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Returning Home
26 December 2006 16:24I opened up a plastican of ReBeef and turned the miniwave up to 6. A primitive sequenced meatload sizzled up to bloodwarmth in front of my eyes. Even though I was starving, the sight did nothing for me.
I hadn’t eaten anything fresh in over six months. I was forgetting what it was like to be running, to be one with the prey, to feel the life drain out of it with a bloody mouthful of throat, and to watch in almost meditative fascination as its movements slowed and it showered one rhythmically with arterial blood.
Always the same old smells on this tin can in space. Recycled air and dust. It made me feel like my nose wasn’t working. Instinct kept me checking my own scent tags here and there around the airlocks and control panels but there had never been an intruder. Old habits die hard. You can’t teach an old dog new tricks, those humans said. Very true words. Humans had moments of brightness for such a tasty race.
I was starting to feel like one of those housedogs we saw on ‘Earth’. Still a comical name to me after all this time. So literal. No poetry. We put those monkeys out of their misery and liberated our retarded cousins. I suppose the only good thing those ‘humans’ did was kill most of the big cats on the planet and domesticate the rest.
I still had one of those ‘leash’ things pinned up above my sleeping cushion so that I could look at it in the morning and be thankful for the freedom of my race on Canus Prime. Those leashes had become a symbol on our planet after the first images had reached back home. The younger pups had added wearing these leashes to their rebellious repertoire of getting their ears pierced, grinding their teeth flat, shaving and doing drugs. Puppies. They’d regret that behaviour later.
I was one of the last ones back. I was being carried through underspace in a one-body doghouse. I had stayed behind to make sure the cleanup went according to plan. The company had paid me well and I was loyal to a fault if nothing else.
My robitch stopped being satisfying to me about three weeks into the trip. I longed to smell the stink of a lively well-fed kennel bitch with gold incisors.
Just six weeks to go and I’d be back on Canus Prime. My muzzle twitched at the thought. Fresh air, vegetation, and my old pack. Maybe we’d get together and tell tall tales. My tail stump wagged embarrassingly.
The miniwave rang loudly to let me know that it was ready. I drooled automatically at the sound of the bell. The gross ReBeef came out in my dish. I stuck my snout in and started to eat, hardship forgotten for a few minutes.
tags
I hadn’t eaten anything fresh in over six months. I was forgetting what it was like to be running, to be one with the prey, to feel the life drain out of it with a bloody mouthful of throat, and to watch in almost meditative fascination as its movements slowed and it showered one rhythmically with arterial blood.
Always the same old smells on this tin can in space. Recycled air and dust. It made me feel like my nose wasn’t working. Instinct kept me checking my own scent tags here and there around the airlocks and control panels but there had never been an intruder. Old habits die hard. You can’t teach an old dog new tricks, those humans said. Very true words. Humans had moments of brightness for such a tasty race.
I was starting to feel like one of those housedogs we saw on ‘Earth’. Still a comical name to me after all this time. So literal. No poetry. We put those monkeys out of their misery and liberated our retarded cousins. I suppose the only good thing those ‘humans’ did was kill most of the big cats on the planet and domesticate the rest.
I still had one of those ‘leash’ things pinned up above my sleeping cushion so that I could look at it in the morning and be thankful for the freedom of my race on Canus Prime. Those leashes had become a symbol on our planet after the first images had reached back home. The younger pups had added wearing these leashes to their rebellious repertoire of getting their ears pierced, grinding their teeth flat, shaving and doing drugs. Puppies. They’d regret that behaviour later.
I was one of the last ones back. I was being carried through underspace in a one-body doghouse. I had stayed behind to make sure the cleanup went according to plan. The company had paid me well and I was loyal to a fault if nothing else.
My robitch stopped being satisfying to me about three weeks into the trip. I longed to smell the stink of a lively well-fed kennel bitch with gold incisors.
Just six weeks to go and I’d be back on Canus Prime. My muzzle twitched at the thought. Fresh air, vegetation, and my old pack. Maybe we’d get together and tell tall tales. My tail stump wagged embarrassingly.
The miniwave rang loudly to let me know that it was ready. I drooled automatically at the sound of the bell. The gross ReBeef came out in my dish. I stuck my snout in and started to eat, hardship forgotten for a few minutes.
tags
