Cirrus@Austlit

'Each morning on my way to work, I took a photograph of the same dog. As I trundled down Little Lonsdale Street, there he always was behind a shopfront-style window, lying on a sheepskin rug, his stout shaggy body twitching amid pupmares. One day, in child’s handwriting, words appeared on the glass: ‘This is Sid. He is 17 years old. Please do not tap the glass.’ As weeks passed, more and more paint began to spread across the window, day by day, until it covered the entire surface of the glass, sparing only, to my relief, a small peephole through which I continued to view Sid. Passers-by, noticing me crouching by his rugside, would sometimes approach and tap on the window. I’d swallow my fury at this flagrant violation of the rules. Sid never awoke, though. I witnessed him conscious only once, his bulging eyes clouded over with prophecy or, I later realised, cataracts. The very next day, Sid was gone. He did not appear in the window again.' 

 (Publication abstract)