That Aint My Dog…

That Aint My Dog…

And the black girls sit on the wall as an ambulance pulls up on the road behind their backs. Oblivious, they sit pulling at their hair, jumping forward when talking, making overt gestures for No! and Yeah! The girl in the pink top with Dream 1969 blazoned across her chest picks imaginary dirt off her clothes. She is sure she can see small specks of dust floating through the air landing on her t-shirt and hair.

And the sassy woman makes her lunchtime trip to the pub. Her son drags behind. The son sits outside the pub smoking dog ends off the floor, drinking the dregs of previous punters’ glasses.

The kids, they wander round like they are in Grand Theft Auto. They speak like part of their tongue has been shorn off by their teacher.

The white boys wear singlets, baggy denim and hold staffies on thick, brass chains. One man wont put his caramel dog on a lead. He swings the lead round his neck, over his shoulder then lets it drag along the hot, sunned ground. It rattles like a snake.

The dog wags its tail submissively at the man then runs across the road. The dog cries out. The animal lays flat. The boys in singlets stand around the animal and poke it with a stick.

‘Hey man, what the fuck you gonna do with your dog?’

The man throws the brass chain on the floor, turns his head and says, ‘That aint my dog.’