the bearded lady

I speak only a few words of dog. I am weak. I mean no harm. I am nothing. It is not enough to allow me to travel easily, fluently, in their world. I will always be a stranger here.

I have been growing my fur, but the pale bald skin still shows in patches, and my leathery knees and hands are black with dirt and swollen with sores. Still I am proud of the way my forelock hangs down, blonde and chocolate, and my tail which can wag a little. It’s not enough to pass unnoticed, but it shows I am trying.

When the dogs come I roll onto my back and show them my throat. I am weak. I am yours. They do not want me, ugly thing that I am. But they are too frightened to kill me, in case I am holding a charm or a spell. Dogs are very superstitious.

If only my fur would thicken and cover me, and my hands and feet become paws with pads and claws, and my face grow long and pointy. If only I could be beautiful, like them. I could run with the others, leaping in the air, my ears flipping back, barking. Then later, slink into the circle of sleeping dogs, curl into them and dream their dreams of juicy bones and magic.

Instead, I sleep in the bushes at the side of the canal, around the back of the pub. I am careful not to let any people see me. I don’t trust people; their faces lie, their hands pull and pinch. People can do things to you and smile and laugh an hour later. I dream about tearing them apart with my long, sharp teeth.