Another brilliant piece from a GUNNAS WRITING MASTERCLASS WRITER.
Once upon a time there was a dog who thought he was a man named Steve. He had chosen the name himself, after his favourite cricketer. Steve loved cricket. There was something about it that just spoke to him. Steve was a fielder. He sometimes thought that nothing made him happier than running after balls.
This made office work rather dull. It was drag for everyone, as Steve knew only too well from the walk around the coffee machine, but it was really, really hard when all you wanted to do all day was run around after balls.
Steve’s office didn’t even have a window. But he realised this might not be a bad thing – being able to see the park all the time may have pushed things from bad to unbearable.
Every day Steve had to walk past the families and the trees and grass of that park. There was one tree that he always stopped at. Not to do anything; just to sniff. He could find out a lot that way – who was around, who was getting some and what meat was cheap at the butcher.
One day as he walked past, the tree had a message for Steve, a message of love, of longing, of need. Steve stood there for a good five minutes, just inhaling the message.
Signing off on the accounts that afternoon took him much, much longer than normal. Steve kept drifting back to his message.
He knew that she wanted, he knew where she had been, but he didn’t know where she was…or who she was.
He just knew that he would know her when he smelled her.
Because of that, Steve kept his nose to the ground for the next few days. He took more works than usual. He got up earlier. He also took the unprecedented step of having a quiet pee behind a tree in the park. The homeless man in the sleeping bag under the adjacent tree was quite surprised.
But to no avail. His mysterious someone didn’t turn up.
Days passed in a steady stream of accounts, audits, orders and reports. He signed forms in triplicate. He gave PowerPoint presentations to yawning faces. All was as it normally was.
Steve found it hard to focus. His work suffered. A steady drum beat of questions pounded in his ears. Who was she? Where was she?
Slowly, her scent faded from the tree.
And because of that, Steve’s hopes began to fade too. His ears drooped. His tail hung loosely under his jacket.
But one morning, on the first warm air of spring, he caught a whiff – just the faintest trace of her. She was somewhere within the nearest mile, he judged by the air currents, and she was south.
He looked at his Blackberry. He had no meetings until 10. Dash it, he would be late in today.
He pointed his nose to the south and set off.
After only a few blocks the smell grew stronger, richer, more complex, until finally he came to a small house with a green front door.
It was being locked by the finest bitch he had ever seen, from her pillbox hat to her neat navy pumps below a sharp pencil skirt.
Their eyes met. In spite of his best efforts, Steve’s tail began to wag. And he could see hers twitch beneath her jacket.
‘Easy, boy!’ he whispered to himself, and trotted forward to meet his future.