Pooch

She was on the bus today with a tiny dog inside her handbag with a red bow tied on its head matching the colour of her sweater. She had made this journey every month for the last two years, all because of George. She disliked the man. In fact it was more than dislike it was a deep resentment, which had percolated in her thoughts over the years and throughout every day of her life.
Pooch, her constant companion, looked adorable with his bow and its head poking out of her handbag. She stroked behind the dog’s ears. Just another two stops and they will be at the hospital. The conversations she had with the nurses regarding Pooch being a fashion statement was partially true. She had put on the red sweater this morning to match her shoes and Pooch’s little bow. George would have never have thought of that.
‘It’s not my fault,’ she said to her Yorkshire Terrier. ‘If he loafs around the house wearing odds socks.’
George was a depressive influence on her and in constant denial of the truth being forever in conflict with his true identity. He was not a real man.
The bus turned up the road and stopped by the hospital.
She rubbed the dog’s head. ‘Here we are Pooch, and they have been so kind to look after you until the operation is over.’
After this she would be able to start her new life and be her true self at long last. Tomorrow, it’s goodbye to George and in the morning it will be hello Georgina.