Dog by Gary Lashmar

I’m walking Brian, my brand new golden Labrador dog, down by the canal, steering clear of town in case I run into ‘Mickey Soaper’ or one of the chaps ‘cause if I’m spotted with this dopey looking thing then that’s me a fuckin’ laughing stock, no two ways about it.
It was my birthday on Saturday and Brian was a present from the wife. I don’t want to appear ungrateful or anything but I hate Labradors; just can’t see the point of ‘em at all. I suppose for blind people they serve a purpose, and them poxy adverts for bog roll, but that’s about it as far as I’m concerned. I don’t know what came over the wife buying me it in all honesty, she knows I’m a Pitt-ball man, always have been – I’ve mentioned it enough times, so why buy me a silly dog?
She gave me Brian on Friday, the night before my birthday, soon as I walked in the door she was standing there with a silly grin on her face.
“Now I know your birthday is tomorrow Keith but this present can’t wait until then so you’ll just have to have it now,” she said and I nodded like a benny as she took my hand and led me inside and up the stairs. She had me closing my eyes as well, telling me not to peep and that, and pretty soon we’re in the bedroom and she’s telling me it’s okay to open my eyes so I did - fully expecting to see the Playstation 2 and portable TV I’d pointed out in Dixon’s the week before.
No such luck because sitting in the laundry basket in the corner, big red ribbon round it’s neck, tongue hanging out, weary look on it’s face like you was gonna kick it or something – was the dopiest looking canine imaginable.
“What do you think?” she says.
“Lovely,” I lie. I mean, What could I say? She’d obviously gone to a lot of trouble to fuck up my day so who was I too spoil things.
To be fair I’d be well within my rights to lob the little bollock in the canal. I could say it saw a cat and bolted. I’m tempted I have to say. It’s just I know what she’s like. She’d never let me forget it. It’d be like living with plod: “Oooooo If only you had spent another 5 minutes looking you might of found him Keithy”, or “Oh Keith, if you wasn’t a smoker, do you think you might have caught up with poor Brian?” All that pony. Not worth it. Still … it’s not a closed case.
Look at it now, out for a walk and that, I mean … most dogs love their walks don’t they. Live for ‘em. Well not this little flee-bag, no, he’s just bloody moping the whole time, a look on his face like he’s got the world on his fucking shoulders. He’ll have a couple of fucking bricks on his shoulders if he’s not careful.
I leave the canal path, and cut through the industrial estate, past the cemetery and out by the Storage Facility Unit. This is a huge fucking place about the size of 2 football pitches filled with huge metal storage containers and surrounded by a big old wire fence.
I stop walking. Is that what I think it is? I get a bit closer to the fence to confirm what I think I’m seeing. I’m only fucking right too; one of the container doors is open. I scan the surrounding site, at least what I can see of it from here, and I as far as I can see there’s nobody about.
I nip across to the cemetery. There’s a gap in the fence if I remember rightly. I do and there is. I’m through there a bit lively dragging my four legging friend behind me. Then I’m pegging it across to the container. Nice one. This might turn out to be a nice day after all. I reach the container, hurry inside, and then I’m tearing through the place like a Rick Waller in a sweet-shop.
Inside there’s a cupboard, a chest of drawers, a couple of big old picture frames, a coffee table and stacks of boxes. Lovely.
I’m about 30 seconds into rifling through this gear when it happens:
Suddenly; I hear this colossal, ear blitzing bang and my heart stops beating as everything turns pitch black. Someone’s shut the fuckin’ door on me. I’ve been rumbled here I’m thinking – bang to rights.
Brian barks.
“Shut up!” I shout.
I walk to the door or where I think the door is and trip over a fucking chair. Shit! I get up and make it to the door. It’s locked. What the fuck is going on? It’s dark so I’m thinking maybe this is not the door so I light a match and I find a light switch, flip it on. It is the fucking door. It's locked from the outside.
“All right,” I shout. “STOP FUCKING ABOUT! OPEN THE FUCKIN’ DOOR.” I listen with my ear to the wall for about a minute. Nothing. “OPEN THE FUCKIN’ DOOR YOU SLAGS!” Nothing. Shit!
I’m panicking now, screaming my head off, but still there’s no answer so I starts banging on the wall and there’s this loud drumming echo which someone must be able to hear but nobody comes so I’m thinking this is someone winding me up here, must be.
Then I’m thinking Mickey Soaper or someone must have spotted me and followed me down here on the off chance of a wind-up. Him and his Pit-ball are probably out there now laughing their fucking heads off. Well this is one punter who’s not rising to the bait. I sit down. Fuck him. I’ll wait it out. He’s hardly the patient type, Mickey.
10 minutes later I’m banging on the door again. “MICKEY!? MICKEY? OPEN THIS FUCKING DOOR YOU SLAG! A JOKE’S A FUCKIN’ JOKE. MICK!
MICKEY! ALRIGHT YOU GOT ME! HA! HA! NICE ONE, NOW OPEN THE FUCKING DOOR! MICKEY?”
20 minutes later … D I don’t think Mickey’s out there after all. It’s someone else. Maybe it’s not even a gag at all. Maybe it’s an accident. Why was this fucking container open in the first place? Maybe someone came and picked something up and took it to their car or something, then came back to shut the door and didn’t see me in here. It was semi dark in here after all and if they weren’t looking for anyone being in here and I didn’t shout out straight away and I’m …
The dog’s yelping, shiting it big time, and I’m thinking, shit, it’s Saturday, it’s after five o’clock, and I’m like pretty sure this place is closed on Sundays so that’s me in here till Monday.
I look at the mutt and try to come up with a way of blaming it for the predicament we’re in.
It’s about an hour after the door shut on us that I hear this horrible fuckin’ squelch and turn round just in time to see Scooby fucking Brian dropping a dirty big turd in the middle of the container.
Words fail me to describe the stench it but I’ll have a go … IT FUCKING STUNK!
15-16 hours later and I’m still in here. Not a sound from outside though I was banging on the walls off and on for the first 5-6 hours. I’d had a bit of a sleep but the smell of Brians dump is so rank it’s keeping me awake. I’ve been killing a bit of time by rummaging through the loot again.
2 days now and I’m shiting it big time. So thirsty. Hungry too. Fuckin’ stomach cramps, the lot. Mouths swollen dry and I keep thinking of Bobby Sands and that lot on the mountain who ate eachother.
Brian has just pissed up the leg of an armchair. He’s looking as hungry as I am and more than a little anxious. He keeps pacing about the place and whimpering and I shout at the little bastard to sit down and stop his fuckin’ whining and it does, goes off and cowers in the corner, but an hour later it's up and having another piss and I’m wondering where the fluids are coming from because it’s had nothing to drink that I know of and then it's pacing and it's doing my fuckin’ brain in and this is what I scream at it in so many words but it don’t seem as bothered now, just keeps pacing, giving us this creepy stare about the eyes and thank fuck there's a light in here to keep tabs on the little freak.
The bulb in the ceiling is flickering and I reckon it’s running low, probably not meant to be on for this length of time and I’m so fuckin’ thirsty I can’t hardly concentrate.
I must have dozed off again and flee-nuts is pacing again and looking more and more hungry by the second and he’s stood a few feet away, in front of me, dead still, just staring at me, a horrible evil looking staring it is.
Somebody should have found us by now. Must be days and no sign of anybody and I’m on me feet and screaming but I have to be honest with myself … something at the back of my mind … and the longer I’m in here the clearer it’s becoming. What I’m thinking is … wasn’t this particular container way out in the far corner of the facility site, past the sign that says ‘long-term storage area? And isn’t that area kept for punters who are storing their stuff for long periods of time, maybe even indefinitely? If I was a betting man (which I am) my money is fuckin’ well on this shed being totally in that area. It could be bloody weeks, months even before someone comes along.
The light’s flickering and I know It’s about to go out any second and I’m having a last look around and low and be-fuckin’-hold I only go and find a torch in the bottom of a box on top of a wardrobe so I keep it handy just in case. Overall, the gear in the place is pretty crap which means nobody would have bought it off me anyway which makes me feel 20 times worse for my trouble. The people who own it are probably paying twenty times more for storing this jumble sale shite than what it’s actually worth.
How long have I been here? I don’t know. It’s like I reckon I’m a bit mad mate, bit paranoid and Brian’s on the floor across the other side of the container. He’s bogging me out. Staring. Stop fucking staring!
Man's best friend is his dog. That’s a lie. Who come up with that? Probably that John Knoakes cunt or someone. The mutt’s gone and chewed up most of the furniture. Not John Knoakes - the dog. Eaten half a fuckin’ cushion it has and there’s fuckin’ feathers and gunk hanging from its mouth. Like a nightmare. A nutters nightmare.
The light’s gone out now and I’m shining the torch in the mutts eyes, keeping an eye on things.
Tired mate. Daren't sleep.
Mutt pacing about, had enough of the three-piece-suite it’s been munching on.
I scream at it . “SIT DOWN!” Hurts my throat, fuck, so dry.
Brian aint listening to me. He’s just nipped a bite out of me Adidas Ozweego’s!
Bastard! I kick out. Little fucker is growling mate.
Long slivery tongue hanging out like in Aliens. Saliva. Horrible. Fucking breathing heavy and panting and a frothing mouth and that’s me shiting it.
Fucking Andrex dog but it’s teeth could cut you in two, I see that now, for fucks sakes so that’s me standing up and screaming at it to get off and leave me alone.
I don’t mind telling you I’m crying. The mutt’s is scared no more mate that’s for sure and … and … it’s eyes are boring a fuckin’ hole in my throat.
The End