I lift my head up, awakened today in a cold, metal box that smells like French fries. I don’t remember how I got here, or where Patrick has gone. I stand up, my legs crack, they ache at the bends. I shake off my coat and peer out the metal door to the outside. A large bath of water blows cool air and snow onto the land. I’m on a gray block that juts out of the beach, covered in the big boxes I woke up inside of. I can hear the sharp creaks of their doors swaying in the wind, the grinding between them when nudged by a strong gust.
“BMMMMMMM”, screams a large, red and black creature floating on the water, I jump. Walking closer I can see little people like Patrick on top of it’s back, tying down the boxes and eating smoke. Maybe they had seen him? I run along the edge of the bath, up a ramp, and onto the back. A smoke man removes the stick from his mouth and puffs out to his side, the others fastening belts and sweating.
“Oy, aren’t you a cute one,” he says. He places the small, white stick into the side of his lips, bending down and scratching the side of my face. “What’s an old, gray-faced boy like you doing wanderin’ about on Ol’ Red n’ Black?” I tell him about where I woke up, and how I don’t know where Patrick is. I tell him my name and that I’m lost, that I want to get home. “Ho, don’t be mad at me. Only trying to help,” he says. The lines on his face are deep, covered partially by his patchy grey beard. Holding my collar as he reads the tag, his hardy arms riddled with cuts, hair, and dirt. “Oh, King,” he stands back up and takes a bow, “I hadn’t realized I was in the presence of royalty, your highness.” He straightens up again with a chuckle and sucks on the smoke stick once more, he points at my head. “That there’s the crown ain’t it?” He bends down again and rubs the light brown spot on my forehead.
Patrick always called it my crown; a King is someone who wears one. That reminds me, he also’d say I had the fur of an ermine, but I don’t know what that is. I try again to explain my situation to him, but he doesn’t understand. “What do you want, eh? You hungry? I bet you are, old fella,” he says. “Kitchen’s surely got some scraps for ye, be right back.” He runs off quickly into a doorway, my stomach growls hard at the forgotten thought of eating. He came back with a bowl of a chunky white liquid, “this here’s Monty’s specialty, fish chowder. Just don’t ask him what’s in it, it ain’t fish.” He lays the bowl down in front of me and I can’t help but eat it all up.
It reminds me of the meals Patrick used to make for me when he’d pour a tasty liquid that tasted like chicken onto the crunchy brown pellets. I remember that was my first meal, I remember floating then and swimming. The salty air starts to smell familiar. I lick my lips for more as the smoke man sat down beside me, petting my back.
“Ya know, the men and I could make you a good home on this ship, old boy. Might be nice to spend your golden days on the water, but it ain’t no picnic,” he says. His eyes drift toward the beach. “For most of us, we like it better out there. For better for worse, we’d sail with the ship n’ we’d go down with her. Couple of ol’ boys did just that, few miles offshore here not too long ago,” he says. He stares for a moment then burst out a grainy laugh. “Aye, but that’s a sailor’s life!” He pats me on the head again and stood up, his worn boots squeaking against the slick back of the floating creature.
“BMMMMMBMMMMM,” says the Red n’ Black again, making me jump once more. I bark down at it. The smoke man stands up and turns around as dark clouds start to billow out of giant sticks on the creature’s back.
“Christ, settin’ out early. Without tellin’ me of carse,” he says. He grabs a heavy orange jacket and runs off, hollering at other men. I start to run after him, but then I look back at the land. I remember Patrick, how I felt and how he made me feel. I sit down to think and rest, the man turns around to me. “C’mon boy, let’s get a move on!” he says. I tilt my head, then I look again to the shore. The smoke man turns fully back to me now, putting his hands on his hips beneath the long, reflective coat. He sighs, looking back toward the shore himself. “If you have to go, boy, then go,” looking back at me now, “Life at sea just ain’t meant for those with a mind on the shore.” He zips up his jacket some, lights up a new stick between his lips, and waits a moment. Then, turning a corner into the massive maze of metal boxes, he was gone.
I step off the red n’ black just as another man raises the bridge between the land. I ask him quickly if he had seen Patrick or knew where he went when he threw his foot toward my face.
“Watch out, stupid mutt. Git!” he says with a stomp, “Git gone! Dog always coming around…” I ran away, back down along the big blue bath. I ran fast, too fast for these days. A bucket of water sat next to a big red stick that bent high over the boxes. I taste it to make sure it wasn’t salty, then lap up my fill. I saw my reflection, through the ripples in the water. I could see my crown, the black spot around my left eye, my two black, pointed ears. How had I gotten here? Did he leave me? Why do I miss him so much when I can’t even remember his face? The last thing I remember is, I can’t remember. It’s just feelings and instances and flashes, I don’t have a clear path of what had happened, why I’m here. I step back into my box, onto the flattened cardboard I slept on the night before, and lie down to rest. My wrinkles weigh on my brow and coupled with my exhaustion, I fall asleep.
I’m awakened tonight in a cold, metal box that smells like those treats Patrick used to give me, French Fries. I don’t remember how I got here, or where Patrick has gone. I stand up, my old body feels rusty. Peering out the metal door, a large bath of water lies before me. I’m in a land covered in these boxes like the one I woke up in, dim flickering lights blocked by the towers of cubes cast harsh shadows in the alleyways between them.
“I was wondering when you were gonna wake up, King,” says a voice above me. I turn around quickly with a bark, hoping he had returned. But instead, there sat a pair of bright copper eyes in a small black mass. “Sleep well?” he pounces down onto a tall crate, then onto the snowy ground beside him. Light gives no dimension to his feline coat as he moves without a sound, a little bell jingles and gleams on his matching black collar.
“Who are you?” I say.
“Oh, not this again. Ya know, night after night of doing this whole song and dance. You’d think I’d mean a little more to you by now to where you wouldn’t keep forgetting me all the time. Ain’t that right, Bubba?”
“I don’t know about that, Bom,” says a deep bark behind me. I hadn’t realized the huge shadow cast around the cat and I, when I turn around, I feel my canine soul leave my body for a moment. There sits another dark mass, this time brown, panting, drooling, hulking, and furry. His tag dangles from his neck, a shiny letter B. “Hey King. It’s me, Bubba.”
I step back into the box to give myself some space, and they follow me in. The stuffy air was at least warmer than the frigid winds coming off the bath.
“Why’re you still sleeping on that thin cardboard when we got all those comfy pillows down on the other side of the dock? I’ve told you before you can always stop by Bombay’s,” says the black cat.
“And Bubba’s,” says Bubba, “Bombay and Bubba’s.”
“I don’t know you guys, but do either of you know who Patrick is?”
“Patrick this, Patrick that, Patrick used to pour the- the chicken water shit in my food. King let’s head back to my place. C’mon,” says Bombay. Bubba came beside me and lifts me with his snout, “It’s okay King, we’re family.” I follow them down the dock, past other Black n’ Reds, metal boxes, slow waves silent in the dark. On the opposite side of the dock now, we pass a bunch of flowers arranged around a deteriorated, eight-pegged wheel. Bombay and Bubba don’t spare a glance. We start to turn into a dark alleyway and make our way upward, hopping on crates and walking on one of the big red sticks. An aura of light and heat grows as we near an older, rusted box. Inside, there’s a large stack of pillows, a pile of fish bones, and lit candles with wax that spreads across the floor.
“Welcome back!” says Bombay. “You know that sparky thing I found? Well guess who figured out how to use their thumbs,” he says with a smirk as he wiggles the toe pads of his paw.
“He kept at it all day until he finally got it, then the sparky thing stopped sparking,” says Bubba, “At least we have some warmth tonight, good Bom.” He nudges Bom with his snout and Bom groans.
“I’ll never know how you can still be cold when you have that entire fur coat, you see how short my hair is? And you’re cold?” Everyone sat for a moment, soaking in the heat before the next frosty gust. Bombay runs out and gives the metal door a shove with his butt, running in before it closes and sitting atop the mountain of pillows. Bubba looks at him, then at me.
“It’s been colder since you started staying on the other side of the Dock, King,” says Bubba. He stands above me, his drool dripping down despite his stern face. He struggles to speak and comes out as a whine, “Why don’t you at least come over a couple nights a week?” His big snout sniffs, then a tear falls down the hazel fur of his face, dripping down to the cold steel floor.
“Bubba, I don’t know how we know each other. I don’t know very much at all. I woke up yesterday morning in a cold box near the big Bath and all I could think about was Patrick? Where did he go?”
“It’s called an ocean, King,” says Bombay. “You’re too old to keep saying stuff like that.”
“I do feel old,” I say, “my bones ache and I can’t run around much.”
“And you can’t remember,” says Bubba.
“But I remember Patrick, if I could just find him then this could all be a lot easier,” says King.
“Well, you can’t,” says Bombay. “Nobody else can neither.” He shifts around some of the pillows, revealing scratch marks on the wall. “Us three started a tally the day before he left, we kept counting for a while.”
“They offered Patrick a job, King. They didn’t want him living in the box with us anymore. He was gonna be a sailor and he’d said he was gonna bring us home more treats and food than we ever had before,” says Bubba.
“Yeah, would’ve been nice to not dumpster dive for once,” says Bombay.
“So, he didn’t come back? He really left us?” I say. I can feel myself tearing up now, I don’t remember it, but I know how much we went through together. I know he was my life.
“He didn’t leave us,” says Bombay. He stares at the tally. “He died.”
Bubba walks to the back and flops down on his side, staring at the back wall and the scratch marks. Bombay nudges the door open again, down below is the collection of flowers blowing in the frigid wind. “Ship went underwater not long after leaving, we didn’t find out until they put those flowers up. About a year ago now.”
I sit down, resting my aching bones. I can see it now; I remember that scene. I see his face when he left. He patted me on my head, on my crown, and scratched my face. He scratched Bombay under his chin and rubbed his cheeks. Bubba stood up on his back legs, resting his paws on his shoulders and licking up Patrick’s face. He squeezed all three of us together as Bom tried to squirm out. Then he got on that Red n’ Black, just as the big sticks started to smoke on it’s back. A man lifted the bridge as Patrick held on to the railings, he waved at us and told us he loved us. We were a family, that was my dad. I think I can remember him when I was a pup, when he found me. It’s starting to get fuzzy again. I remember when we found Bubba, he was so small then. Then we found Bombay, already grown but beaten and thrown in the trash. He loved us, he raised us.
“King, your memory has been getting worse and worse,” said Bombay, “since Patrick left, every day you wake up like a clean slate. You need to stay here so we can look out for you.”
“So we can be together,” said Bubba. I feel this moment of clarity, the haze is gone but there’s a strong sense of urgency.
“Bom, Bubba, I’m sorry. My mind is going, I didn’t mean to hurt you guys,” I say. I stare out to the ocean now, hoping maybe a ship will come in late and that there was a mistake. A misunderstanding. But I’ve thought that for way too long now, I’m too old to be thinking that way. I have to try and remember what’s here, who’s here, now. I have to try, I’m trying. Please, let me remember this. Let me remember this home we lived in for so long, my brothers who I grew up with. Let me remember them after I go to sleep. I don’t want to forget; I want to be their big brother, like I was. Please don’t forget.
Bubba and Bombay curl up by me on the yellowed pillows, feathers and stuffing lifted by a wind that smothers the candles. It’s dark now, even the moon fails to reflect on the ocean’s waves. My eyes are dry, too dry to stay open, too heavy to stand. I let them close and the whole world is black.
#
I lift my head up, awakened today in a cold, metal box that smells like French fries. I don’t remember how I got here, or where Patrick has gone. I stand up, my legs crack, and they ache at the bends. I shake off my coat, dusted with specks of stuffing. I sneeze a feather away from my snout. The sun shines in through the doors, a beam of light grazing the fur of my face. I stare at the endless ocean through my small slice window. Another gust picks up the feathers and cotton, sending them upward toward the ceiling as they spiral down around me. I look up at them, then notice the scratch marks above the door. It reads,
THIS IS HOME.
