going though, looking down from his position on the fabric as it continued to sink under him. It sounded a lot like springs pressing down together under some ginormous weight.

"I've talked about her so many times to you,  but I am still the same coward who'd cry if a therapist asks about it. I don't think I can talk about it to anyone else, and I definitely don't want to try. She shouldn't have left me like this. Not the way she did. It was so... sudden, you know? They want me to talk to them, but I can't!"

At that he had let out a huge breath, spreading a smell similar to the scraps I had earlier, around.

"Nobody seems to get it, talking about it has never brought more good than harm. But you get it, right?"

He looked at me, and I saw the expectations in his eyes, like I used to in different people's faces when they entered the store in which my cage was kept.