The Illustrated Dog

My dog's a Labrador.

I called him 'Ray' after my favourite writer - 'Ray Bradbury'. I've always wanted a Great Dane, but Ray's the kind of compromise I'm glad I made.

He saved my life once, when I accidentally ate an ounce of dope. It seemed like such a cool thing to do - smoking always gave me headaches so I thought I'd try eating it instead. I tried a small bit, about a teenth, and waited for about half an hour. And ...nothing. So I had some more ...and still no effect. It must've been working, because, before I knew, I'd eaten the whole ounce. Maybe the munchies kicked in before the high, or maybe I was getting stoned, and I was concentrating so much on the hit you get when you smoke that I forgot to notice the much slower but much harder kick in the balls you get when you eat it. But the ounce was gone and the walls were seriously starting to creep and, by then, it was way too late.

What followed was the worst and longest trip I ever had. The fear came in waves, and it was the only time I ever heard voices - it was so fucked up, I swear it changed me forever. I'd never had panic attacks before, but I've had plenty since, so I can only assume one thing, and one point in time, and the reason for my inability now to deal with certain situations. It's not supposed to be possible to OD on hash but I bet no-ones ever been stupid enough to eat an ounce before - I spun out just when the ringing in my ears was turning into one huge boiling ocean of noise. I could've died, but I woke up hours later with Ray whining and licking my face - he must've been doing that for hours. Good Ray. Good faithful Ray.

Ray’s a golden Labrador - he’s quite handsome when he’s not rolling around in shit, or jumping in mud, and then he just stinks of wet dog, and whatever else he’s found to play with, but he wags his tail, and barks, with a little hop, and you can’t help but laugh. There’s nothing he can do that can’t be forgiven instantly. I wish people were like that sometimes.

I can’t say I live alone, because Ray lives with me. Our conversations are simple, but rewarding, and he always says the right thing.
“Do you love me Ray?”
“Fancy a walk Ray?”
“Hungry Ray?”
“Who’s your daddy Ray?”
The answer is always a bark, a wagging tail, a lick. “Yes” in dog language. “Yes.” “Yes.” “Yes.”

Going for a walk is when I am most proud. He scratches the door, swirls around, and I know it’s time for an adventure. I wouldn’t go out otherwise, but Ray’s my support, he’s my confidence. There’s a lot of nastiness out there, but he doesn’t see it that way – it’s just a whole world of fun to him.

I used to carry a starting pistol around with me. I heard about this guy who got mugged on the way to the chemist to collect his script. Poor guy - he lost some teeth, and got bashed up pretty badly, and they took nothing – not even his script. The pistol was my confidence then, but I always wondered whether I would take it out of my pocket, or just accept the beating out of fear of things escalating - loosing teeth is one thing, but it can get a lot worse.

But all that was before Ray.

The problem with Ray is that everyone’s his friend. I let him out on his own sometimes, and he comes back, but I don’t know where he’s been, or who he’s befriended. There are some things he can’t tell me, and I wish he could, and all I have are the clues he sometimes brings back - like traces of chocolate on his face, and licking his lips, or burrs in his fur, or he’s wet again but is hasn’t rained in weeks.

So, one night, I let him out. I’m not too keen on the dark, but to Ray this is just another excuse to have more fun. I locked the door after him, like I always do, and I waited, like I always do – I can’t relax when he’s not with me. But I waited too long. And then I started getting nervous - Ray knows I worry, and he always comes back, but not that night.

I waited for hours. I called for him out the window and I rattled his food bowl, but he didn’t show up, and I laid awake all night, curled up on my bed, listening for any sign of Ray’s arrival.

I just couldn’t help thinking the worst.

It was about six o’clock in the morning when I heard the scratch at the door.

I opened the door and there he was.

He was bleeding from the mouth like somebody had kicked him, one of his eyes was half closed, and some bastard had spray painted him.

All matted in his wonderful golden fur, it read, in blue spray paint, “HIPPY”, with a large peace symbol painted on his other flank.

I wanted to cry.

He looked at me, and barked, and wagged his tail, with a little skip, and I couldn’t help laughing – he was my very own illustrated dog.