I passed the same house each morning on the way to work, an old Queenslander made of peeling hardwood and corrugated iron. It was supported by a series of exposed steel rods, which you could see through gaps in the rotten timber. Piles of junk had been dumped beneath the building, some of it construction material, the rest vaguely mechanical.
To my knowledge the place was abandoned, swarmed by shrubs and knee-high grass. The overgrowth consumed anything that wasn’t raised. The property limits were marked by a chain-link fence which traced the yard’s perimeter. Weeds grew through the diamond shaped holes, knotting themselves around the metal and spilling onto the neighbouring path. Other than some graffiti, there were no signs of life. It took me a moment to realise anything had changed.
I’d almost passed the place completely when my peripheral clocked it—a large silhouette. It was a few metres before my subconscious caught up. I stopped in the middle of the path, looked up, and blinked. In a patch of dirt, sitting beneath the overhang, was a dog. It was a boxer-mastiff-staffy-bulldog-retriever looking thing. Its proportions were ill-fitting and lopsided, like it was bred to be in as much pain as possible. The thing was covered in grime, and beneath its fur—much of which it’d lost—the skin was scabby and diseased.
There was chain around the animal’s neck, tightened so thoroughly that the skin beneath bulged. Its face was swollen and showed signs of discolouration; it was remarkable the thing could even breathe. The chain was fixed to one of the house’s exposed steel foundations, then looped tightly through old car parts and junk piles.
For the past few years, I’d seen no one on the property. It’s possible that a place like this could’ve attracted squatters, but I had trouble believing that the barbarism on display here was the product of some random drifter. The deliberate cruelty disturbed me, and, even more so, the fact nobody had done anything. Suddenly, the thing rose to its feet, revealing a deep impression in the earth. It paced forward until the chain went taut, dark pupils bearing into mine. Its tail wagged a little, and I smiled in return. Then, realising I’d be late, I kept walking.
We kept up this routine for a little while. I’d shuffle past each morning, and it would just stare at me as I did. I felt bad about the whole thing, really, but what could I do? It would just stare with those large black pupils. I’d try my best to forget them, but they had a nasty habit of lingering.
The routine couldn’t last forever. I heard it before I saw it. Barking—frantic and panicked. I’d never heard it kick up so much of a fuss before, but its desperate yelps could be heard an entire street length away. When I reached the fence, the poor thing was a sight for sore eyes. (description of it being hurt)
It tore at the chain with a desperation that I couldn’t believe its body could muster. It whined, cried, and squealed for attention, thrashing as hard as it could. The compulsion to do something was becoming unbearable.
The next day, I found it dead. The dog was lying still; neck bent at an awkward angle, face slumped in the dirt, a puddle of drool forming. Its bruised ribcage was a violent purple, and its belly black. It was hard to tell exactly what killed it, but I doubt it mattered. A profound hollowness and need to be sick overcame me. As flies buzzed around the fresh carcass, I pictured myself climbing the fence and burying it. I could almost feel the diseased skin and knotted fur pushing against my naked hands as I launch it into its grave, but I do no such thing.
The next day there was nothing. No body, no signs of a struggle—just a dirt patch where a doghouse used to be and an overgrown lawn. The sight filled me with an intense dread that I found difficult to articulate. I moved on with my day, confident that there was nothing that I could do. Tommorow the sun will rise, and I’ll take the same route I always do. My wife will kiss me goodbye, and I’ll keep my hand on her belly—hoping today is the day I feel a kick. As I pass this lot, I’ll look but not stop. I’ll think to myself that it’s a shame they never did anything with this place. Then, I’ll move on.
This piece was featured in the 2026 Winter Edition of Glass Magazine.
