There it is again, that beautiful stench.

A fair few seasons have passed since I first left the relative safety of my home, although my lengthy absence was neither planned nor enjoyed. At the time, I had only intended to stay on Atlantis for the night. My plan was to use the cover of the moonless night to drive a trinket or two back to the bachelors, but my plan had backfired in a rather gruesome manner. As fate would have it I was not the only one hunting that night, and as I stalked the small herd of unguarded mares, I failed to sense the beast that was stalking me.

A large and aggressive wild cat had caught me by surprise, sinking its deathly sharp talons into my flesh before I had chance to react. The confrontation was intense but short-lived and the beast soon came to the realisation that I was not going to be an easy meal. He disappeared as quickly as he came but my hindquarters were shredded; clumps of flesh and fur stained my dappled pelt and sailed like little boats down the rivers of blood cascading down my legs.

I was not foolish enough to attempt to navigate the inky waters in such a state and on such a dark evening, so I sought refuge between the dunes and waited until morning. It wasn’t until the following night that I woke, feeling cold and disorientated and sick to my core. The wounds had exploded outwards and a nasty infection was evident in the crusty yellow pus that now oozed from around the forming scabs. Days passed and the infection grew worse. I sustained myself as best as I could but I eventually succumb to the idea of death, in fact I had welcomed the relief I imagined it would bring.

But death did not come.

I slowly regained my strength and was eventually able to navigate the waters home. I had toyed with the idea of starting a new life somewhere else, but loyalty and uncertainty saw me back in the Lagoon.

Now, with ugly unhealed scars etched into my ass, I slink across the Earth that separates the Commons and the Lagoon. I open my nostrils wide and inhale slowly, deeply, welcoming the pungent smell of home. I briefly savour the memories the scent incites, before putting the focus back onto my surroundings. Although the terrain looks much the same as the last time I graced this side of the island, there is a definite sense of change, one that prompts me to pause and rethink my approach. I lift my broad skull into the bright spring morning and trumpet my arrival to whoever is listening.

FRIESIAN MUTT | SIXTEEN TWO HANDS | TWELVE YEARS