He Called Himself The Big Dog
A THROWAWAY ACT, NOW AN ETERNAL JUDGEMENT
It was neat here. Little gravel paths and tiny stone benches. Pretty, for a field of rotted dead.
Forgotten cemeteries are my favourite. Headstones tilted like rotten teeth. No visitors. No flowers.
Right at the back, one stone rested. Eaten by moss and lichen.
HE CALLED HIMSELF THE BIG DOG
Nothing else.
He must’ve said it so often that it stuck. But whatever noise he made faded years ago.
Maybe he was proud of it, or thought it was a joke. Said it like a title, and now it’s eternal.
I imagined him. Loud. Wore sunglasses in pubs. Pointed at waiters. Knew everyone’s name and when to use it. Not to be messed with, but not bad.
What would mine say? A man with no nicknames or catchphrases. Whose only memorable act was wicked.
Will anyone be around to admit: “Here lies what was once a human.”
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