Heaven? If only it were that simple.
There's not much more to tell you now. I waited, hidden in the darkness, until they had pulled Reg from the car and saw he had regained consciousness again. He actually walked himself to the ambulance which had arrived by then, and I could see him twisting his head, peering into the gloom, looking for me. The people helping him must have thought he was concussed when he kept asking about the dog he'd seen.
I left the area shortly after, paying one last visit to my own grave before going. I don't quite know why I went there; perhaps in some strange way it was to pay my last respects to myself. It was the end of something for me. The end of a life, possibly.
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Fresh flowers had been placed at the graveside, and I knew I had not been forgotten. The memory of the husband, the father, the friend, would dull with time, but I'd always be somewhere in a corner of their minds.
For me, it was to be different. The memories might still linger, to surface occasionally, but the emotions had changed. My emotions were fast becoming those of a dog, as though, now my search was over, a ghost had been vanquished. The ghost was my humanness. I felt free, free as any bird in the sky. Free to live as a dog. I ran for nearly a day and, when I finally dropped, the last remnants of my old self had been purged.
That all happened at least - in your terms - two years ago. Memories and old habits still visit me from time to time and I remember myself as a man. But now they only return to me in dreams. Finding you last night, tucked away in this hedge by the roadside, dying and afraid of death, stirred those hidden feelings again. Your dying, the aura that's now around you, drew those feelings out, and with the feelings came the old memories, so clear, so sharp. Perhaps you've helped me too, old man; it would never do for me to relinquish my heritage completely. What was it the badger had said? 'You're special.' Maybe he was right. Maybe everything he told me was right. Maybe I'm meant to remember. Maybe I'm here to help those like you. Maybe.
All I know is that I forget more and more what I was and become what I am.
And by and large, I enjoy what I am. I see life now from a different level: knee-level. It's surprising the difference it makes. It's like always approaching a place from the same direction, then suddenly coming from the opposite way: the familiar changes shape, looks different somehow. It's still the same, but has taken on a new perspective. Know what I mean?
I've travelled the country, swum in the sea. Nobody's ever owned me again, but many have fed me. I've talked with, ate with, and played with so many different species my head aches trying to remember them all. I've been amazed at and chuckled over the neuroses in the animal world: I've met a pig who thought he was a horse; a cow who stuttered; a bull who was bullied by a shrew he shared a field with; a duckling who thought he was ugly (and he was); a goat who thought he was Jesus; a wood-pigeon who was afraid of flying (he preferred to walk everywhere); a toad who could croak Shakespeare sonnets (and little else); an adder who kept trying to stand up; a fox who was vegetarian; and a grouse who never stopped.
I've fought a stoat (we both broke off and ran at the same time - otherwise we'd have both been slaughtered), killed an attacking owl, battled with a rat-pack, and been chased by a swarm of bees. I've teased sheep and irritated horses; I've philosophised with a donkey on existentialism's possible influence on art, ethics and psychology. I've sung with birds and joked with hedgehogs.
And I've made love to seven different bitches.
Time's running out for you now; death's nearly here. I hope what I've told you has helped, I hope it's made some sense to your feverish brain. Can you smell that heavy sweetness in the air; it means I've got to go. It's a lady friend, you see. She lives on a farm three fields away and she's ready for me now. It's just a matter of getting her out of that shed, away from the jealous old farmer; but that shouldn't be too difficult for a smart dog like me.
One other thing before I go: I met Rumbo again the other day. I'd been sleeping under a tree when an acorn hit me on the nose; when I looked around I heard a voice call out 'Hello, squirt,' and there he was
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above me, grinning all over his little squirrel face. He showered me with a few more acorns, but when I called his name he looked blank, then scurried off. I knew it was him because the voice - thought pattern if you like - was the same; and who else would call me 'squirt'?
It made me feel good, although I had no desire to follow him. It was just good to know someone like Rumbo was around again.
Excuse me now, my lady friend's scent is really becoming too much to ignore. You don't need me anymore anyway, the next part you have to do on your own. At least, I hope I've helped. Maybe we'll bump into each other again sometime.
Good-bye.
Hope you're a dog!
The tramp tried to follow the dog with his tired old eyes as it scampered away, through the broken hedge, into the fields beyond. But the effort was too much.
His body twisted with the pain and seemed to shrivel within the rags he wore as clothes. He lay on his side, his grizzled cheek resting against the damp grass. A solitary ant, not three inches from his eye, gazed at him without expression.
The tramp's lips tried to smile but the pain would not allow it. With his last remaining strength he brought a shaking hand up, and with all the concentration he could summon he placed a finger carefully over the creature's tiny body, but the ant scurried away and hid in the forest of grass. With one last painful shudder, the old man's breath left him and took his life with it.
He died. And waited.
END
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