what the dog doin - tanktop

He sits in the bosses office.  Come to think of it, I've never actually met the real boss.  It was the secretary woman who sits in front of his office who interviewed me for this job at the Greggs Bakery factory and here I stand, pumping weird pink meat into sausage roll tubes for a living.

And alone he sat.  Everyday I would see him.  The front half of his office was glass so he could watch us all working and we would know he was there lording over us, a constant state of fear and judgement.  Like I couldn't even check my phone without him knowing about it.  Just me holding onto the meat chute, pumping the pastries full for 8 hours a day with that black Labrador retriever in the office eyeballing me.

In-front of him was a desk and some papers like he was the actual boss but he wasn't he was just a black dog.  He didn't sleep or anything he would just sit there and watch us work. And at 5pm when we all went home, he would dismount from the chair and walk off into the night totally alone.  And we would watch him disappear into the dark feeling relieved like he had a weird power over us. 

One time this new woman from Bury started working at the factory and she wasn't very good. She kept putting too much pink meat in the pasties making them look like fat children.  She was called into the office and we could all see her having a meeting with the black Labrador.  It looked bored.  She started weeping and left and we never saw her again.  Fired by a dog I guess.

Who were we to question it?  All the power held by those above.  Pawns in a machine we couldn't comprehend just trying to make sure we could pay our heating bills.  But I had a plan.  I told the secretary I had to ask the boss something and she allowed me into his office for a moment.

I had pumped a litre of pink meat into my work pocket, and when alone with the 'boss' I emptied it on his desk.  Looking into his deep eyes I said "I think we both know what this means, that we have an understanding?" And he bowed his head and looked excitedly at his prize.

I returned to work but I couldn't look at the faces of my colleagues.  I knew I had sold myself out.  It was a week later when I received my promotion in a letter delivered to my house signed with a paw print.  I wasn't the meat pumper at the sausage roll station anymore.  I was the secretary of the boss dog in his office.  The old lady who used to do that role now did my old job, pumping pink sausage meat into pastry prisons for minimum wage.  She looked at me through the glass of my office like her eyes were made of poison and I put my feet on my desk like it was made of gold and shot her a wink.

I don't understand this world but I'm killing it.  I have 4 things to do today and I've told everybody I'm very busy and they all believe it.  My dog boss calls me in for meetings that last an hour and I don't understand a word he's saying or what is happening but I feel important.  It's a crazy world out there for people like us, the chosen few who overlook the working class.

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