Post by Fen on Jan 22, 2014 1:18:54 GMT -6
Broken Chain
Entry One
Entry One
By Alonzo Capaldi
The smell of concrete and fear, piss and death. His first few months, he had been swaddled in cotton, a bottle forced to his mouth feeding him a substitute for his mother's milk. Hands stroked him, voices cooed to him. Such a sweet sound it had been, his eyes still sealed shut. Voices and touch were all he had, and smell, but he would rather ignore that. He was too young to recognize the smell of death that hung on the hands that coddled him.
At 12 weeks, they cut his ears. He had watched as the mask had been put on his face and he drifted to utter oblivion. Silver eyes rolled to the back of his head, and when he woke, he was so drunk from the anesthetic that he couldn't call for help, and the pain was unbearable. Like a sunburn that never healed, and someone was dragging sand paper across it all hours of the day. He called for help, for the hands that coddled him, for the voices that spoke such sweet words to him, and none came. They left him there, the hands that lifted him rough and only shoving food in his face and taping his bleeding ears.
It took months, and he was as big as a shepherd as the bandages were removed for the last time. He was also removed from his crib and thrown into a cage of iron and concrete. The smooth stone felt like glass under his paws, and he could hear the muffled cries of the other tormented souls that resided in the surrounding cages. He didn't cry, he didn't whine, he curled up in the back corner, shivering on the bare concrete as he slipped into sleep.
Wake up a month later, and a keeper was cleaning out his kennel. There was a big red sign on the cage warning of his aggression. Families passed him by, even giving the closed kennel a wide birth as the six month old Dane watched with wounded eyes as his heart was painfully stabbed by the reality of being unwanted. It still gave him some sense of satisfaction at seeing the keeper's scarred hand, and he could still taste his blood on his tongue. That was supposed to show them, to free him, to make them believe he was being tortured. He shivered every night on the concrete as he refused to eat the kibble that was set in front of him. He grew weaker and weaker, and more and more bitter.
It happened. He could scarcely believe it. He had gotten out! A careless keeper had let the gate swing open, and he had rushed out, finally feeling grass under his feet again. His tongue had lolled out, his laughs resounding off the trees. He was weak from starvation at having refused the food, and he slowed. The last thing he remembered before waking back up in his prison was a stinging, like a wasp's bite, on his flank. All had fallen black, and now he was back.
He planned, making sure he ate every time they fed him. He knew that his time was up. He had taken a man's hand off. He was too dangerous. They couldn't afford to feed an animal his size that wasn't fit for adoption.
No, Alonzo was destined for the needle.
When they fetched him, he promised he wouldn't fight. He would show them that he was a good dog. That he could do what they asked. That he could change. They didn't listen. He barked, he protested, he pleaded. No avail. They yanked him along, the cool metal of the chain collar tightening around his neck as four of them lifted him onto a table. The needle. he could see it. He knew what it was for.
Then, his eyes found the delivery exit.
In a burst of unnatural strength, he burst forth, fleeing and remembering this time that he would be caught unless he ran straight for the trees.
He did, and he never looked back.
At 12 weeks, they cut his ears. He had watched as the mask had been put on his face and he drifted to utter oblivion. Silver eyes rolled to the back of his head, and when he woke, he was so drunk from the anesthetic that he couldn't call for help, and the pain was unbearable. Like a sunburn that never healed, and someone was dragging sand paper across it all hours of the day. He called for help, for the hands that coddled him, for the voices that spoke such sweet words to him, and none came. They left him there, the hands that lifted him rough and only shoving food in his face and taping his bleeding ears.
It took months, and he was as big as a shepherd as the bandages were removed for the last time. He was also removed from his crib and thrown into a cage of iron and concrete. The smooth stone felt like glass under his paws, and he could hear the muffled cries of the other tormented souls that resided in the surrounding cages. He didn't cry, he didn't whine, he curled up in the back corner, shivering on the bare concrete as he slipped into sleep.
Wake up a month later, and a keeper was cleaning out his kennel. There was a big red sign on the cage warning of his aggression. Families passed him by, even giving the closed kennel a wide birth as the six month old Dane watched with wounded eyes as his heart was painfully stabbed by the reality of being unwanted. It still gave him some sense of satisfaction at seeing the keeper's scarred hand, and he could still taste his blood on his tongue. That was supposed to show them, to free him, to make them believe he was being tortured. He shivered every night on the concrete as he refused to eat the kibble that was set in front of him. He grew weaker and weaker, and more and more bitter.
It happened. He could scarcely believe it. He had gotten out! A careless keeper had let the gate swing open, and he had rushed out, finally feeling grass under his feet again. His tongue had lolled out, his laughs resounding off the trees. He was weak from starvation at having refused the food, and he slowed. The last thing he remembered before waking back up in his prison was a stinging, like a wasp's bite, on his flank. All had fallen black, and now he was back.
He planned, making sure he ate every time they fed him. He knew that his time was up. He had taken a man's hand off. He was too dangerous. They couldn't afford to feed an animal his size that wasn't fit for adoption.
No, Alonzo was destined for the needle.
When they fetched him, he promised he wouldn't fight. He would show them that he was a good dog. That he could do what they asked. That he could change. They didn't listen. He barked, he protested, he pleaded. No avail. They yanked him along, the cool metal of the chain collar tightening around his neck as four of them lifted him onto a table. The needle. he could see it. He knew what it was for.
Then, his eyes found the delivery exit.
In a burst of unnatural strength, he burst forth, fleeing and remembering this time that he would be caught unless he ran straight for the trees.
He did, and he never looked back.