I woke up pretty late on the day the world changed.

The air had already turned warm and lost its bite form the previous night. The sun was up and shining; the sky blue and clear. I usually woke with the birds. There lived many of them on the nearby trees. Most were gone for the moment, though. It was mating season. I knew soon there would be even more birds chirping away at the first sign of light, making it easier for me to wake up. The gate of Kanti’s home was open, and I could hear clinks and whistles blowing inside.

Only the old man who lived on the other side of the road had his curtains still drawn. He hadn’t been out of his home for much. There had been many people in and out of his home, however. Rusty said he was sick. All I know was that he smelled funny, of sweat, and something suffocating.

Usually, Kanti and I’d go out on a morning walk together, after which he’d share his food with me, but he was still gone and the hu-man who lived with him never fed me on time.

That is why I laid back in the blanket and closed my eyes for some much-needed shut-eye. The night air had been too cold and crisp for proper sleep.

Kanti didn’t like sunlight much —something about dark skin and melatonin. I did. I never understood much of what he said, but I knew the hand that scratched behind my ears and pet my head was always gentle and kind. He didn’t force me, or leash me as Cob had always warned. All he did was love and share, so for me, he was also pack. He wasn’t like the other hu-mans. I knew their bad side. Dimple’s scratches and bruises were proof of their ire.

There was a time when I was also chased by the hu-mans, but Kanti stopped that. He stopped the bullying. For a time I truly believed the homeowners were also a pack and Kanti their leader.

Cob used to say, that is what they do, hu-mans. They share. And though Cob didn’t like Hu-mans much, he still believed sharing was a good thing. That is why we were a pack, because we shared, and cared for each other, not because we were together; and also why I worried. Cob made us pack. But he was dead.

My thoughts proved to be a problem. I couldn’t fall asleep. Perhaps I could have simply kept lying anyway, but then the itch behind my ears started grating on my nerves and I had to get up. Some things can’t be helped. I yawned, scratched the left ear with my hind leg. I couldn’t quite get to the area where it was itching, but I tried. I just wished Kanti would come back soon. His long slender fingers could dig deep into my fur, getting to the source of the problem. He was very helpful.

I left my dwelling when my stomach growled. The inner door was yet to open. Kanti had spoiled me too much with free food and protection.

Let’s find rusty then, I thought. My tail didn’t sway; it was down and flat, giving the ‘I’m not paying attention’ signal. There is a saying between us dogs that the tail knows all. It is true; the tail does know all about the dog. Know the tail to know the dog is another one which is popular, because: a dog only controls the tail, not how it sways.

Rusty lived on the other side of the park where Kanti and I usually spent our morning. However, that day I found him at the dump, digging into the open door at the side of the container, sifting through its contents, and trying to find something he didn’t deem rotten. I didn’t want to go there, but I knew Rusty would if he was hungry, too. The homeowners threw what they didn’t eat into the container, which was emptied every once in a while when it filled. I always waited for it to fill —because only then did I get to see the large monster that ate the garbage. The hu-man who controlled it called it a Truck. I had no idea how it could roar while running or why it followed the hu-man. If I was as gigantic as if I wouldn’t listen to anyone. Cob was very strict about staying away from the Truck and others of its like, and he was right about being scared. I had seen the end of those that didn’t listen to its ear-piercing warning howls.

The dump was a neutral area and belonged to no one. I barked to let Rusty know it was me. Usually, I wouldn’t have needed to, his senses were more than sharp, but the dump stank of rot and everything bad. It was very difficult to differentiate anything from anyone there. Finding food in it was equally a challenge. That is why I didn’t like to go anywhere near it. Also, Kanti didn’t want me to. So of course I wouldn’t, usually.

Rusty stopped digging and raised his head. He stiffened at my voice then relaxed when he saw me. He was breathing hard, his tongue lolling lower than ever. His ears were up, but the tail was slowly swaying. The old dog liked playing more than I did.

Help me? He whined out. He wouldn’t have found anything eatable where he was digging. Everything fresh was inside the container, or in this case, at the top of the pile. He obviously knew that being the one who had taught me in the first place, but Rusty was getting of age and was no longer able to climb up the container.

I sneezed: the rancid odor was getting to me. Rusty whined again, this time to complain. I barked to make him stop whining, then got on my haunches and dashed forward. I literally flew toward the container.

I remembered the first time I had tried to conquer the straight climb. A single jump was not enough. The first time I tried to mimic Rusty I ended up slamming face-first into the container. Speed was not the key, but it surely helped. Climbing a straight wall was a difficult skill to perform, but it gets easier with time and desperation.

Rusty barked when I made it to the top, his ears up and tail wagging in excitement.

There wasn’t much there at the top of the container, however. Most of the things were garbage hu-mans didn’t need and we couldn’t eat. The Inedible blue & white skin which the dumb cow liked to chew was the most in quantity. She said it reminded her of dry hay. I didn’t see the resemblance, really. Other than that, empty boxes and rotting vegetables were the most prevalent. I grabbed a long and white one among a pile of them covered in flies for Rusty to see. It tasted mostly of bitter water. He simply turned his face away.

Not it, then.

I threw it back to dig a little in the trash and found two dried up rotis. That reminded me: I should be heading back soon if I wanted to be fed. I threw them down for Rusty to choose. He did bite one with interest and started chewing but gagged and quickly spit it out. He barked in frustration. I whined. There wasn’t much to look, but his stomach grumbled and I started looking again.

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I had once tried giving him some of what Kanti fed me, but he didn’t accept my offer. He was of the old way —wouldn’t take anything that wasn’t his. Then I found it: A box of biscuits. It was heavy and sealed. It was a surprisingly great find. I grabbed the box and jumped back to the ground. He saw what I was carrying and whined once again, his tail dropping down as did his ears. He thought I was playing with him.

But his vigor returned when I shook the bog and it made noises. His tail wagged and sped up. I growled at him to follow and dropped the box a bit away from the dump where its nauseating sting was only slightly intruding. Rusty handled the box while I sat down on the dry grass with my feet spread out in front of me. He carefully tore the box open, brought it near, and sat facing me. He feasted to his heart’s content while I tasted a few of the round-brown treats, and then sprawled on my side. The treats were salty, too salty for my taste, and my heart was bitter.

I knew the days would never return back to how they were. Usually, I would see Ginger and Cob scavenging for food while walking with Kanti, and later find them sunbathing together in their usual place. Now the sun was already up and shinning but I still hadn’t seen Ginger anywhere.

I had my eyes turned away toward the road, facing the wall on the other side. A rat had just climbed out of the open sewer and was looking around examining danger. Just some days ago I would have rushed to catch it. That day I watched it scribble into the weed and away. I closed my eyes to forget everything but then the itch started and I for a time being forgot what I was thinking until I smelled a familiar hazelnut smell skirting toward us from the right side. Rusty barked, a trusty, I know you, acknowledgment. I looked: it was Ginger. I rolled on my back, paws up; she rubbed her face against mine and nuzzled the box of treats, tasting a few before sitting down to my left.

Where’s Dimple? She asked. I had no idea. Rusty similarly didn’t know. He stretched, threw his legs in front of him, retracted, and yawned, then started licking his elbows. Licking the wounds does work most of the time, but it was his bones that hurt. He told me licking them didn’t work, he just does it for the sake of it. I looked at Ginger—her belly had gotten larger still, her nipples about ready to be sucked. I was going to ask her how she felt when the bell rung and I had to bolt.

Kanti had stopped using the bell to call me once I learned to start waiting outside his home to be fed. His homeowner, however, rang the bell instead because he was never on time. The dump was not far from Kanti's home. Kanti saw to my needs; his replacement didn’t. I was back with a mouthful of warm roti pieces for Ginger.

I usually only ate one of the rounds and warm roti’s (as Kanti called them), and brought the other one to Ginger. She was with Kids after all and needed all the nutrition she could get. The more the merrier Rusty would say whenever she asked him if she was doing the right thing. I was very excited to meet the pups. We all were; especially Cob. I had never met one before. There had been many of them over the year, but mothers are very protective of their pups. Being an energetic one I learned that lesson the hard way.

But what I saw after returning back to them gave me the chills. Dimple had returned… and he was hurt. It was not the usual harm. He was lying on side of the road, with the other two standing over him; Rusty was sniffing the wound on his right side and Ginger was licking his face. He was wheezing heavily. Even his face was scratched from the temple to his lip, which was cut and scabbed. Half of his remaining ear was missing and so the flesh covering the ribs on his right side. Someone had taken a bite out of him, and it was yet to stop bleeding.

I howled at the sight of him. He had never been hurt so much. Dimple's eyes were closed. I nuzzled him with my head. The touch was burning hot.

Who did it? I asked.

Rusty told me. Someone dug up Cob’s grave. He didn’t say anything else.

Ginger brought the roti I had dropped on the way while I sat by Dimple’s side, my feet curled in out of fear for his health.

Give it to him when he wakes up. She said. They were both leaving in a hurry. I inquired and Rusty told me: to see Cob’s grave.

They left at a gradual pace with their tails leveled and ears perked, the hair on their backs standing in anger. They were both nervous and vigilant. What had happened to Dimple wasn’t a hu-mans doing. The homeowners and their cubs had hurt Dimple before, but never to this extent, ever. This was the working of someone’s hate and anger —a beast’s hunger.

They returned a short while later. Dimple was yet to wake up. I barked and they sat down, diligently. Rusty instantly started licking his joints. Although the park wasn’t far, they still had returned too quickly. Rusty was just too old to run.

It’s true. Ginger told me, red eyes set on Dimple. I stared at her without blinking, and it made her nervous as she had once told me. It was also the reason why she didn’t talk much with Dimple. The grave is dug up and it’s empty. She conceded to my curiosity.

We had a few ideas about who could have been so cruel. There were many who didn’t like Cob and many who wanted to get into our territory. Until cob was alive most of the other groups had stayed silent, but his death could have sent the ball rolling. It was all speculation in the end. Only Dimple could tell us who had hurt him so badly, but he was far from waking up. I was afraid he wouldn’t survive the night. He was dead silent and breathing laboriously. His bleeding had stopped, however, which was a good sign. Rusty believed Dimple's life depended on whether the large bite wound on his side got infected or not.

I hoped Dimple would wake up soon, and that the days would turn back to how they were when Cob was alive. Dimple woke up sometime later. When asked about his injuries he said Cob did it. He didn’t say anything else. He drank water and ate the roti I had brought for Ginger then trailed off to sleep in the shade.

Ginger believed he blamed Cob’s death for his condition, and that is what he meant. Rusty surprisingly agreed with her, but I had my doubts. Ginger left while Dimple was still eating. She didn’t rub his face before going. He had upset her. I soon left after her. The day had quickly turned too strange for me and it had given me a headache. I wanted to sleep it off.

In the evening, I went to take a look at Cobs grave for myself and found that Dimple was telling the truth. Under the setting sun, the earthen mound was but a shallow hole, and cob’s remains were indeed missing. All that remained of his presence was a lingering scent of rot. Our paw prints from last night were still there, marking our farewell on earth. There, however, I found another set of prints leading away from the grave. They could have belonged to anyone really; not worth pondering. I sat at the side of the dug-up grave and watched the setting. Nothing happened until I got up to leave. That is when the wind blew from the other side of the park toward me, and brought along an overpowering odor of rot and blood. It made me shiver. I jumped to my feet and shook my body to get the smell off my coat. It helped.

I chased the source of the scent with my eyes and what I saw paralyzed me from head to feet. I saw Cob. He was standing there at the edge of the park, staring at me.