My master is on his way to the Saturday Markets. To by vegetables for my lady to cook for dinner, we are walking through these sunny streets.
Through the midday glare of the unusually temperamental spring, I hear a shrill voice.
"Collette!" I turn me head, startled, I strain against my lead to get a view of whoever managed to say me name in such a way. This dog who called for me, she pronounced me name like my first family did. They do not let the sounds roll off like some French soup, they do not drag nor sharpen the vowels. This dog has barked my name with the accent of my first family. I am spinning my head around while keeping up with my busy master; I am try to see this dog before I have to walk around the corner.
But the only dogs I can see right now is a shaggy grey in the distance, a collie running beside a young child ahead and a…a dog who is currently wrestling with her master in such an shameful way, it seems she is determined to disobey her order and come to- she has broken free, and is now flying, lead streaming out behind her to…me.
I'm trying to place this dog, but I cannot, she is brown like no one in my family was and as she comes closer, she is big like only my father.
And she comes closer still, and her muzzle is brought out of the shadows of the looming church and I recognise her. Annette.
"Collette! Collette!" She skids to a halt in front of me and I fully realise how she has grown.
She has grown wild and strong, she has grown so that my head come to her shoulder and she has grown rich brown, so much that I think I see red halloing her when the Sun hits just right.
What is she expecting me to say? To respond to her appalling behaviour in what way, exactly? No sort of conversation is possible, not with my master trying to slap her away and her human now having caught up, lunging for her collar.
She is throwing herself into this, even when she is being pulled away by her neck, choking herself. Her words shock me.
"Are you fine?" It is not in the way of 'how do you do?' or 'are you going well' what most people greet each other with, it's in fact in the way of a pure, animistic need to know that are you well?
I do not get time to answer my sister, because I have been dragged around the corner by my master who is hurrying to distance himself from the unruly and unbecoming man and dog. Of course, did you not see her master? He was obviously the highly gossiped about Mr Swift, a scoundrel unfortunately born into a high class standing. Pathetic.
Poor sister, she, of such dignity, has fallen and been forgotten, to be owned by one such as Mr Swift. Poor sister.
I had not any time to answer her, but I realise as my master browses the market place, when she asked that question, my guard had slipped.
My face would have said it all.
So we carry our dignified way home, walking many more necessary miles than the usual side walker for we cannot possibly be seen walking through lower class neighbourhoods. No, couldn't possibly, that would be… ridiculous.
Soon we come to our, rich, white, Christian house, like all the other houses along the street and like all the people who live inside their holy walls. My chain is unbitten and I am allowed to make my way on my own accord. A luxury I am grateful off after the last months where I had to live on the chain because of bad behaviour.
The master's Lovely Lady is humming a lullaby in a cat like voice and I know my pups will not be in this room. I trot, making sure to be quite, further down the halls looking for my two pups. I find them upstairs, up on the window sill and looking out at the view of the entire yard and neighbouring gardens.
"Mother!" They cry and tumble their pudgy way over to me; we all sink down into the shaggy mat and rub faces. I remember when I was pregnant, horrified so much that I come down with the flu, that one of my pups would end up looking like my father, not-pedigree to say. Oh, those had been worrying, worrying months. Because I knew my masters loved to flaunt their class…but they were poor on the inside. Their wooden floors are cheap pine not the expensive rosewood of the neighbours, their curtains were hand made by the Lovely Lady to mirror those of the actual manor houses.
Oh, they are certainly high class people, the coats of arms and family crests that decorate our hallways are certainly true. But they have an Uncle Henry see, which wasted the family wealth way on women and adventure. These people chose to put up a fake front, chose a life of internal debt to the banks to purchase this prestigious plot of land.
I was also one of those elements of wealth that they had to substitute on. Everyone around has pedigree, pretentious dogs of all the honourable breeds. I look pedigree, but came at half the price. In every way, perfect for my masters.
That's why I worried, because my masters would not accept a pup who revealed the true inside of the family, that they were cheap and shallow, greedy for social standing.
When I gave birth there were three, cream, cream and grey. The next morning, there was only two.
And so began my bad behaviour.
I have learnt my lesson now. Mourning over one of my pups shall lose me time I could be spending raising my other two.
Sometimes, it's better to just accept it.
I help them waddle down just one of the long halls of our home. We pass an innocent drawing room, the white curtains swaying in the soft wind. Fear shoots down my spine, not matter how much I try to ignore it. This is the room of the deed, this is the room which my owners locked me in, this is the room where the strange male spaniel told me in remorse of what, exactly, my masters expected of me.
Sometimes, it's better to just accept it.
I got two beautiful children out of that deed, but at times I wish it had never happened. It really disintegrates you…to ash.
The steady knowledge that after this litter, he shall be brought around by the human's again, there shall be another litter, than another visit and it shall continue for as long as I continue to be fertile. Yes, ash indeed, like I am a great, beautiful log that has been suddenly dumped onto burning coals. Slowly blackening and peeling away, becoming nothing more than ash.
"What have you been doing while I was away?" I asked my seemingly growing by the day pups. White and red with very long ears, short noses and black eyes; they were the most well breed and pure pups I could ever hope to produce. I was so proud of Silas and Willmare, but the two boys could not hope to ever fill the hole that their grey sister had left. The masters had most assuredly drowned her, as was the case for all unwanted pups.
We are dogs, King Charles Spaniels, who do anything for a treat and shank off a kick. We are breed to be submissive and gutless, as the humans liked their lapdogs to be.
The thing was, we small spaniels descend from gun dogs, beasts who weave amongst the thudding hooves of the hunts and those gun dogs in turn came from the wolf.
And, I think with narrowing eyes as I hear one of my young human masters bounding up the stairs; I am also half street dog.
I have finally become proud of that fact, for while only the tamest spaniels were allowed to breed, only the most vicious street dog had successful pups. I nosed my children into a nearby room and under one of the unused guest beds. The young master coming up the stairs was fond of throwing my offspring up into the air and sometimes failed to catch them in his clumsy, chubby youth.
I crawled to the furthest corner of the bed's dark under belly, lying on my side and allowing Silas and Willmare to suckle the last of my slowing milk. I heaved a heavy sigh, upsetting abandoned cobwebs, and let myself feel disgusted that I felt the need to hide in my own home.
Home. I think I will stop calling it that.
Eventually, with the comfort of the darkness, their full bellies and their mother's warmth, my children drift into sleep. But I, I remain awake, for I have troubles to think through and horrors to keep me from slipping into slumber.
Dreamland is not open for me any more. But it is for them, small and soft, helpless and happy, wonderful and wondering.