By <\/strong>Adrian Rosenfeldt<\/strong><\/em><\/h3>\n\n\n\n\n\n\n\n
\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0 Rachel had already decided that this Christmas she would stay home, work on her novel and look after the dog \u2013 and none of that was up for negotiation. No one seemed to realise that getting a book published was about as likely as winning the lottery. She had done it once but that didn\u2019t mean that it would automatically happen again.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
But her father would not let it go. And he was using his annoying slightly sarcastic cajoling tone with her.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
\u201cSo, I\u2019ve heard from your mother that you would rather not come away with us at Christmas. That you would rather stay here and brood by yourself?\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n
Rachel straightened up in her chair but didn\u2019t look up from her phone. It was way too early for this. He had been up for hours \u2013 she could tell. He was literally vibrating with energy. It was sickening.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
\u201cI\u2019m going to look after Hugo. You\u2019ll save a lot of money. And I don\u2019t believe in Christmas or Seasons Greetings \u2013 the whole thing is just pointless.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n
She thought of the Bourke Street Mall at this time of year \u2013 Melbourne at its worst: frivolous, festooned, frantic.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
\u201cPointless?\u201d her father spat back. \u201cA lot of people seem to think otherwise. Don\u2019t you think you are being overly intense about this? It\u2019s just a holiday, Rachel. A time to reconnect with \u2026\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n
\u201cIt\u2019s not complicated. I simply don\u2019t believe in your holidays. They\u2019ve all been mandated by the government. For no other reason than to keep everyone docile and compliant. They\u2019re all ridiculous and offensive.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n
\u201cOffensive? All of them?\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n
\u201cEvery one of them. Australia Day \u2013 invasion day. Valentine\u2019s Day \u2013 patriarchal day. Easter, Grand Final Day, the Melbourne Cup \u2013 fairytales, men being brutish and torturing horses.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n
\u201cThey really need to hire you to sell Australia to the Americans. Who could resist!\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n
\u201cAnd let\u2019s keep the colonial spirit alive with Anzac Day. And Christmas Day \u2013 more fairytales and capitalist consumerism \u2013 selling trinkets to keep the masses occupied.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n
\u201cSpoken like a true Marxist.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n
\u201cBetter that than still believing in all this fairytale propaganda. It\u2019s embarrassing that you still go to church.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n
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\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0 From her bedroom window, Rachel watched the two familiar figures slowly get into the car. She sat on her bed and let out a deep sigh. They always took forever to leave, making all sorts of announcements, and then faffing about for an eternity. Rachel knew she could not get settled into her writing until they had shut that front door.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
She pulled a notepad towards herself and started neatly writing the other things that she would do today, on the 24th<\/sup> of December \u2013 she made a point of not writing Christmas Eve.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
As Rachel wrote her list, she found herself thinking: Unlike everyone else, when I write something down it actually gets done. It is not a wish list, a fairytale, it\u2019s reality!<\/em><\/p>\n\n\n\n\n
6 hours writing<\/li>\n\n\n\n
walk Hugo<\/li>\n\n\n\n
go to the shops<\/li>\n\n\n\n
swim 50 laps<\/li>\n\n\n\n
eat dinner<\/li>\n\n\n\n
bed<\/li>\n<\/ol>\n\n\n\n
\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0 Ticking off the first thing on her list, she worked on the latest chapter of her book in two three-hour blocks. This was the way to do it. No distractions.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0 But then it took her ages to get Hugo\u2019s harness on, as he lay stubbornly on the floor refusing to budge. She nearly gave up. No one would notice. He couldn\u2019t say otherwise.<\/p>\n\n\n
\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0 Rachel stopped and gave the man a hint of a smile. She was embarrassed to be seen outdoors with her parents\u2019 dog. If only people could walk cats. Dogs were indiscriminate \u2013 sniffing everything, dragging you into pointless interactions with strangers, forcing small talk where none was wanted.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0 \u201cRachel, is it? Has your mother given you the dog-walking duties?\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n
\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0 \u201cThey\u2019ve gone away,\u201d she replied. A statement of fact, shorn of warmth and possibility.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0 Predictably, the man launched into a stream of genial nothingness. Rachel held eye contact while filtering out every word. She focused instead on regretting her choice of loose-fitting black jeans and Celibate Rifles t-shirt from the Vic Market \u2013 clothing chosen for people who notice. But here? No one noticed. No one ever noticed.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0 She leaned over to tie Hugo\u2019s lead to a bike stand. He looked up at her in anxious bewilderment, still wagging his tail. She resented how dependent he was, how utterly at the mercy of others. She could never bear such helplessness. Hugo\u2019s warm breath reached her fingers and she jerked away, rising quickly to escape it.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
The health food shop was shut, so she reluctantly went to the supermarket. She didn\u2019t blame the couple who ran the Radical Radish \u2013 she wouldn\u2019t work on Christmas Eve either, even as an ironic gesture. Still, Rachel thought that by shutting their doors, they were letting Christmas win. With nowhere else to go, she braced herself and stepped into Woolworths.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
It couldn\u2019t have been any worse. Rachel darted around the aisles, guarding her eyes from the Christmas pap. She was still recovering from being blasted with chemically manufactured mist at the entrance. For a moment, she theatrically staggered about as if she was having a medical emergency, hunched over, coughing emphatically. No one blinked an eyelid. They were all too far gone.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
\u201cDo you need a receipt?\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n
The one cool guy working in this hellhole was giving her direct eye contact. She had been singled out.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
She desperately wanted the receipt \u2013 she liked to keep track of everything, <\/em>but didn\u2019t want him to know that.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
\u201cNah, it\u2019s cool,\u201d she said, lifting the bag slightly so he could see her Celibate Rifles T-shirt. He had already turned to the next customer.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
\u201cHappy Christmas!\u201d he chirped at a middle-aged woman with a trolley stacked with Coke, frozen pastries, Tim Tams and instant dumplings. The chirpiness of his voice and the sight of the trolley\u2019s contents made Rachel feel ill. He seemed quite happy as he helped her unload a self-harm buffet for the whole family.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
What was wrong with everyone? What was wrong with her? <\/em>Rachel fumed silently. The checkout guy gave no indication that he had found her alluring, or mysterious. Why did she always think that they would see her secret self. That they would get it and that there would be some signal. A knowing look.<\/p>\n\n\n
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\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0 The pool was all but empty. Rachel felt an immense sense of calm and gratitude. She loved being in warm water, her body slipping away. The more laps she swam, the more she felt herself disappearing into the water. Her breaststroke barely disturbed the surface. Sometimes she forgot where she was entirely and counted laps like a meditation.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0 Not today. A middle-aged man swam in the lane beside her. No matter which lane she chose, men like this always found the neighbouring one, even in an empty pool.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0 \u201cGood day for it,\u201d he shouted, oblivious to his waterlogged earplugs. \u201cNice to get a few laps in before the Christmas feast.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n
\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0 She ignored him. These men were so unaware of themselves, always taking up space. They never swam quietly. They snorted at the end of every lap, gulped air dramatically, grunted, gasped, made their existence unmistakable. Women glided. Men spilt themselves all over the place.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0 The spray hit her face. She held her breath and craned her neck in the opposite direction.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0 When he approached, she pushed off the wall with force, gliding away like a swan escaping the shore. Anything to be distant from that graceless figure thrashing through her silence.<\/p>\n\n\n
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Hugo wouldn\u2019t even let her hang her wet towel on the line when she returned. He stomped on her feet, grovelled and whined. He wanted to be fed. Pathetic. That\u2019s all he thinks about. The entire course of evolution has been lost on him. What was that line from Shakespeare? What is a man, if his chief good and market of his time be but to sleep and feed? A beast, no more.<\/em><\/p>\n\n\n\n
She thought of a witty reply: \u201cThat is a man and his dog. Now let me show you a woman and her cat!\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n
Rachel threw the food in his slobbering bowl, trying not to touch the edges. Her mother had made her promise that she would give Hugo an extra treat on Christmas Eve and on Christmas Day. She had left detailed instructions. What a joke. Hugo knew as much about Christmas as he did about the food he indiscriminately swallowed whenever he got the chance.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
She wasn\u2019t going to eat any of their festive junk. She would drink tea and work on her chapter. A whole day without giving in to the capitalist pageant.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
The tea from their Chinese neighbours came in a little linen sachet. It took her considerable time to loosen the tiny piece of thread so that she could pour the tea leaves into the old, chipped teapot that her parents had had forever \u2013 they never bought anything new unless it broke or vanished.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
She considered taking the pot upstairs to avoid Hugo\u2019s farting, snoring and general dogginess. But better to try it here first in case she disliked it. Otherwise, she would have to descend the stairs again and endure more barking.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
It tasted faintly of liquorice. Warm, calming. She drank deeply and felt herself soften. Her eyelids grew heavy. Much against her own wishes, she drifted off on the couch beside Hugo.<\/p>\n\n\n
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\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0 The smell hit her first \u2013 sweat, fur and dank couch. Hunger followed, sharp and urgent. Her yearning felt raw, unfiltered.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
She heard the front door slam. Someone had left or arrived. She raced up the stairs and stared out the window.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
There were her parents, lifting a suitcase into the boot of the car, repeating the exact movements that she\u2019d seen the day before. A rush of joy flooded her, followed immediately by panic. She wanted to run to them. But her legs would not move properly. Her balance was wrong.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
She looked down.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
Where her hands should have been, she saw Hugo\u2019s paws \u2026 and she felt extremely hot and \u2026 furry! And unclean!<\/p>\n\n\n\n
She didn\u2019t believe it. She refused to believe it.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
The room tilted sideways. Footsteps approached on the stairs. She turned.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0 Rachel was descending toward her. Her own body, her own mannerisms, her own guarded face.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0 She tried to speak. A bark burst out of her. Then another. Then another.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0 \u201cPut a lid on it, Hugo,\u201d the woman snapped. \u201cThey\u2019ve only been gone a few minutes and you are losing your little mind.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n
\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0 She followed the woman into the kitchen, heart surging with hope and hunger. The cupboard opened. The smell of food flooded her.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
\u201cIt\u2019s too early,\u201d the woman said. \u201cBack to the couch.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n
\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0 She wagged her tail and backed away in confusion. What followed was a blur of sensation. She felt everything through the body of a dog. Hunger came in waves. Time slowed. The woman moved through the house as a presence she adored and feared. Every glance, every withheld touch, mattered.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0 She wasn\u2019t allowed to bark or to whine, so all she could do was to stare imploringly. Her eyeballs ached from trying to get some attention, but all she experienced was hostility and rejection. It was devastating.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0 By evening she could barely keep her eyes open. The woman finally sat on the couch. She crept close panting \u2013 she couldn\u2019t help it. A hand pushed her away. \u201cYou smell awful.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n
\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0 She curled up quietly at the opposite end of the couch. And even though that incomprehensible presence was still beaming hostility, she felt a glow of reassurance and warmth, just knowing that they were both there on the couch together.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0 In the body of Hugo, she was so content that she did not even perk up when the smell of liquorice invaded her wet nostrils.<\/p>\n\n\n
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\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0 Rachel woke with her mind swimming, as if she\u2019d surfaced from a deep well of sleep. She saw daylight edging around the blinds. And then she saw Hugo \u2013 the real Hugo \u2013 stretched out at the other end of the couch. She looked down at her own familiar hands, pale and human again. Relief washed through her.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0 \u201cWhat a monster I was,\u201d she said. Then more softly: \u201cWhat a monster I am.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n
\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0 Hugo gazed at her with wide, waiting eyes. She recognised the look instantly. Without thinking, she pulled him into her arms and held him tightly, until he wriggled away and padded to his bowl.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0 This was Christmas Day \u2013 unfolding like none before it.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0 Rachel called her parents and wished them a Happy Christmas. At first they didn\u2019t believe it. But she heard the warmth in their voices, the relief, the softness.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0 She ate breakfast on the couch with Hugo, careful to give him every treat her mother had set aside.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0 Afterwards she walked to her parents\u2019 church and slipped inside. People were surprised to see her, but they welcomed her with open smiles. She explained she was staying home to look after Hugo, so that her parents could go and visit her sister. After the service she found herself pouring tea in the church kitchen, chatting easily, laughing at small things.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0 In the afternoon she weeded the front garden. When passersby stopped to talk, she looked up and spoke to them. One elderly couple said they knew Hugo, and she smiled back with something like genuine pleasure.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0 As the day grew dark Rachel felt a familiar stirring and wanted to retreat upstairs to her room. She became aware once again of Hugo\u2019s smell and wanted to be on her own. But when she looked into those eyes Rachel felt that same wave of emotion that had come upon during that \u2013 what would she call it? \u2013 that transformation.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
Rachel stayed on the couch all night with a smelly dog on her lap. She watched some lowbrow Christmas comedy on a commercial station her parents loved. She found it delightful. What was happening to her? Or rather, what had happened to her?<\/p>\n\n\n\n
\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0 No time to think about that now. She did not want to disturb Hugo.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
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Dr Adrian Rosenfeldt<\/strong> is a writer and academic based in Melbourne, Australia. He teaches at the University of Melbourne and has written widely on culture, spirituality, and contemporary society. Adrian writes articles and hosts podcast conversations exploring spirituality and contemporary cultural life. His work is available at https:\/\/about.me\/arosenfeldt<\/a><\/p>\n\n\n\n
![\"Christmas](\"https:\/\/faithhopeandfiction.com\/content\/wp-content\/uploads\/Dog-picture-for-short-story-683x1024.png\")
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