The Pursuit of the Poles

2020 had been a banner year for Sergeant Reginald Cottonbottom (Sarge, to anyone who was interested in remaining in one piece). Due to his flatmate working from their shared residence for a majority of the year, and even taking nearly a month off entirely, they had not only been able to spend more time together than ever before, but had ventured out enough that Sarge had claimed more poles than even he had imagined possible. But as the year drew to a close, Sarge was left with a nagging feeling of regret, as there still remained four poles he had not yet claimed as his own.

The poles themselves were perfectly ordinary. There was nothing at all special about them. They were in no way the tallest poles he had claimed, nor the widest. They were not even in a location which made laying his claim important, like the six he had claimed last week in front of the Tower of London. Sarge smiled to himself as he thought about that triumph. Claiming those had been some of his best work, not only because of the history surrounding them (think of the thousands of previous claims that had been made upon them!) but because it was not easy to get Arthur to go into crowds like that. Arthur had always preferred quiet, empty routes, as free of others as possible, and while those presented Sarge with plenty of potential claims, it greatly reduced Sarge’s ability to claim more prestigious prizes. But when Arthur had started to cross the bridge, and Sarge realized such a regal claim was in reach, he pulled Arthur as hard and fast as he could to make sure he could be a part of such rich history.

But these four poles, and his failure to claim them, ate at Sarge. For months he had seen them, and for months Arthur had refused to let him get close enough to do more than stare at them from across the street. Once, in mid-June, when they had approached the poles from a different direction than was usual, Sarge thought he had finally gotten his chance, but at the last second, SHE had walked out, and ruined it all. As soon as Arthur saw her, he had pulled Sarge, who had not been expecting such an abrupt stop of their forward momentum, and gone back the way they had come. Sarge huffed to himself angrily. The narrowness of that defeat had eaten away at him ever since. He would not, could not, let that failure carry over to the next year. With only two days to go in the year, Sarge decided he would have to take matters into his own four paws. Jumping up, he padded over to where Arthur lay on the couch, and pawed at him until Arthur sighed, put on his shoes, clipped Sarge to their leash, and helped him out of the building.

Now was Sarge’s opportunity. As they reached the street, Sarge immediately started out left. He would approach the poles in a wholly unexpected route. They crossed over a half dozen streets before Sarge jerked their leash again to cause them to turn left for the next ten, followed by a right turn for eight more. Sarge stopped then at a familiar pole to get his bearings. If Arthur suspected him, he didn’t show it. Sarge set out again, and was just about to turn right when a sudden scent gave him an idea. Altering course, Sarge pulled them straight instead, right to Arthur’s preferred coffee shop. Sarge slowed as they neared the door, hoping Arthur would catch the scent and decide to go in. Sure enough, as they reached the door Arthur stopped, tied their leash to a tree, asked Sarge to sit, and headed inside. Sarge knew this would be the key. Arthur would be so distracted by his coffee that he would not notice where they were, and Sarge would be to the poles before Arthur could do anything to stop him. Today, Sarge would seize victory, and would finally accomplish that which had so eluded him this year. Today, the poles would be his.

Arthur emerged from the shop a few minutes later. Sarge rose from where he was sitting, stretched, and after Arthur had untied their leash, began setting out towards his goal. After two more blocks Sarge quickly pulled them right. He glanced back, and saw that Arthur was still sipping his drink. Nothing on his face suggested he suspected Sarge of attempting to reach their destination. As they reached the busy road on which the elusive poles stood, Sarge, as nonchalantly as he could, turned down it. He could see them. 200 feet to go. Sarge risked a glance back, but Arthur remained oblivious. 150 feet. Sarge, in his excitement, began to quicken his pace. There they were. 100 feet. He would not be denied. 75 feet. Sarge could not take it any longer. He pulled on their leash but, too hard! Arthur had not been expecting such a sudden lunge, and it had caused him to stumble and drop his drink. Swearing loudly, Arthur pulled on the leash, and brought Sarge to a screeching halt. Sarge looked up at Arthur and saw, with horror, a look of comprehension spread across Arthur’s face. Sarge attempted to pull again. He would break free of the leash if he had to, so badly did he want to reach those poles.

But Arthur was having none of it. He held their leash firm, and Sarge knew he was beaten. He had failed. Putting his head down, Sarge shuffled after Arthur. To have been so close, Sarge thought, made it all the worse. His haste had cost him, and his failure would continue to haunt him. Sarge shuffled, head hung low, tail stationary, the rest of the walk home. When they reached the flat he lapped dejectedly at his water, before wholly ignoring his kibble and flopping down onto his bed. He tried to sleep, but every time he closed his eyes all he could see were the poles. After several restless hours (or was it days?) Sarge eventually began to fall asleep, but as he did, an idea struck him. It was not a good idea, and Sarge knew that. But he knew, almost immediately, that it was the only solution to his problem. If Arthur would not come with Sarge to the poles, well then Sarge would just have to go on his own. Admittedly, the idea scared him a bit. He had never left the flat without Arthur before, and while he knew how to get to and from the poles without any issue, it had always comforted Sarge to have someone with a better view of the world walking behind him. But this was no time for cowardice. He was Sergeant Reginald Cottonbottom. And if he could not muster the courage to venture out alone to these, the poles that had thwarted him for months, he might as well be known instead as Reginald Cowardbottom.

Sarge made up his mind. The next time Arthur opened the door, we would make his move. He would charge out the door, down the stairs, onto the street and straight to the poles. They would be his in no time. Sarge shifted his body, so he was facing the door. Feigning sleep, he kept half an eye on Arthur, watching for any sign of movement. Two hours passed, but still Arthur sat on the couch. Three hours. Four. Finally, Sarge saw Arthur begin to rise. But was it to the door, or to the bedroom? Sarge readied his hind legs. He would need to be up and out the door before Arthur had a chance to realize what was going on. He leaned back, ready to launch, but, alas, it was not to be. Arthur merely shuffled to the bedroom. Sarge shuffled after him, dejected. It appeared this mission would be delayed until tomorrow.

The following morning, Sarge awoke with a start to find that Arthur had already left their bed. Scrambling, Sarge ran into the living room to find Arthur had merely retraced his steps from the night before, and was back on the couch, newspaper in hand. Sarge could not believe it. Not only had Arthur managed to leave their bed without him noticing, but he had left their flat entirely! The shame at having slept through what might have been his last opportunity washed over Sarge, and he slumped to the floor where he stood. Hours of waiting, all wasted. Perhaps it was not meant to be, thought Sarge. Perhaps those poles are there not to be conquered, but instead to serve as a reminder that perfection is unattainable. Yes, that was it. Their existence, and his inability to claim them, was as a metaphor, there to humble him. To keep him grounded.

Sarge shook his head, disgusted with himself for even having such thoughts. These were the thoughts of lesser canines. Of course perfection was attainable. He had seen it every time he had walked past a mirror. He was perfection embodied. Such a failure was unacceptable for Sergeant Reginald Cottonbottom. He would remain vigilant. Even Arthur, despite his prodigious ability to remain stationary for long periods of time, would move eventually. So Sarge, reinvigorated with a newfound sense of purpose, re-manned his post. Watching, and waiting, for his opportunity.

Around lunch time, it came. Sarge first heard Arthur answer his phone, and a minute later, as Arthur was standing up from the couch, Sarge heard the most beautiful sound he had ever heard: the buzzer, which let them know someone was downstairs, was ringing. This was his moment. Sarge slipped as slowly and silently as he could to a better position. He knew he would only have one chance. He planted his paws firmly on the ground, as Arthur moved towards the door, and as Arthur turned the handle, Sarge launched himself forward.

He had timed it perfectly. Arthur was still in the midst of swinging the door open when he noticed Sarge lunging for it, and could not stop himself from opening it further before Sarge was out. Sarge skidded to a stop outside the door, and sprinted to the stairs. He sped down them, threw himself into the door at their base, and was in the street in a matter of seconds. Stopping to regain his bearings, Sarge sped up the street. As he reached the corner, Sarge heard Arthur yelling his name behind him, but ignored him. He had a date with destiny. He ran across the street, weaving his way between the legs of the people walking, and after several blocks turned right, before eventually taking a left, and another right. After three more blocks, Sarge knew he was close. But he also knew Arthur was still hot on his tail.

Finally, he saw them ahead, gleaming in the December sunshine. Knowing how close Arthur was, Sarge put on a last spurt of speed. He would not be denied this chance. And as he neared the poles, Sarge’s heart leapt. The woman who had previously caused Arthur to stop short of the poles was outside on the sidewalk. Sarge knew Arthur would not go any further. Sure enough, Sarge heard Arthur’s pace slow behind him. The day was his. Slowing down, Sarge reached the first of the poles, and sniffed it, relishing the moment. He could smell the previous claims of those who had come before him. But from now, until the end of time, it would be him that the world smelled. Raising his leg, Sarge turned away from the pole, just as the woman noticed him, laughed, and began talking to him. Sarge ignored her. Pleasantries could wait. But as he moved to the second pole, something wholly unexpected happened: Arthur had walked up to where he and the woman stood.

Sarge paused, despite himself. Arthur, the man who had so actively avoided this woman for so many months, had followed Sarge straight up to where she stood. As the woman turned to talk to him, Sarge saw Arthur turn red for the briefest of seconds, before responding. Shaking himself back to reality, Sarge returned to the business at hand, claiming the second and third poles. With only one remaining, Sarge could not help himself. He stole a glance back at Arthur and the woman, who Sarge was pleased to see, were still talking. The woman had even laughed, and Sarge’s heart leapt when he saw Arthur return a smile, something he had not seen Arthur do in months. It appeared everyone’s day was being made by Sarge’s conquest. And speaking of conquest, Sarge thought to himself, turning to the fourth pole. It was time. He should have prepared a speech, some brief remarks. But speeches could wait. Turning, Sarge lifted his leg, and claimed the pole as his own.

It was done. After months of painstaking work, he had finally claimed these four poles as his own. He sauntered back towards Arthur and the woman, head held high, tail wagging. The two of them looked at him, and the woman laughed as she bent down to scratch behind his ears. A well-deserved reward, thought Sarge. But now, with his goal achieved, he was ready to rest. Looking up at Arthur, Sarge saw their leash in his hands, and bent his head low so it could be clipped on. But as he started to walk away, Sarge noticed that Arthur had not followed. Looking back, he was surprised to see Arthur’s phone in the woman’s hands. But, soon enough, it had been returned to Arthur, and he had followed Sarge down the sidewalk, back to their flat, and to the much-needed nap Sarge now craved.