Death Row: Who would want a stray dog like me?

I was captured a few days ago and have been here ever since. They haven't told me what I'm suspected of doing, but that doesn't surprise me, because they hardly ever talk to us.

The food here isn't bad. It's better than what you get on the streets. Before I lost my home, I wouldn't have touched food like this. I was used to much better. Like most of us, I had a family.

I don't remember much about my childhood, but I do recall that my mother was very affectionate. However, we were quickly separated and I ended up living with strangers. They were kind to me, as were their children. I was accepted, and we played wild games together. I felt comfortable and believed that things would always stay that way.

As I got older, I sometimes got into trouble because of the girls in the neighbourhood. There were so many attractive girls around that I couldn't think about anything else. This led to lectures and prohibitions, particularly when I had been out at night.

At some point, however, I realised that there was more to life than that. Above all, I loved fighting. When you stroll down the street with your guard up and sense that certain stare, it's like getting an adrenaline shot. The other guy tries to stare you out, and you stare him down. It's like a dance. You walk towards each other with stiff legs, slowly circling each other.

Some opponents constantly insult you, while others remain silent – they're the more dangerous ones. When you're alone, you can handle things like a real man. Sometimes the other guy is a wimp and runs away before you can properly confront him. Other times, the fight only ends when one of you is lying on the ground. If your family is there, you can't necessarily earn real respect. You just roar to show the other guy exactly where you stand – he'll definitely remember you. You'll find out next time. These are the things that seem important when you're young.

Of course, I was different from the rest of the family. But there were never any real difficulties. I didn't think about my birth mother anymore – that's just how things were.

At some point, though, everything changed for all of us. It didn't happen quickly, from one sunrise to the next. It took time. First, I noticed that my master no longer left for work in the mornings as he always used to. He stayed at home and played with us. At first, he did this every day, and we had a wonderful time playing with the ball in the yard.

I never managed to get the ball in the goal, but I loved running around and jumping more than anything else. But that stopped soon afterwards, and we went back to playing on our own. My master stayed indoors more and more often and occasionally scolding us when we were too loud while playing. We all got our fair share of telling-offs. Around that time, everything started to get worse – there was less and less food. The family's children were at home less and less, trying to avoid the noise.

No one wanted to spend time with me anymore, and they argued about me more and more. They didn't realise that I could sense it, but of course I did. On days like that, I tried to make myself as invisible as possible. I would usually hang around outside, playing rough with the boys and flirting with the girls. The neighbours disliked me for that and called me nasty names, but I developed a thick skin.

The house smelled weirder and weirder, because of this stuff that was being drunk. It hadn't been like that before, but since my master stopped going out, the smell had grown stronger and stronger. My master's wife often cried about it, but he quickly calmed her down. Just as he had got used to doing with all of us. If shouting didn't help, he would hurt us. I ran away more and more often to escape him. I often missed my dinner because of it, but there was always something to be found on the streets. Some people looked at me with pity and gave me food.

One autumn morning, I snuck into the yard at dawn and lay down on the porch bench. Everything felt strangely different. The house was quiet – too quiet. There wasn't a sound to be heard. Sure enough, the car was gone. It had been a long time since everyone had left the house at once – it was highly unusual. Nevertheless, I lay down and waited.

But they didn't come back. They had run away and left me behind. And so began my new life on the streets. It's not as bad as you might think. You just have to learn the hard way how to survive. Of course, you have to make sacrifices, especially when it comes to food, and you're treated like a pariah. Hardly anyone has a kind word for a slightly dirty vagabond.

I ate whatever I could find and slept wherever I felt safe. Sometimes I begged, sometimes I stole. I fought wherever I could, of course. I was still fighting for the women, but also because I needed to. I had changed since going it alone. I no longer avoided conflict. Hatred, fear and longing raged inside me. I longed for companionship. But I had to survive, and nobody asked me if I needed a home.

The last time I stole food, I was a little distracted. I hadn't been feeling well for a few days. I had been beaten up by a gang of bullies and was still shaken up. I didn't react as I usually would, so I got caught. I'm feeling better now, and I'm not hungry because they give me enough food here. There was a doctor here, too, who gave me an injection. Afterwards, I felt much better.

However, they took me out of my cell and brought me to this room. They think I don't know what's going to happen. But the others told me. Besides, I could smell it. I've never betrayed or hurt anyone. I tried to live by their laws. Yet here I am, waiting for my death.

I'll be here for a few more days and then, if nobody wants me, they'll come and get me. This is the animal shelter's death row, as people call it. Who would want a matted stray dog like me?

© 'Death Row: Who would want a stray dog like me?': A short story by Pressenet (translated by Izabel Comati), 11/2025. Image credit: Lothar Seifert.