The Man Who Kills Dogs

More than I would care to try.

That’s why I have to kill the Man Who Kills Dogs.

I have never once killed another living thing, never even thought about such a senseless act. I don’t think I’ve even so much as stepped on a bug knowingly, but I yet I know - I have this creeping feeling inside - that I have to take his life and take it soon. He took Barney away and, whilst I always understood that he was an old dog and would pass away long before I did, I had always assumed that I would be there when it happened, helping him transfer his existence to a better place.

The thing was... Barney was a dog, sure, but he was never my dog and he often went off on his own. It was better that way. We had both, in our own ways, learned to limit our trust toward everyone and everything and as such we understood that if and when we tramped the streets together, it was because we wanted to. He still had his own life to lead, his own path to follow, as did I. Sometimes he might be gone for an hour, sometimes a whole day, but he always came back, because I think he cared for me too. I think he understood that whilst my upbringing might have been markedly different to his, inside we were essentially one and the same.

Like I say, he had a good nose.

Except that a few weeks ago Barney decided to set himself on one of his trails, following that keen nose of his into the dark unknown most of us fear, and he missed a scent. He missed the scent of trouble.

The scent of his own death.

He never came back.

I have chosen my location well today. I am far enough down the alley for my attack not to breeze out into the busy streets and cause unnecessary alarm to those who might (or might not) come running, and I have found a corner where even the low light has been completely stolen by a group of trash cans. My body is hunched so tightly back into this temporary den that it hurts my back, but I know I must not be seen by him until it is too late. He has a bat and I have no weapon but my anger. I will wait here patiently and silently as he makes his way down and will not leap out at him until he is standing directly in front of me. I am sure of only one thing - I will be on him before he has even had time to draw a breath of surprise.

I do not need to stick my head out into the open and check his progress toward me, because I know he will follow this dark alleyway to the very end. To his own end. The homeless, myself included, follow routine as stringently (if not more so) than those who wear suits or uniforms of rank. We all have our haunts and, like living ghosts I suspect, we sneak through the discouraging shadows and search for the things our bodies crave. Routines change, of course they do, but they rarely do so with any degree of frequency. Mine has changed little during my time on the streets and I suspect that his is the same. I do not feel the need to peer forth from my lair just to see his face again either.