The Whisper

He watches the sun set; the peachy haze gradually recedes into blackness over the terracotta tiles of the next door neighbours’ second story addition.

He listens, ears straining for the sounds of sundown; the whining hum of the TV, the bumpy rhythm clack of the garage door rising and reversing, and the sizzle of the stove cooking meals that are rarely for him but which he always procures a piece of.

He huffs, breathing the growing darkness in and out of his lungs as he waits. The air tastes different tonight; tangy and moist with a cool sharp cleanness that reminds him of dewy dawn walks.

He sits, the cold concrete step unforgiving and uncomfortable as it leaches the warmth from his bony body. He longs for the comfort of the couch, of snuggling up to warm bodies and drifting off to the rolling resonance of relaxed conversations.

It is time.

Shrouded in shadow he moves doggedly along the street; eyes alert and aglow with purpose and moonlight. Sifting through scrapheaps and unsecured structures, he hunts.

Pacing the neighbourhood, he is attentive to the sounds of the night; scratchy branches bouncing off garden sheds from the westward wind and rubbishy wrappers tumbling along empty footpaths and catching on weedy nature strips.

Weaving through fences and peering through windows, he picks up treasures as he goes, depositing these discoveries and then departing again.

Running on instinct and fumes, he’s driven to assemble and obsess; he feels a rush to possess these things that do not belong to him and yet they do. Maybe it’s the chase? His heart races.

His doorstep mound and the nights multiply as he and his world shrink smaller and grow quieter. This world is made of gumboots, Tim Tam wrappers and muddy dresses; it is littered with broken umbrellas, shoelaces and TV remotes.

It is time to go home.

Depleted and downcast, he weaves warily through the crush of cars blocking the street.

Suddenly stationary, he points, gazing intently at a glint in the tall grass to his right. The scent is metallic and sweet; old and faded but as he approaches it is all encompassing.

He is back where he belongs. Their warm weatherboard is open and alive again. He lounges, bathed in buttery light; safe and surrounded by their voices, jostling and gentle, comforting and correcting. He looks to her for instruction.

She gapes at the TV, the showy screen drawing more devotion than ever before. He watches her eyes and an electric air of urgency grow rapidly, as the TV blackens and a siren sounds. She gasps strangely, a strangled sob piercing his ears as her golden polka dotted dress is dappled with tears.

He shadows her, darting to the window; it tastes of smoke and roars at him as planes soar overhead. They cower together beneath the sill; her arms encircling his broad back as her locket swings, its silver heart rhythmically knocking him on the nose. She cries out to the others but they are sheltering elsewhere and do not heed her calls like him.

Hackles raised and panting, he alternates between reassuring licks to her face and curling up into himself; trembling in unison with her and accepting damp sporadic strokes in the hazy swiftly darkening room.

He starts, as a bottomless boom pulses painfully, shocking him from submission and leaving him hollow but for the terror and skull bursting buzzing in his ears. He feels her reach for him as he bolts mindlessly through the door into the madness outside but then he is gone and so is she.

Crumpling onto the blooming lawn, his tail twitches tentatively as he inhales the waning scent of her. Beaming, he sees her smooth metal heart has resisted rust just as he has withstood starvation and despair in the absence of her.

Lifting the locket tenderly, he sets out; faithfully following the whiff and whisper of her into the wild beyond.