Today I’m old dog. Weary, with an urge to snap, to bite a passing ankle. I take myself for walks (I’m not on a chain, not yet anyway) but the ties are still there. Worries that trail me like shit on my shoes.

In the yesterdays, I’ve been, cute, puppyish and playful. In need of schooling my husband used to say. Obedient, faithful, dependable. Every day by his side. Always under his feet. Back then, I was often tempted by an open door or swinging gate, the need to feel new wind in my hair or to chase a fresh scent on the breeze.

Today I might sit in the sun, rest my haunches, hackles up, radiating hostility with a scowl on my face. I’ll stay until hunger drives me home or the sun slides behind clouds threatening rain. Until I can face him again.

Most days I’m sensitive to the scents of deceit. I could ram my muzzle in my husband’s crotch to sniff out the cats he’s stroked there, but he always betrays himself with guilty offerings of titbits and treats. I tried picking fights, being hostile with intruders, but a dog can’t tug on its own leash.

Today I’m old dog (a bitch). I could look for a new home. One where the company of dogs is preferred to purring, seditious cats, but I don’t expect I’d find quick rescue. More likely I’d be confined to the pound then, regretfully, put to sleep. Besides I’m too old and unwilling to learn any new tricks.

Tonight I’ll whimper and growl in my sleep. I might dream of digging rough holes in his lawn, or of the time when he pats my head in that condescending way that he has and then I’ll snarl in response. I’ll dream of finding my inner wolf, of the one killer bite I’ve buried for safe keeping, of clamping my teeth on his neck and ripping his throat to bloody shreds.

Tomorrow when I’m squashed in my designated chair, he’ll lean over to pat me. His crotch, in his thin summer shorts near my eye level. I’ll surprise him by the quick way I strike. He’ll holler and flail, but the pain will cripple him, rob him of strength and I’ll lock my jaws and taste the bitter iron of his blood. I won’t let go until he’s passed out, splayed flat, then I’ll drag him outside. I’ll lick the wind and piss on his lawn—piss a little on him, to make him come to, then I’ll lift my head and I’ll howl for the bitches, for all the young pups. He’ll hear their throaty woofs in response, and I swear they’ll be applause in tails beating on floors.

Tomorrow, I’ll head back inside while he stays licking his wounds. He’ll scrabble at the back door, but I’ll ignore his whimpers and whines. I’ll be marking my territory, reclaiming my house, my bed, my favourite chair, and enjoying the treacherous cats’ silence.