The Black Dog

The first pet I ever had was the Black Dog. The Black Dog comforted me, consoled me with his paw and held me close within his tattered fur. He was the blanket that kept me warm through winter and prevented me from burning during summer. He knew my darkest secrets, my blood, my worries, and he kept them all safe. The Black Dog was my sole companion, and he couldn’t bear my absence.

When I left home without him, he’d bark and cause catastrophe as he shook off his collar, tearing loose from his leash. There was no one who could catch him as he frolicked down the street, following my scent with persistence. Oh, he just couldn’t be restrained!

I’d find my Black Dog with haste and he’d soak me in his slobbery kisses — so snug and comforting, like pissing your pants or nursing a hot water bottle — neither of which will keep you warm for long. I’d walk him home from the street corner with my head bowed towards his leash. He was an embarrassing boy but a good boy, nevertheless. He was my first pet, the only companion that I truly adored.

• • •

During my daily absences, I’d chain him to the back of the house with treats to keep his appetite satisfied. I’d leave him, promising to be back soon; he’d wag his tail in agreement.

The treats never lasted long, though; his appetite could only be satisfied by my psyche. The pound was called and I’d have to plead with them to let him free.

‘Please! He just wanted to keep me safe,’ I’d tell them.

‘If we see this dog on the street one more time, we’ll have to report you!’

‘Really, he’s harmless. He won’t hurt anybody, I promise,’ I’d say.

The pound officials would look at me with concern, not sure how safe the Black Dog and I would be able to keep each other.

• • •

After visiting my general practitioner, I agreed to leave the Black Dog at home — with an endless Schmackos supply — to go on a holiday. I arrived in a place where the sun shined with a warmth that I couldn’t resist. After the first day, I got heat stroke. I spent the next week tossing, not wanting to drown in my own sweat and vomit. I couldn’t sleep. My head swam around the toilet bowl while my hair collected remnants in waves of what my stomach couldn’t keep down. I contacted the general practitioner who’d arranged the holiday and we decided it best that I discontinue the trip they’d prescribed for me.

I arrived home sunburnt and pining, rushing to the Black Dog for comfort. He didn’t smother me as usual; instead, he stuttered to tell me that he’d shacked up with Anxiety, a beautiful blonde mutt. While she was no angel, we hastily dubbed her the White Dog. I adopted all of their puppies to local families, except for the one that no one was willing to take. I kept him; he felt that he belonged to me. He was the black-and-white pup who’d taken after his parents: Depression and Anxiety. Suddenly, my Black Dog didn’t chase me when I left him but rather encouraged me to harbour their runt.

• • •

The Black Dog moved next door with his new family and they became tremendous neighbours.

‘Welcome home!’ he’d call out over the fence when I returned in the evenings. ‘Why don’t you come over for a glass of wine?’

I could see his tail wagging between the wooden pales.

‘Alright, but just the one,’ I’d say, half to myself and half to the Black Dog.

It was never just the one.

‘I’m sure you’ve had a long day. Can I fix you a drink?’ the Black Dog would say, greeting me with Colombian chocolates and red roses.

‘Let me take your coat. Why don’t you settle in?’ he’d say as his tail spun.

I’d oblige under the weight of his fur, reclining into their leather sofa with its subtle stitching just wide enough to swallow me whole. He’d ask me if I’d like to stay for just a few days, since he and the White Dog could see just how much their pup had warmed to me.

‘Sure, why not?’ I’d agree as the Black Dog cracked open the second bottle of Chateau Mouton Rothschild, filling my glass with poignancy.

• • •

The following morning I’d wake without the slightest desire to leave.

‘It’s a beautiful home that you have. Mind if I spend another night here? It’s so comforting and you’re such tremendous hosts — I’m sure that no one will notice or mind.’

The Black Dog would saturate me in waves of stale saliva, swirling nostalgia inside of me before regurgitating my psyche onto the shore of existentialism, just as I might’ve done with the breakfast they’d serve.

‘Of course you can. Stay as long as you’d like!’ the Black Dog would say. ‘Don’t rush — we have everything that you might need right here.’

The strength within my sighs spun his tail around like a propeller as I surrendered for another day. Misery loves company.

‘Anxiety! Would you come here, please?’ he’d call to his partner, and the White Dog would come galloping.

‘What is it?’ she’d say, wriggling her paws.

‘Mikaelie’s going to stay for another night. Would you please be a darling and get the cigarettes and another bottle of wine? We must take good care of our guest.’

The White Dog would rush to the kitchen, returning with her paws full of home remedies. She’d hand me a lighter, and I’d reach for a cigarette, right there in the middle of their lounge room.

‘It’s alright, darling…’ she’d say. ‘Let me get you a glass.’ She patted me on the back before returning to the darkness.

Their black-and-white pup would gnaw at my toes, weakening my stance. ‘There’s nowhere else you need to be; don’t worry,’ he would say as he stared deep into my swollen eyes.

‘You’re right, pup. You’re right,’ I’d agree, settling into the home that housed my illness.

Mikaelie Ayshar Evans moved from NSW to Melbourne, where she embraces the winters by writing poetry, drinking wine and waiting for sunshine.Though most of her published works are music journalism, Mikaelie enjoys content writing and reliving her past through crafting personal essays and prose.