Copycat

Dogs are humble companions they say, but when the hound is the walker is it really that way? My mongrel’s jungle is for me a plight to be avoided, nevertheless my companion is boyish with spirit, deliberating to me but I cannot hear it, rationality is obsolete when I’m up to my feat in a shamble of brambles that tangle at angles and mangle… my shoes, no more protection, no interjection. I Persevere. My furry friend guides me and endures all that I do but I do not understand his interior, he seems cheerier then any creature should be in a place smeared with thorns from the dark green ground to the rough trees. As I emerge from the problem at hand I notice an old lady and a middle-aged man. No communication… only reservation despite the struggle being shared, nobody cares, for it must be a mirage or a trick of the light, no other dog would take their owner on such a plight. Yes, I am separate, distinctly different for those who spend their days in lanes that are short and breezy. When will he be tired? It doesn’t matter because I’ve retired from caring, although I’ve made a sudden decision to stop; my mutt is staring. I peer down and notice a collar that is patterned with sharp metal spikes, I follow the lead attached that is being pulled on tight. I see myself, not a canine in sight.