[HT] Seven Days

I WROTE A THING.

A DEPRESSING THING.

READ THE DESCRIPTION FOR DIGRESSING.

Warning: Umm, violence I guess? It’s heavily implied. And there’s blood. A puppy may or may not get kicked.

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On the first day, it rained. Not heavily, but enough to throw off his usually reliable nose. He almost missed the scent- old tobacco, cheap leather, and gin on his breath. He had to try even harder to catch the metallic scent of blood. Blinking through the darkness, Argus spotted the silhouette, shoulders hunched, fumbling for keys in worn suit pockets. Master is home.

When the figure reaches the door, the dog pressed himself against the tree trunk, peered over crossed arms and prayed for the wind to pass, for the rattle to stop and for the sound to pass the man’s attention. There’s beer soaking the man’s blonde hair.  

Now, Argus knows a thing or two about alcohol. He’s never drunk any, not on purpose, but he knows. He can especially relate to getting a half full bottle smashed over your head. The decent sized bruise is one thing, but there’s also the intense stinging in your eyes, the stale smell flooding your nose, the sharp little glass fragments digging into the skin, the shrill ringing of shattering glass won’t leave your ears for hours and with all your senses overloaded you can’t do anything for-

No.

Wait.

Stop.

He’s being selfish. Master is bleeding, he has to help. Up close Argus can see blood dripping from the man’s hairline. The man doesn’t try wiping it away, just blinks it out of his eyes as a wobbly hand attempts to shove his car keys through the keyhole.

“Sir… are you all ri-“

He reeled back when the man slammed his fists into the door, his ears catching the telltale sound of splintering wood. It took no more than a second to decide dog form was the better approach. Sure, the man went easier on his human form but it really wasn’t built for a beating. Plus, the former point didn’t apply when he was this drunk.

Nudging a broad hand with his nose, he picked up the keys between his incisors. He let the man lean his weight on his side, supporting him as he once again battled with the keyhole. When knees buckle, Argus feels his breathing quicken. There’s cursing, not as quietly as the man probably thought, and the dog braced himself for the impending blow.

It doesn’t come. Unable to get up, his master leans forward and wraps his arms around the dog’s neck. For a minute, Argus thinks he may have passed out. He felt panic seize his heart. He didn’t like being restricted like this. He considers running back to that comfortable ditch by the tree. But no, his master needs him now. That would be selfish.

“You’re a good dog…”

It’s so quiet, Argus just misses it. The dog isn’t sure how many minutes pass but he stands patiently, lets the man draw the dog close to his chest in a tight hug and lets tears soak his fur. When master does sober up, Argus helps him inside before settling down in that comfortable ditch.

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On the second day, Argus wakes up to a full dog bowl. Not just table scraps either, real dog food, the crunchy biscuit kind, not leftover half eaten TV dinners. It’s not a modest amount either, if he rationed it out, there would be a week’s worth in there. Argus wolfs it all down before the birds get to it.

When his master gets home from work, the dog almost doesn’t recognise him. He’s shaved all that stubble away, not having so much as a five o’clock shadow. He’s also sporting a new, rather expensive looking business suit- the fancy kind that needs a tailor.

What confuses Argus the most is the unrecognisable tune the man whistles. Thinking it a recall, the dog greets him in his usual manner- head lowered, ears back, no eye contact. Humans don’t like eye contact. They see it as a challenge. He’s learned that lesson well; you need to let them know that you’re not a threat to their leadership, that they’re the boss, that you wouldn’t even think of- no. Wait, he’s getting side tracked again.

The second day is weird. Why was it again? Ah, right. It’s because his master surprises him. The man kneels, looks him in the eyes and scratches him behind the ear. It’s subtle, it’s quick and it’s over before he knows it. The man retreats into the house after that, leaving Argus wondering if he should feel grateful or terrified.

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On the third day, Argus wakes to another full dog bowl. At first, he thinks the concussions are adding up. His bowl’s never refilled this fast, not after one day. Even when he is done scarfing it all down, realisation refuses to set in.

When the front door swings open, he’s reminded of the silver Mercedes still sitting in the driveway. His master must have a day off work. Even so, the man usually uses these days to catch up on sleep not… read the morning paper. Or read anything really.

The man seats himself on the front porch, newspaper in one hand, coffee in the other. The aroma of roasted beans is alluring, especially without whiskey masking the fragrance, so much so that Argus almost doesn’t hesitate when he is called over. Almost. The coffee still looks hot enough to burn.

His master doesn’t do anything. The young dog remains lying next to him on the wooden deck expecting a command of some type. He doesn’t get so much as a ’Watch the house’. After a few minutes, he settles down with his muzzle flat on the ground and the man continues reading.

When his reading is finished, he sets the mug on the ground and lets the dog lap up the rest. The two of them don’t do much else that day.

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On the fourth day, Argus knows it isn’t a fluke. The same dull silver dish filled to the brim with kibble bits and, trying it now, this might actually be a different, more expensive brand. Again, Argus made short work of his meal (and almost chokes on it in his haste, but that’s a minor detail). 

Master’s staying home again. The car’s not even in the driveway, tucked safely in the garage instead of out in the open. Argus wonders if he’ll get to taste some more coffee. His master has good taste in the stuff and the dog’s developed a liking. He’s left wondering all morning, not catching sight or scent of the man until around midday.

When he does appear, he’s wearing that nice suit again. For some reason he’s holding two small bouquets of white flowers (Lilies maybe? Argus is much of a botanist). Accompanying him is the jangling of metal. That sound makes his stomach lurch. There’s a rope in his hands. Argus doesn’t like being choked. It hurts. Not like a kick that you can prepare for. No, your lungs burn for air, it’s slow and drawn out and with your throat locked like that you can’t even beg fo- wait. Not a rope. He knows what that is, it’s a leash. For walks. He used to go on those.

As much as the Bull Arab wants to pull on the lead or lunge at a stranger, he keeps his excitement in check and glues himself to his master’s flank. Argus has forgotten many things but he never forgot how to heel. It’s easy enough, just stick to the human’s calf and sit when they stop. So heel he does- he has to be perfect, no matter how overwhelming his anxiety or this might not happen again. And he wants to go on more walks. If he could have just one thing.

Luckily, there’s not that many people out this time of day. He’s taken to a park, not a huge one, small and quaint but big enough. Argus is hoping his master will let him off leash but he never slows his step. Instead, they head further, past the field and swing sets until they reach an area with rows of headstones. The dog’s never been in a cemetery before. It makes him uneasy. As usual, his master never wavers.

When they do stop, it’s in front of a pair of grey tombstones. His master sets the lilies (?) down, one bunch on each grave, and the dog keeps quiet. Amber eyes glaze over the names set in stone. And Argus keeps staring at the letters, foreign looking and foggy in his mind. Except he knows it’s English. He knows that’s an ‘a’ and that’s an ‘e’ but the string of blurry characters won’t form in his mind as a name. This doesn’t make sense. Argus can read. He knows he can. He’s read novels, comics and even a goddamned textbook on fundamental physics, he can still recite Newton’s laws of motion from memory but he can’t read a basic-

No.

Wait.

Now’s not the time for that. He draws his focus back to his master, who so far was just as still as the granite slabs. He’s mumbling something, Argus could pick it up but decides against it.

A few more seconds tick by before he finally moves, giving the dog a few reassuring pats on the shoulder before they both head home without another word.

-----

Argus knows the drill by the fifth day. He sprints over to the shiny metal bowl and he doesn’t gorge himself. Instead, Argus savours his feast, chews slowly and takes his time, knowing tomorrow he won’t have to worry. He hasn’t tasted his food in so long.

The dog almost bowls his master over when he emerges from the house that day. Argus greets him with genuine enthusiasm, which only grows when he is almost certain he glimpses the man smile.

On their walk, they go to that park he saw yesterday. The Bull Arab isn’t crazy about fetch (it’s like chasing quarry without the fun of killing) but he goes along with it anyway. And that’s all they spend the day doing. The dog wouldn’t have it any other way.

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On the sixth day, Argus is, admittedly, a little disappointed. There’s food in his bowl but the portion's been cut back. Argus figures he must have run out. Well, it didn’t matter. He’s eaten a lot lately, enough for a good while.

He’s quick to notice the missing car. His master must have gone for work. Rather than sleep like he usually did, the dog walks as far as the chain will allow, seats himself in the driveway and waits.

His master doesn’t come home that day.

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On the seventh day, he doesn’t need to check his bowl. The man didn’t come home. He continues waiting in the driveway but by midday, he gives up and returns to his ditch by the tree.

When the silver car does come rolling down the driveway, Argus isn’t sure it still is the seventh day. The sun had long since gone down, the sky an inky black and the air was frigid- no lights flickered from the windows of the other house. None of that mattered. Master was home. In his eagerness to welcome the man, he doesn’t notice it.

When realisation strikes, it strikes hard. He’s greeted with a swift kick to the chest, one that knocks the air from his lungs. He notices the scent when the wind changes direction; the man has a bottle in his hand. And it’s empty. Not wanting to agitate him further, the dog retreats behind the tree.

Argus wishes his master would stop drinking. It couldn’t be that hard. He doesn’t understand why he does it. He doesn’t even seem that happy- Wait.

No.

Stop.

The answer is simple. The man is human; he can do what he wants. Argus doesn’t have the right to judge. He needs to learn to stop being so selfish.