THE SLEEP OF THE CITY, TOLD BY ITS DOGS

 

The sun fades from the sky, and a different life begins. Humans retreat into their homes, their lights going out one by one until only the street lamps remain, casting long, lonely shadows. This is our time. We are the guardians of the night, the watchers of the sleeping city.

 I am a mutt, a veteran of countless nights. From my spot on a trash heap, I observe the city breathe. The noise of the day shifts to a low, steady hum—the sound of refrigerators, the distant wail of an ambulance, and the soft rustle of a stray cat hunting.

The fat Golden Retriever from the fancy house on the corner barks. It's a bored, obligatory sound, but I understand. He has heard the distant cry of a jackal, a wild sound from the hills that he can only dream about from his comfortable space.

A group of us gathers near the old temple, our shadows dancing in the moonlight. We share a series of low growls and whines, a silent language of the day’s wins and losses. The thin terrier from the alley talks about a careless vendor who dropped a half-eaten samosa. The old shepherd, his muzzle gray with age, warns of a new threatening sound—a scooter with a broken muffler that roams the main road.

The city sleeps, but its dreams are uneasy. I hear a baby’s muffled cry and a man raising his voice as he argues with a ghost. I hear the soft steps of someone on the pavement—a lover, a thief, a lonely soul walking home. We are the ears of the city, the ones who hear what humans choose to ignore.

Sometimes, a car drives by, its headlights slicing through the darkness. For a moment, we appear as a family of ghosts, our eyes reflecting the light, our bodies a mix of brown, black, and white. Then the car disappears, and we return to being part of the shadows, the silent watchers of the urban night.

The first hint of dawn, a soft graying of the sky, signals us. The birds start to chatter, the first tea shop opens its shutters with a groan, and the city begins to wake. We retreat, finding our corners and hiding spots, our temporary beds. The Golden Retriever returns to his cozy home, and the old shepherd curls up in the shade of a banyan tree.

 We have done our duty. We have watched over the city's sleep, kept its secrets, and listened to its dreams. We close our eyes, the last to do so, and wait for the sun to rise again, for the world to awaken, and for our watch to start anew.