2002.
A young, pre-teen Connor Gillespie runs full speed through the streets, barking, wearing the dog costume that Grandmommy bought him. He has half a mind to strip it away from his body as he runs, like a runaway prisoner tearing the uniform away from his body.
He can taste it. Smell it.
Freedom.
He got off that leash and he never looked back, and thus far it has been a glorious taste of liberty. Grandmommy would be furious, but that's the status quo with her. The woman seems to love him to death and hate him to death all at once. Connor, despite his youth, recognizes the word upon which they both end.
Suddenly, Connor comes to a screeching halt. Something in a candy shop window has caught his eye, and now he stands in front of it, panting, tongue out.
His eyes begin devouring all the chocolate in that window.
God, he wants to know how it tastes so bad. A curiosity that thus far he has never addressed. If only he had money, or a way to get some. But Grandmommy would not allow that.
Grandmommy always says dogs aren't allowed to have chocolate because it upsets their tummy. Every time Connor insists that he isn't a dog, she tells him he's confused.
That's when Connor goes quiet.
Because confused dogs get the shock collar. Grandmommy says it brings confused dogs right back to their senses.
Connor knows he isn't a dog.
He knows he can eat chocolate.
But Grandmommy insists.
And for Connor, it's easier to just be a dog who isn't confused, then a human who knows he isn't a dog.
“There you are!” A younger Maxine, a few strands of dark in all that gray, cries out. “Bad boy! You don't run off the leash! You know that!”
Connor has two choices.
He picks the easier one.
“Arf?” He says.
“Yes, you have been a bad boy,” Grandmommy replies, clasping a leash to the collar around his neck. “And to think, I was gonna cut your crate time down today.”
Connor knows that's a lie.
“Come on Peaknuckle, baby, let's go home.”
Connor knows he isn't named Peaknuckle.
He feels like he remembers a woman. A woman he called mom. She used to hold him and sing “You Are My Sunshine.” When he mentioned it, Grandmommy said that those vague semblances of a memory aren't real.
“Dogs dream too,” she said. “It was just a dream.”
Connor knows that's a lie.
Dogs don't dream. If they let themselves dream, they end up confused.
Dogs don't dream.
Dogs don't dream.
Dogs don't…
Well, maybe they dream. Maybe they dream of chasing rabbits and good stretches and catching Frisbees.
But all Connor dreamed of was a mom he may or may not have had, who may or may not have sang to him that he makes her happy when skies are gray.
“Please don't take my sunshine away.”
In his heart, he knows that's exactly what happened.
But his mind is pre-occupied with reminding himself over and over again that he is a human boy, and not a dog, and that no matter what she says, or does, when he turns 18, he's getting out.
He's going to go be a human.
He's going to taste chocolate.
He's going to be free.
🐶
2025.
Peaknuckle is 35 years old and rests in a massive, custom-built crate for seven-foot tall dogs. He has been resting in it for many hours. There is a little bed he can curl up on, and a bowl of water. Food is dispensed twice daily.
When he wants to pee.
When he wants to poop.
He has to bark.
Otherwise, he is not to bark under any circumstances.
His mind drifts to the tiny Asian man who wants to sleep with Master who he is no longer allowed to call Grandmommy because he is no longer allowed to speak English, unless under duress or during an emergency in which he must speak to 911 operators.
“We don't want the world knowing I have a talking dog! They'll try to turn you into some kind of science experiment!”
The tiny Asian man is called Pigpen because he is nasty and bleeds a lot. He wants to kill Peaknuckle and Master seems to be all for it.
If Peaknuckle could talk… if he were allowed to say anything, he would tell Pigpen the following:
My friend, you are making a grave mistake. You are a free man and you are sprinting towards a crate that looks just like mine. You want to kill me. My Master seems to encourage you to kill me. That's fine — I want you to kill me too. The only reason I don't let you is because deep down, I know I'm the only thing standing in the way of a perfectly good man and a wrestling legend's neutering.
She's going to put you on a leash.
Don't let her, man. Don't fall for it. Stop this ridiculous contest. If I have to kill you to stop you from getting with her, I will — you might not think so, but I'd be doing you a real favor.
Look, if you end up winning this thing, just bring a fucking gun when you move in and put me out of my misery.
I have lived too long to be a dog anyway.
But I will never stop being a dog.
Kill me.
Kill me.
Kill me. Kill me. Kill me. Kill me. Kill me. Kill me. Kill me. Kill me. Kill me. Kill me. Kill me. Kill me. Kill me. Kill me. Kill me. Kill me. Kill me. Kill me. Kill me. Kill me. Kill me. Kill me. Kill me. Kill me. Kill me. Kill me. Kill me. Kill me. Kill me. Kill me. Kill me. Kill me. Kill me. Kill me. Kill me. Kill me. Kill me. Kill me. Kill me. Kill me. Kill me. Kill me. Kill me. Kill me. Kill me. Kill me. Kill me. Kill me. Kill me. Kill me. Kill me. Kill me. Kill me. Kill me. Kill me. Kill me. Kill me. Kill me. Kill me. Kill me. Kill me. Kill me. Kill me. Kill me. Kill me. Kill me. Kill me. Kill me. Kill me. Kill me. Kill me. Kill me. Kill me. Kill me. Kill me. Kill me. Kill me. Kill me. Kill me. Kill me.
But, Peaknuckle can't say anything. To anyone.
So, if Pigpen were to ask?
He'd get an “Arf!”
And that's about it.