“You like Pop music? Jack Daniels? Pedigree Chum? I have in my room, come, we party…”
Helga glanced nervously towards her Pimp, a surly blonde haired brute by the name of Helmud. He’d been a shepherd, in better times, better times when they’d run through fields feeling like one being, embracing flocks of sheep in a chaotic dance that she’d hoped would never end. But then the wall came down and his heart had broken. He’d said they’d go to Crufts, he said there’d be rosettes, milk bones, glory – but they’d never made it beyond Paris and that first flourish of wealth.
‘Just enough for a ticket Helga, to London, you shall be best in show again! He only wants to stroke you…’
But there was no stroking, no belly rubs, just a leather collar and a dark room. Even now, as the Saudi Prince flipped a biscuit towards her derisively she could dream. A dream of small fences to be jumped over, poles to be avoided, the howl and growl of competition. But it was hollow now, a paradise polluted by lies. Helmud nodded and the Prince tugged at her lead.
Close your eyes, Helga, close your eyes and think of Bavaria…