In his mind he is running wild and free. He cannot let anyone read his mind. His mind is wrapped, draped, safe from strange eyes, from loving eyes, from evil eyes, from all and everything. There, in the depth of his mind, he lives. Fears. Hurts. Smiles. Here, in the open, he just walks on a leash like nothing is going on.
Sometimes he hears people call him cute. He knows he is an object of affection and pride. His life is cloudless. He is always fed, walked, exercised, groomed, petted. That makes him feel guilty.
Snow or rain, sleet or mud, dawn or dusk. He walks on a leash. Life goes on. It starts in the morning and ends in the evening. Nights are black.
No one shows it better. Happiness, sadness, that famous guilty look that makes everyone laugh. It is all on his face, in his eyes, in his voice, in the wagging of his tail. He is so easy to love. Everyone loves him. When hurt, he cries so truly. Everyone says, aww poor baby. That doesn't help.
His leash is safe. It is a good thing. He walks over his reflection in the puddle. His reflection is also safe under water. Somehow, even under water, it still manages to keep up. It ought to be hard work, to keep up when walking underwater. He has to work for the two of them to pull through. He always makes it without exception. He is strong. His reflection always looks up when he looks down. He thinks that's optimism.
Seasons change. He feels older every day. But walking is still nice. When no one is watching, he reaches for his secret self and talks to him. Talking is soothing. His self tells him why he feels this and that, says it is okay, it is only natural. His self is so different from his reflection though. The reflection is just as old as him, grey hair, swollen paws. The self is not aging at all.
He would rather it be the other way around. The self would look better older. The reflection would look better younger. He wonders why life is unfair.
It gets harder to breathe. He slows down. Then one day he can walk no more. He cannot visit with his reflection. But his self is there, and sad. It is hard when you are so young, to see how things turn. Harder even, to see that there is no way about it. The young foolish self is crying.
But then he asks his self, have I been good? It is a tricky question. Who has been good: he, his self, or his reflection? Somewhere in the depths of his mind, he hesitates. Time is running out. It is time to answer the question. Before it gets too late. He once saw a person panic when looking for a phone charger. Guess the phone was dying, too.
The answer comes at the last instant. Yes. Good. But no one notices. They are busy mourning. They still cannot see through to the depths of his mind. The mind hidden from all and everything. Forever.
2020