It's early, too early for most people. This time on a Sunday morning, most people are still in their beds. Except for a lone tramp and his dog, the building site is deserted. They pick their way through the debris of rubble and dust on the ground to an abandoned building on the far side of the site. He'd stumbled on the place, literally, drunk on cheap wine, a couple of nights before as he'd trudged around the streets. It was a gaping black hole of concrete and dust earmarked for destruction by the end of the week but for now it would serve as home. The wind had already died down hours ago and the air is calm as the tramp and his dog make their way towards the building. The only evidence that remains of the wind are the broken fronds of palm trees littering the streets. Most people slept through it. Most people except for the tramp who picks up a stick that's been snapped from a tree and throws it for his dog. The dog bounds after it with great lolloping strides, leaving flurries of dust in its wake. It stops, picks up the stick between its teeth and bounds back to the tramp. He throws the stick again and they work their way through the building site in this silent complicity of man and beast. The dog never tires of fetching the stick and the tramp never tires of throwing it.
They continue like this for some moments until the tramp reaches the building and stops. He turns on his heels and whistles for the dog to follow and the dog scampers up with its tail beating behind him and the stick clamped tightly in its jaw. Ducking inside the tramp makes his way to a room at the back with the dog following wet nosed and obedient beside him. He sits down on a mat and empties his pockets, pulling out two tins and a knife from the lining. He stabs one of the tins and a small hiss of air escapes as he works the knife around the rim and empties the contents on the floor for the dog. Then he stabs the other and tips the tin to his mouth, his head pitched back and the red juice of the tomatoes staining his chin as he greedily gulps down the contents. He wipes his mouth with a grimy sleeve and places the can by the side of the mat. Reaching into his pocket he pulls out a bottle of wine and pulls the cork with his teeth which he spits on the floor. The dog watches cautiously as he laps at his meat. Then he clamps his mouth around the neck of the bottle and tips his head back so that the wine can flow down his throat without the need to swallow. The dog sits up and starts to sniffle around the floor, searching for more meat. He licks his paws and thumps his tail and the tramp lays a hand on his head, between his ears, which he draws down the length of his shaggy, matted coat. The tramp leans back on the stained mat and closes his eyes but the dog stirs. He's restless. He moves off on four paws with his nose close to the ground, snuffling through the litter of rusted cans and empty wine bottles. Leaving the room where the tramp lies dozing he pads through the place with his tail held high, occasionally stopping to lift his head and sniff the air. He moves through the building, cocking his leg from time to time, spraying his name as he goes.
He knows this place. Knows all the nooks and crannies. Knows all the good places to dig. And he's moving there now, on softly padding paws to a hidden, secret place at the back of the building. That's where he hid his bone. A dirty scrap of nothing, half gnawed by the rats but at least it's his. His bone. Scampering over the rubble, fallen beams and banks of stones he makes his way to his secret place. He stops and sniffs the air and knows he's close. His jaws, slack from panting, tongue lolling to one side dribbles saliva in a snaking trail behind him. He's closer now, he's almost there and as he reaches the spot he stops in his tracks. He stops dead still, his shackles rising and sniffs the air.
The tramp awakes with a start to the echoing sound of a dog howling somewhere in the building. He pulls himself upright on shaking arms and calls the dog's name. No answer. He waits, his skin prickling instinctively at the hollow sound of the dog's cries. He stands upright, the bottle falling from his lap and shattering on the floor. He curses and starts to make his way through the building, kicking cans and stones in his path, towards the empty howls of the dog. He calls again, louder, his voice bouncing back to him but the dog doesn't respond. He keeps moving, legs unsteady, eyes still crusted with sleep. He trips, he stumbles but he keeps on moving, hurrying through the gutted rooms, to the sound of a baying dog.
When he finds him, the dog is snuffling around the edge of a large pit in the floor. He circles the hole with his front paws scratching on the shattered tiles and his head disappearing inside. The tramp calls his name and waits for him to respond but the dog is still rooting around in the hole. He calls again, louder. Harsher, reprimanding the dog with his tone. And the dog looks up. Finally, he looks at the tramp but he doesn't move towards him, he stays where he is. His front paws scratching, digging, clawing with his tail wagging furiously as he pulls at something with his teeth. Pulls with a growl vibrating inside him and the tramp starts to walk towards him, still calling his name but he's dropped the impatience in his tone. He's curious now. Cautious and curious.
What's that you got there boy? What's that? You got a rat there boy?
He edges towards him, closer and closer, picking up his pace until he stands beside the dog and looks down. He places a hand on the matted coat and the dog sits back, his tail thumping on the ground, mouth open, panting, head cocked to one side. Waiting. The tramp moves closer, gets down on his haunches with his face stretching forwards, peering into the depths of the pit. He ruffles the dog's fur and squints at the thing sticking out of the dirt. He can't work it out. It looks like something, something familiar but he doesn't expect it and he can't quite place it. And then he sees it. He shakes his head. Shakes his head to erase it. Shakes his head to deny it but he can't ignore it and it all comes crashing down on his senses with sickening clarity and those tinned tomatoes, those tomatoes in his gut rise up to meet it. Rise all the way up the protruding arm. Scratched and dirty and limp at the wrist with the elbow twisted and the tattooed petals. The red tattooed petals etched beneath the skin.
They continue like this for some moments until the tramp reaches the building and stops. He turns on his heels and whistles for the dog to follow and the dog scampers up with its tail beating behind him and the stick clamped tightly in its jaw. Ducking inside the tramp makes his way to a room at the back with the dog following wet nosed and obedient beside him. He sits down on a mat and empties his pockets, pulling out two tins and a knife from the lining. He stabs one of the tins and a small hiss of air escapes as he works the knife around the rim and empties the contents on the floor for the dog. Then he stabs the other and tips the tin to his mouth, his head pitched back and the red juice of the tomatoes staining his chin as he greedily gulps down the contents. He wipes his mouth with a grimy sleeve and places the can by the side of the mat. Reaching into his pocket he pulls out a bottle of wine and pulls the cork with his teeth which he spits on the floor. The dog watches cautiously as he laps at his meat. Then he clamps his mouth around the neck of the bottle and tips his head back so that the wine can flow down his throat without the need to swallow. The dog sits up and starts to sniffle around the floor, searching for more meat. He licks his paws and thumps his tail and the tramp lays a hand on his head, between his ears, which he draws down the length of his shaggy, matted coat. The tramp leans back on the stained mat and closes his eyes but the dog stirs. He's restless. He moves off on four paws with his nose close to the ground, snuffling through the litter of rusted cans and empty wine bottles. Leaving the room where the tramp lies dozing he pads through the place with his tail held high, occasionally stopping to lift his head and sniff the air. He moves through the building, cocking his leg from time to time, spraying his name as he goes.
He knows this place. Knows all the nooks and crannies. Knows all the good places to dig. And he's moving there now, on softly padding paws to a hidden, secret place at the back of the building. That's where he hid his bone. A dirty scrap of nothing, half gnawed by the rats but at least it's his. His bone. Scampering over the rubble, fallen beams and banks of stones he makes his way to his secret place. He stops and sniffs the air and knows he's close. His jaws, slack from panting, tongue lolling to one side dribbles saliva in a snaking trail behind him. He's closer now, he's almost there and as he reaches the spot he stops in his tracks. He stops dead still, his shackles rising and sniffs the air.
The tramp awakes with a start to the echoing sound of a dog howling somewhere in the building. He pulls himself upright on shaking arms and calls the dog's name. No answer. He waits, his skin prickling instinctively at the hollow sound of the dog's cries. He stands upright, the bottle falling from his lap and shattering on the floor. He curses and starts to make his way through the building, kicking cans and stones in his path, towards the empty howls of the dog. He calls again, louder, his voice bouncing back to him but the dog doesn't respond. He keeps moving, legs unsteady, eyes still crusted with sleep. He trips, he stumbles but he keeps on moving, hurrying through the gutted rooms, to the sound of a baying dog.
When he finds him, the dog is snuffling around the edge of a large pit in the floor. He circles the hole with his front paws scratching on the shattered tiles and his head disappearing inside. The tramp calls his name and waits for him to respond but the dog is still rooting around in the hole. He calls again, louder. Harsher, reprimanding the dog with his tone. And the dog looks up. Finally, he looks at the tramp but he doesn't move towards him, he stays where he is. His front paws scratching, digging, clawing with his tail wagging furiously as he pulls at something with his teeth. Pulls with a growl vibrating inside him and the tramp starts to walk towards him, still calling his name but he's dropped the impatience in his tone. He's curious now. Cautious and curious.
What's that you got there boy? What's that? You got a rat there boy?
He edges towards him, closer and closer, picking up his pace until he stands beside the dog and looks down. He places a hand on the matted coat and the dog sits back, his tail thumping on the ground, mouth open, panting, head cocked to one side. Waiting. The tramp moves closer, gets down on his haunches with his face stretching forwards, peering into the depths of the pit. He ruffles the dog's fur and squints at the thing sticking out of the dirt. He can't work it out. It looks like something, something familiar but he doesn't expect it and he can't quite place it. And then he sees it. He shakes his head. Shakes his head to erase it. Shakes his head to deny it but he can't ignore it and it all comes crashing down on his senses with sickening clarity and those tinned tomatoes, those tomatoes in his gut rise up to meet it. Rise all the way up the protruding arm. Scratched and dirty and limp at the wrist with the elbow twisted and the tattooed petals. The red tattooed petals etched beneath the skin.
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