Adrian J. Walker - The Last Dog on Earth

Lineker

The machine goes on and BOSH! were away. This is a good bit, definitely. I get the smell firstgraveyard dirt, burned grass, and old lemons fingering their way up my snout. Then I hear the gurgle and roar of the water, the drip, drip, drip into the pot, and I open my eyes and see the green light in the kitchen. Thats another good bit. Its 5:00 a.m., still dark outside, but my heads up, tail wagging, looking at the door, waiting as the coffee fills, waiting, waiting, waiting

And then, finally, the door opens and there he is. There he fucking is in all his fucking glory. What a body. What a mind. What a man. What a fucking god .

Im skittering and sliding, halfway across the floor before I even know Ive left my bed. And hes rubbing his hairy face and scratching that huge arse of his, releasing that heavenly aroma of salt, peat, and tripe thats all for me , and before he knows whats happening, Im in the air and bouncing at himbounce, bounce, bounce until he gets down and gives me a scratch, both hands behind my ears, face-to-face so I get the sweet fog of his breath, a rich soup of saliva and half-digested food thats been marinating beautifully for the past eight hours. And its too much, I just have to lick him, so I do, and he lets me, and its fucking brilliant.

I love him. Reg. My master. Without fail, the best bit.

Reg gets his coffeeUHT cream and three sugars for Reg, being a man of substancewhile I scurry in a daze of ecstasy around his frayed slippers. He drinks it and sighsa good bit because here comes more breath, more bliss for us down here on the linoleum. Im reminded of what he ate last night, which is usually something hot with meat and a lot of cheese or bread or spicesoh fuck me those spices, like ants exploding up my nostrilsand Im dizzy just thinking about it. Because Im hungry. Im always hungry. This is in no small way down to the fact that our flat smells constantly of foodfermented cows milk, mostly. Its our very own house of cheese. But its also because I am a dog, and therefore my throat, my belly, and my tongue are like a single organism; a gnawing, insatiable beast that only lives to consume any fucking thing it comes into contact with. Meat, vegetables, eggs, grain, wood, hair, shityes please, lots of that, ta very muchmeat, concrete, insects, spiders, chicken skin, fish skin, my own skin, Regs skin, fruit, old fruit, rotten fruit, rotten meat, oh yes indeed, crockery, bone, leather, plastic, polyester, wool, sock, pant, shoe, skirting board, and did I mention meat?

All of it. Down my gob, bish bash bosh, thank you and good night.

Except apples. I cant fucking stand apples.

Anyway. Im hungry, and Reg, God bless his fetid socks, knows this all too well. So he fills my bowl.

Now, I will admit that there is an element of tension at this point in proceedings. I have no idea what Im going to get for breakfast. It could be dry, it could be wet. It could be some delicious slop from a plate in the fridge, or fat-smeared crusts from his bacon sandwich. My belly beast is straining to feed, and it has no idea what its going to get. I cant control it, and the anticipation is killing me.

Know this about dogs: this is how we spend most of our existence. We are endlessly at the mercy of things beyond our control. Hunger, thirst, heat, sex, sleep, itching, violence, flying objects, scent, meat . Somethings always there leading us on to the next moment. Act and react, thats what we do.

So I stand on the brink of this new world of breakfast, trembling like a pilgrim father in the waters of Cape Cod.

And then it comes and the smell smashes into me and my mouths flooded and it doesnt even matter anymore. A fucking good bit. My bowls on the floor and Im in it, chomping it, inhaling it. By the time its done, I can barely remember who I am or what it was I just ate, and, quite frankly, I couldnt give a shit.

Nice bit of water for pudlovelyand Im off again, spring in my step, belly beast sated for the time being. Whats next? Reg has opened the curtains by now, so I get up on my hind legs, paws against the glass of the balcony doors so I can see out. Were so high up I can see for miles. My entire kingdom is laid out before me in the creeping dawn, the roads, streets, and terraces crawling about, knotted together like worms in turned soil. I know it all by heart. Every shrub and hedgerow in The Rye, every crevice and tar-caked trash can on the high street, every piss-stained corner, every burned-out car, every fallen, vine-strewn building, every smashed window and human skeleton. I know it all, and I fucking love it.

My names Lineker and I live in South London. I dont know what I am. Bit of this, bit of that, bit of the other. Terrier, retriever, hound. I never knew my dad, and my mums just a big warm, milky memoryher tongue on my brow, pink and wet and smelling of heaven, me crowding against her tits with the rest of them little fuckers, pulling out that rich, white elixir and feeling my strength swell. Ah, me old mum. Probably kicked the bucket now, I expect.