Sheep and Wolves

'You’re a dog.’

‘I’m a what now?’

‘I don’t mean the ‘woof woof’ type. I mean you’re one of us and they’re one of them.’

‘What the hell are you talking about? I’m a dog but not a dog?’

‘Ok, you might wanna sit down.’

He sits. 

‘Ok, you might not be ready to hear this.’

‘I’m ready.’

He’s ready.

A breath. A pause. Then I jump in.

‘This world isn’t what you think. We don’t actually live here. It’s created to make you think you do, but you don’t. Keeping up so far?’

‘Yes.’

He isn’t.

‘When I say you’re a dog, what I mean is you’re a Denizen Of God. Understand?’

‘Of course.’

He doesn’t.

He really doesn’t. In fact the look on his face is somewhat fearful rather than inquisitive and he looks like he’s about to... 

Yep. 

I pin him down hard before he can actually run. And then I show him... 

And then he pukes. 

Now I wish I hadn’t pinned him down. I really loved those shoes.

The wings, tucked away for so long do look decidedly shabby but I don’t think it’s that which upsets him. I think, perhaps, it’s actually the fact I have wings.

He tries to speak. 

God, it’s painful to watch how he contorts his face and puffs his cheeks. I’ve never seen him in this ilk before. He’s normally so, well, so... sedentary. 

‘Yes. Wings.’ I say to try and calm the situation. And then I say something which probably really didn’t help.

‘Oh, yeah. And you’re dead.’

The splutters were a bit much, but, you know, when you find out a few home truths about the fact you’re a dead angel, I guess you have to allow it.

I give him time. I do look at my watch, but I wait, impatiently.

‘You said I’m one of us and they’re one of them. They’re one of who?’

‘What.’

‘They’re one of who?’ he repeats.

‘No. I meant. You should have said ‘they’re one of what?’’

He frowns. If he wasn’t confused before (he was), he’s definitely confused now. The look on his face clearly indicates he’s waiting to find out what the what is.

‘Birds,’ I say. 

He looks surprised and then as if something dawned on him he excitedly says...

‘Oh, wait, wait... let me guess. Bloody Invincible Robotic Denizen Slayers?’

I’m astonished. That’s actually really good. Really good. 

But no.

‘No. They’re just birds.’

‘What the...’

I don’t let him finish. I mean, come on, we’re trying to save the sanctity of man. Swearing is out once you’ve come out. We have to have some professionalism.

I wait again. There’s definitely cogs moving in there.

“I don’t get it,’ he finally says.

‘Get what?’

‘They’re just birds. Everyone else who isn’t a winged dead angel dog thing is just a bird?’

‘Well, not everyone. Some people are people. We save them from the birds. Have you never seen Hitchcock?’

I snigger. This is nothing like Hitchcock.

‘You still don’t get it. And why would you? I mean it’s messed up, right? We were allocated. Pretty simple. Assigned, I guess you could say. Chosen. But to be perfectly honest, it’s more that one day, someone, somewhere decided to let the dog out the bag (you see what I did there) about what the world really is and who’s controlling it.’

The cogs were turning quicker now, but not quick enough for my patience.

‘Look, I’ll show you. Come with me.’

We head out. I stop. 

‘Oh, wait. It’ll be quicker with your wings.’

Guardian Angels don’t actually fly you know. We transport. But you can only do that when your wings are spread. So they are significant, just not in the way you’d think. 

And the irony about the Denizens of God thing, is that to people we look like dogs. We sit on laps, we protect homes, we comfort and follow. We are genuinely man’s best friend in disguise. You don’t want to be without your faithful pooch, especially at night, when the birds come.

So let’s talk about those birds. You ever read about crows? Ever considered bird song? Ever contemplated that feather falling to the ground? 

I like that part. You’ll understand why soon.

So, I take him back to watch a moment in time, like Scrooge being shown around by the ghost.

There he is curled up on the end of the bed, happily dreaming about chasing cats and retrieving sticks. Unaware and content, while we stand in the shadows as winged angels. It’s a surreal moment. I know how it feels because I’ve been there. 

He turns to me with an incredulous look on his face.

‘I’m a sausage dog?’

I smirk.

‘What are you?’ 

‘It’s not important. Just watch.’

The sun is just rising over the distant hills. That moment many people miss as the world comes to life and light enters the day. The shadows in the room change. Less dramatic, less imposing, now they have a warm hue, a smoky effect on the room and that’s when it happens.

As the dog’s figure remains on the bed a ghostly, transparent shape of his angel form steps out, wings opening wide in front of the window, shielding his owners from the light.

Birdsong can he heard outside. Tweets from many a variety calling in the day. 

‘You hear that?’

We go outside.

The songs are beautiful of course. Birds chattering and singing to their heart’s content as the sun rises against their silhouettes. 

But I can tell from the look on his face he’s beginning to realise all is not as it seems.

Because what we see, is not what they see. What we hear is not what they hear. 

The bird chatter is audible to us. The plotting, the plans being put in place to infiltrate the minds of those not protected. 

And then it starts.

What they hear is song, but what we see emitting from the bird’s beaks is a vibrating string undulating towards different houses and through different windows. It’s on a par with the tendrils from those things in The War Of The Worlds.

‘What the hell is that?’ his eyes widen. His fists clench. His wings strengthen. His new form is reacting to the process.

‘They’re feeding minds with stories they want them to hear. Propaganda. Tall tales. Untruths and fear.’

We move back inside and watch his powerful wings deflect the vibrating strings. They punch into his body, desperate to get through, but he stands firm, taking the pain, pushing back until the strings snap.

Outside you can hear a screech as the string is rejected. 

A single feather from each bird gently floats to the ground. A win for us. A lose for them in this battle of dog and bird.

‘I need to get home.’ The sun has almost risen. Day is upon us. I turn to him in his sausage dog form. He raises an eyebrow at me.

‘Really?’

I stare at my reflection in the wardrobe door mirror. A Rottweiler. Sleek and elegant. 

‘We don’t get to choose.’

‘Hey?’ he says as I begin to fade.

‘This is pretty cool, right?’

‘Isn’t it? Wait till I tell you about the sheep and wolves.’