It’s twilight and the wind is blowing along the beach, sending a shiver through me. I’m wet and exhausted from hours on the open ocean, and I need to eat. Or drink. Or both.
Soon.
After the explosion, I paddled away from the sinking yacht and clung to a piece of wreckage, floating with the current, alive but in shock. I held on, kicking, then resting, then kicking again through the night and into the next day. Eventually I saw land in the distance and swam toward it.
Now I’m on this beach, and I’m so thirsty my tongue hangs out of my mouth and touches the sand. An abandoned towel lies next to me. A cartoon blue fish with giant eyes looks up at me, her face half-buried in the sand.
I roll over, using the towel to dry myself off. Then I drag myself to my feet and shake my body, flinging off water in every direction.
I hear voices carried on the wind.
People.
Two kids are throwing a Frisbee down by the water. I get a sudden urge to run down and grab the disk from their hands and play with them. I take a step toward the Frisbee, then I think better of it. It’s no time for fun.
Move, girl!
I turn away from the kids and trot across the sand, through a tangle of high grass, and up onto a concrete path that separates the beach from the houses on the other side.
A jogger approaches with a golden Labrador retriever on a leash by his side.
“Excuse me—” I start to say, and the dog explodes in a fit of barking, practically choking himself to get to me.
“What’s with you?” I ask him.
The owner pulls the dog back hard, and the two of them run past without speaking to me.
I dart across the path and find myself on a narrow street of dilapidated beach houses. It’s getting dark, and I can see families through the windows, moving around kitchens, putting out food, sitting together at tables.
The wind shifts, and I smell meat sizzling on a grill. I follow the scent until I see a family grilling in their tiny backyard. The mother manages the grill while the father puts out plates. There’s a dog under the table, a little corgi with a cute haircut. The boy waits until his parents are distracted, then he slips a piece of bread to the dog who hungrily scarfs it down.
My mouth waters as I watch. I get a flash of the redheaded girl in the pink shoes again. I’m sitting on an expensive marble floor, looking up at her as she smiles at me.
Am I remembering my family?
I draw closer to the boy and his corgi, fascinated. Suddenly the corgi is up on all fours and barking in my direction.
“Shhh,” the boy warns her, but the dog ignores him, focused on my scent and barking a nonstop alert.
“Would you keep her quiet?” the boy’s mother says.
The boy grabs the corgi’s collar and looks around to see what’s upsetting her. I silently back up and fade into the night.
I need to figure out why everyone’s reacting to me so strangely, but I can’t think straight until I get something to eat.
I’m drawn to the scent of garbage cans in the alley behind the house. My mouth waters.
I’m not desperate enough to eat garbage, am I?
I run over to the can, knock off the lid, and dive in.
I guess that answers the question.
My sense of smell is so acute, I can distinguish fresh from rotting garbage inside the bag. I’m disgusted with myself, but it doesn’t stop me from tearing open the bag to get at what’s inside.
A tiny dog races through the alley toward me, barking at full volume.
“It’s just garbage. Don’t get excited.”
I must be intruding on its territory, because the little thing won’t give up.
I turn and roar at the dog, shouting for it to get away from me. The barking instantly stops, and the dog whimpers and retreats.
“Sorry, buddy.”
I notice movement nearby and whip around, ready to defend my smelly treasure. Sure enough, there’s another dog next to me, snout-deep in a garbage bag just like me.
“What’s up with the dogs in this neighborhood?” I ask. “Why do you guys hate me?”
The dog’s mouth moves like it’s imitating me.
Strange.
“Are we going to have a problem?” I ask her.
I step away from the can, and the dog steps away.
I shake my head, and the dog does the same.
That’s when I realize.
The dog is me.
I’m looking in a broken mirror that’s been thrown out in the alley. A long, jagged crack runs down the center of my reflection.
I move closer and examine myself in the cracked glass. I’m a medium-size mixed breed with brown-and-white patches covering a muscular physique. I’m in great physical condition, but I look terrible. I’m dirty and my fur is matted. I lick at myself a little, trying to improve my appearance, but it doesn’t help much. Let’s face it, I’m a girl in desperate need of a bath.
When I turn my head, I see an ugly wound on the back of my neck, which is probably why I have such a terrible headache. There’s also a thick rope leash around my neck with a dangling section that has been gnawed off at the end.
This is the rope I chewed through in the dark earlier.
I stare at myself in the mirror, and I see the familiar brown patches over both eyes and the white stripe that travels down the center of my muzzle. I’m hit by two thoughts at the same time.
1. I’m the same dog, the same girl I’ve always been.
2. I don’t know who that dog is.
I’m horrified to realize I can’t remember anything about where I come from or how I got into this situation.
I yelp in pain and frustration, the weird events of the last day catching up to me in a burst of howls. I’m embarrassed to be crying alone in a pile of garbage, but I can’t stop.
A loud whistle turns me around. A burly man with a shaved head is coming toward me, and he’s smiling like he knows me.