Stray

HAD TO WRITE IN SECOND PERSON FOR CLASS. THE STORY SHE GAVE US HAD A LOT OF YOU’S IN IT. I STILL FEEL LIKE I USED TOO MANY OF THOSE ALTHOUGH I TRIED TO EVEN IT OUT WITH BITS OF DESCRIPTION.

You feel your spine, that rugged canyon of bones poke from underneath your sagging skin. You lick your paws and stare at them intently. Bits of gravel and rose thorns stuck in between your them, those raw little things that have walked for what seemed like miles. You stroll along the sidewalk with your head down like the branches of some weeping willow, your eyes filled with crumbs of dirt, you’re still not sure what you’re looking for but you sure miss that little girl who’s hands always smelled like leaves after the rain, the one with hair that looked exactly like the noodles she fed you, the one who’s face you’d kiss until it would shine in the sun like the peach on the neighbors tree. Your nose drinks in the city and you try to churn and absorb those smells until you find your destination. The man in the trench coat and torn gloves scoops some canned beef and holds it in the palm of his hand for you to eat from,
“Here doggy, here ya go.”
Slobber drips down your mouth and you almost pick out whatever is left underneath his fingernails. You want more, your belly feels like its being thinned and wringed into some Norwegian fjord that gnaws and growls at your insides. A warm beam of fire coming from the trash can washes through your weary eyes but its orange arms were soon weakened by light rainfall.
You inhale the leather jacket of the man with the mohawk, the beer flowing down the sidewalk drain, the tacos the street vendor with the scar underneath his eye was selling, the overwhelming perfume on the fishnet wrapped legs of a woman, the smoke curling around the face of an infant. There is a hot dog wrapper in an alley and you press your pink nose against it to lick the remnants of the mustard.
“Mommy, he has to be around here somewhere.”
“Honey, we’ll look but we’ve called everywhere. No one has found him yet. Don’t worry, some girl just like you probably found him and he’s doing just fine.”
Your ears perk up and you see the little girl in a white satin church dress wrap her hands around your well fed waist. You see her tresses fall into your eyes and smell the lemons along the collar of her dress. That same scent passes through the alley in a paper thin kind of wisp. You look at your paw and beg for it to gather up the strength to function. Running on three legs you see the silhouette of the little girl in a balloon shaped dress holding her mother’s hand. They walk slowly down the streets with their backs towards you. Whimpering hopelessly you try to open your mouth to mumble those strange utterances you hear them communicate with. Then darkness overcomes your eyelids and the last thing you see are the ruffled lace socks and Mary Janes of a little girl. You wag your tail, huddle in between the corner of the alley and imitate the shape of the curl that hangs down the little girls head.