I’m having an identity crisis but I don’t have time to think about it, I’ve been summoned.

She calls me her ‘pedigree prince’ and guides me around the ring. I trot obediently alongside, striding the way she taught me. It feels graceful.

Her hair is neatly braided, make-up professionally applied, suit flawlessly pressed.

My coat appears thicker than usual thanks to an extortionate shampoo and high- quality hairspray. My whiskers have been shaven, and the fur around my feet neatly trimmed of fraying hairs. The judge is looking for a perfect representation of my breed and these monstrosities cannot be tolerated.

I stand for inspection, consciously remembering to keep my tail down and facial expression devoid of emotion.

I win ‘Best in Group’; she collects a colorful rosette.

Now she wants me to be crowned ‘Best in Show’; the rosette is bigger.

Placing me back on the grooming table, she fusses over wisps of my fur that have started escaping their styled form.

Whilst patiently tolerating the overwhelming stench of more hairspray, I catch sight of agility dogs zooming into tunnels and launching over jumps on the far side of the field.
 
I whine.

‘Face this way,’ she forcefully turns my head. ‘That’s a pointless hobby for ugly mutts, you’re better than them’.

I am a show dog, not a performance dog, I remind myself. I have a very important role in preserving the quintessential traits and appearance of border collies. I will myself to ignore my distant relatives running excitedly around the agility
ring the same way I suppress a nagging desire to herd everything that moves. I briefly wonder how I came to be so different from my ancestors and working counterparts, but the subsequent confusion overwhelms me, and I instead focus on standing still.

Pale moonlight cascades over the laboratory, reflecting off glassware in blue hues. Carefully closing the lab door behind me, I hold my breath until the soft click of the lock sounds. Paranoia makes me question if it was loud enough to alert the professors. I rush over to the window and force its rusted latch open. Cold winter wind bombards my face, a faint groan comes from the corner.

My heart aches when I see him. Locked behind a clear door, limbs covered in dark bruises. His breathing slow and shallow. A lone tear stains my cheek, knowing that I’m the one who caused it. Cast iron keys hang at my hip, my fingers interlocked between each one to prevent them from making a sound.

He’s acknowledged my presence now, a pleading expression on his face. His eyes are soft, just like they always are when he sees me. I pause for a moment to catch his gaze and the keys fall in a clatter to the floor.

Gasping, I frantically scoop them up off the floor, murmurs of professors coming from the hallway. My heart sits in my throat, the pounding echoing in my head. The door springs open as the key slides into the lock. His deep, dark eyes widen as I motion towards the open window. He nods in agreement before I help him to his feet, grimacing at my touch. As we make it to his escape the main door begins to rattle. Turning I face my professors, disappointment brandishing their faces as they stare at the empty cell. He’s already out of the room and making his way off the grounds. He’s free, but my soul is hurting. I broke the academy's number one rule: never fall in love with your experiments.