Lost Cause

Content Warning: Homelessness, Food Insecurity, Stray Animals, War Veterans

Note: There used to be 3 POV's but I cannot stand Second Person. I'll be updating the Subtitle with Vocal Soon.

Third Person singular (Present Tense)

On a bitter January night, a man sits hidden away in an abandoned doorway. He rests on a dirty old sleeping bag. Years of use had left it torn in several places, looking nearly as war-torn as its owner. He wears an ancient jacket, underneath which he wears several layers of clothing he’d scraped together, his skin is worn from years of exposure to the elements. One leg rests limply beside the other. He’d lost feeling in it years ago from a stray bullet. He was so important back then, now no longer able-bodied, they forgot him, like a child’s toy. The wind blows and he pulls the sleeping bag and coat tighter around him. Tonight is a frigid night. He closes his eyes once more and pictures the scenes of his life, remembering warm summer days long ago, remembering his wife, allows him to fight through the night.

He hears the click of claws on the pavement like the sound of a keyboard and opens his eyes. In front of him is his nightly companion. She is one of the larger breeds of dog, a Labrador, he’d taken to calling her Sally, like that of his wife. She currently has her head low; a disappointed whine escapes her throat. “It’s okay Sally”, he coos as he pets her short brown coat. She’s disappointed. She’d taken to bring him dinner, stolen from the garbage of a local restaurant. Tonight, she was empty-handed. He hears a cough not too far away and looks to see a woman duck behind a building, out of view. He shrugs and turns back to Sally, opening his sleeping bag and patting the space beside him. She crawls in and he covers them both. Together they rest, societies forgotten ones, comforted by each other.

First Person (Past tense)

I remember that night clearly. It was a cold one, and I’d just gotten off work. I worked at the dinner. I was the closer, always the last to leave. Lately, I had noticed a thin, brown Labrador hiding in the shadows just before the closing shift. She was timid. One night, I saw her sneak like a wolf to the dumpster, where we threw away the night’s leftovers. She grabbed a small bag from within the dumpster and left, carrying the small bag with her. I remember thinking that it was strange; her taking the food instead of eating it right there. The following night, she was there again. From that point forward, I saw her every night that I closed. Eventually, I started leaving small bags beside the dumpster for her, so she no longer had to scavenge in the dumpster. I wanted to leave food out for her, but I was concerned that it would draw attention to her and someone would chase her away.

She always carried the bags with her, grabbing them in her jaws as gently as a mother would her pups. Where is she going? I remember thinking until one day I followed her. I tried to stay far enough away that she wouldn’t notice me. I didn’t want to scare her. Unfortunately, she noticed me and ran, dropping her small package as she went. I grabbed it, hoping to catch up to her to return it.

Eventually, I saw her walking up to an older man. He looked so worn and wrinkled, lying there in the doorway. She walked up to him with her head low and he pet her gently, “It’s okay, Sally.” I heard the man say. A breeze blew, cutting me like a knife. The raw air forced a cough from my throat; the man heard me. I quickly hid, not quite sure why. I left the food at the corner, hoping the beautiful dog Sally would find it, with the promise that I would bring a fresh meal to them both the next day.