Hound Archon

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In Elysium, where dwell the righteous dead, there was a pup. He was a good boy. So were his packmates. They were all good boys; good girls; good dogs (yes they were!). And their bowls were always full, and there were scritches for any in need.

There in Elysium the days were full of play. There was good roughhousing to be had, with plenty of tug of war, and chase-me, and smite-the-forces-of-darkness. That last was the best game, because the pup and his friends always won. Some slither-thing would creep across the borderlands, and then someone would howl. All the good dogs would take up the call, and one would be lucky enough to get there first. Then there would be biting. Biting was fun, because of course it was. The pup’s mouth would light up white hot when there was biting. His teeth would burn bright, and it would taste like warm sunlight and feel like happy memories of his Person.

That was the only sad part about Elysium. His Person was not there. The pup did not know why.

There was steak every day. Or bacon. Or both. Each good dog had their own stream to drink from, and the water was so good and clear that a dog could look in and see anything they wished. But no dog ever wished to see anything but their Person.

What are you doing? the pup wanted to know. Do you miss me too? Do you have friends to play with and make you smile? Is there another good dog to watch over you and make sure you are safe?

And so the nights passed for the pup: in watching and in loving his Person with all his heart.

And so the days passed: in running and laughing as only dogs can laugh, there beneath a clear blue sky.

And then one twilight, the voice of the pup’s Person was there upon the wind. The pup did not know what the noises meant. Not exactly. There was no spell for that. But his Person was clear, and so was his need.

“Come here, boy. Come here, Patches.” 

And so the pup went.

 

 

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