by Bob Clay
He is probably the last dog in the world. At least what’s left of the world. Blackened shells of buildings. Craters filled with burnt rubble. An ever darkening sky and a wind so cold it seems to blow right through to your bone marrow, and then out the other side.
He’s a fine looking animal, dirty and scraggly now but he looks as if he could have been a birthday card dog once. He licks my hand and stares up with sad brown eyes, clearly happy to see me, for it’s very likely that I am also the last of my kind. Perhaps it’s just as well he doesn’t know that it was my kind that made the world this way.
I start to think that for whatever life I have left on this ravaged planet, I will have a living companion. Something warm to cling to in the cold dark everlasting night that lies ahead. The trouble is, much as I want the companionship to keep back the terrible loneliness, I am very, very hungry.
Bob Clay lives in Cornwall.