The criteria weren’t broad enough for him to be included.
He longs for the wide open spaces of the moor and sheep to chase. Alas he lives by the bypass with its fumes and growl of engines on tarmac. But at dawn and dusk the wild dog in him seeps out in a sweet, sharp, poignant howl.
I often seen him down The Dog & Duck where he’s wont to cheat at darts and neck back unattended pints of beer. I walk back home with him time to time as we live in the same part of town though I’ve never invited him in for a coffee. I’ve a soft spot for him but I don’t want fleas in my flat.
The world is going to end in a couple of weeks, or so some believe, so best hide in the mountains to survive the prophesied flood or meteor collision. Or why not spend two weeks drunk, stuffing your face with your favourite cakes, or your preferred food of choice?
Jasmine doesn’t need no end of world hype to realise the human race is in nose dive, what with scientific advancement bringing mass destruction that much closer. But hey we can have boob jobs and inject Botox, become cartoon clones, self obsessed and swallowing whole the mass media’s drone drone drone.
Jasmine has switched off her phone, her computer, instead walks down the precinct watching the world: the masses making their way home weighed down with Christmas purchases they queued for in claustrophobic shops, stressed to the bone.
At least if the world ends they’ll go out on a shopaholic high, crammed in the supermarket aisle, trolley heaped high, texting as they walk.
Then BAM! The world is no more.