Subjective

It was like a story.

That was an odd thought, to say the least, because, if you looked at the life of this particular person, you would realize that any book about them would be long and undoubtedly dusty.

No matter, it was like a story, because it was a story, in its own way. The paper was cracked and yellow, and the cover was leather-bound and worn, but it was a story nonetheless.

The story being talked about wasn't exactly a normal story, in which the good guys and bad guys fought in a penultimate battle that would inevitably end in a mushy fashion. The villain dies. The hero lives, and marries the starry-eyed maiden of his dreams.

No, stories were meant to be like that. Stories were meant for the hopeful. The lovely. The sane.

It was more like a solemn recitation of a limerick.

"There once was a lad,

And he was very bad,

But then he got better,

And got an Irish Setter.

He lived in a house,

And the dog ate the mouse,

Like a cat that should have known better."

He didn't really have an Irish Setter, because, frankly, he didn't like dogs. Uncomfortable connotations.

It was supposed that the first three verses were suitable, he was once a lad, after all, although no one called him that. No one called him much of anything, really. It was his trademark that no one noticed.

"And he was very bad"

He wasn't really bad, if you were the right person. Bad was subjective. Bad could be tardy with his duties, and bad could be murder. He liked to think that people ascribed him to the former.

"But then he got better"

Better at what, then? Was he a better person? That was subjective as well, he supposed. Better at life, better at duties, better at being the victim...it all rolled together into one great role.

"And he got an Irish Setter"

That was already explained, but you most likely don't know why he didn't like dogs. There was once a very awkward incident involving a terrier and a rotating door when he was five. From there came the uncomfortable feeling of being suffocated when he saw a dog. Psychological murmurings.

"He lived in a house"

He lived, if you could really call it that, but it wasn't so much a house as some walls that conveniently connected.

"And the dog ate the mouse"

Was it an imaginary mouse? That had to be it, because only imaginary Irish Setters could eat imaginary mice. He vaguely wondered if he should warn the others about imaginary mousetraps.

"Like a cat the should have known better"

Things were changing. Now he had an imaginary pet emporium. The Magical Menagerie could never compete with him. They didn't have anything imaginary. All they had were the depressingly real.

A lot of things in life were subjective, when he thought about it. Subjective dictated how he spoke. Subjective dictated himself.

That was okay. It was rather interesting, being different people. Gave him a good chance to stretch as an actor.

But what was this? Someone was waking him, and someone wanted to talk to him...he had to tell them to go away. Terriers to be suffocated, and all that.

A voice spoke.

He liked plants. Plants reminded him of home. Of grass. Oh, but the grass reminded him of dogs.

Dogs. Sirius Black.

That was an unpleasant thought. He had to get rid of it.

He reached for the watering can.