pyrephox | IN Fic Thing.

Born out of a conversation with

cpip, and ended up...eh. Just something that struck me as an interesting idea, perhaps. No warning codes on it, aside from a little bit of angst.

The sunlight was weak and watery through the bedroom curtains, as if it were ashamed of being there, like an unwanted guest sulking in the corner and muttering things like "Never mind me," and "Just pretend I'm not here," under its breath. It barely illuminated my grandfather's face, but curiously, the dust motes that danced with his every, failing breath were clear. Like tiny stars, they shone as I stepped closer to his bedside. His eyes, blue, and as watery as the light, focused with difficulty on my face. "Won't be long, now," he claimed, in a voice that was deep and strong for the withered throat which had created it.

I sat down on the edge of the bed, and reached out to pat his hand. "Grampa, don't say things like that..." I stopped, because his hand had moved, like a wrinkled rattlesnake, to grasp my wrist. His grip was strong.

"Hush, child. I say it won't be long, and I think I should know. It's my time, that's all. Lookin' forward to it, truth to tell." The smile he gave me was more a grimace. "Look outside, Charles." He released my wrist, and gestured at the window. "Look out there, and tell me what you see."

Being an obediant child, I hushed and rose to look out the window, pawing aside Gramma's handmade lace, and staring out. "It's the yard. I can see the plants in the garden. And Dusty." I frowned a little at that. Every since Grampa had taken to bed, his dog, Dusty, had refused to come inside. Instead, he sat out by the garden and alternatively howled and sulked. Mom had tried to feed him, but he'd growled at her, and Dad had simply said that animals know about these things, and that he'd come in when he was hungry.

He hadn't come in for a week.

"Dusty, yeah," Grampa said, jarring me out of my thoughts, "that's what I wanted you to see. When I'm finished here, you'll be his. I want you to go out and tell him that, when it's over. That I'm gone, and you're his, now. You hear me, Charlie?"

I frowned, turning from the grieving dog back to the old man in the bed. Even for a twelve-year-old, I knew that something wasn't quite right about that phrasing. "Mom already tried to bring him in. He don't want to come."

Grampa smiled, and patted the side of the bed, again. "Siddown, son. I'll tell you a secret. If," his voice became deep and stern, "you think you can keep a secret? Even from your Ma and Dad?" He squinted through the apologetic sunlight at me, as if weighing my secret-keeping abilities.

Now, I'd been in enough school safety programs to know that agreeing to keep secrets from my Mom and Dad was a Bad Thing. But I drifted back and sat where he indicated I should, and nodded my head. I reasoned that once I /heard/ the secret, if it was a bad one, it wouldn't be tattling to tell it, right? Right. "I can keep a secret, Grampa."

"Good, good," he said, and from the twinkle in his eyes, I wondered if he hadn't known what I was thinking. But if he did, he didn't bring it up, just waved at the window. "D'you know when I got Dusty, Charlie?"

"Christmas," I said, promptly. "The Christmas after the first Dusty went to Heaven, and you picked this Dusty up from the pound, so that Gramma wouldn't worry when she was home alone." I remembered, because Dad had been sad, and it'd taken him a while to warm up to the new Dusty. Even though they looked an awful lot alike, Dad thought that it wasn't the same, and that Grampa should have gotten a puppy. Or at least given the new dog a different name.

Grampa was shaking his head, grinning at me. "Sorry, Charlie, but that ain't right." He paused to cough, a dry and painful sound, and then continued, "I got Dusty when I was six years old, just before /my/ Grampie passed on. That was back home, 'course, but he sat me down on a bed not much different than this one, and told me what I'm tellin' you. Dusty's /special/."

Mom had told me about this. She said that when people were sick, sometimes they thought funny things, and said funny things. So I smiled, and nodded, and said, "He sure is, Grampa."

"Hush, boy. Don't take that tone with me, or I'll get out of this bed and tan your hide. Don't think I won't. Now, sit there, be quiet, and listen!" My eyes widened, and I opened my mouth to apologize, but was cut off with a sharp movement of his hand. "I said hush. I didn't believe it at first, either. I thought Grampie just didn't know how to name dogs. But listen to me...that dog sitting out there is the same one I got from my grandfather, and the same one that he got from /his/ grandmama. Don't know where she got him. Don't reckon it much matters, anymore.

"Here's the important part, Charlie. He's been with us for a good long time, and we've always kept the secret. He'll keep you safe...he's a lot stronger than he lets on, and he's a good dog. Real good. Don't eat nothin', either, unless there's company. There's other stuff, but here are the main things." He cleared his throat, and stared at me. "You listening?"

I swallowed, opened my mouth. Then, remembering his order, just nodded. He nodded back, satisfied. "Good. Here are the main things...he ain't a pet. Don't think of him that way. He ain't a dog, either, but he doesn't remember bein' anything else. Oh yes," he chuckled as he saw my expression change, "he talks, sometimes. Not as much now as when I was a boy, I think. But he'll say somethin' when there's somethin' to say. Another thing. He'll protect you, but you got to return the favor. Keep him safe, Charlie. Don't let anyone find out about him. He's ours, and we're his. That's the way it is. Got it?"

I didn't, not really, but from the way he was looking at me, nothing less than agreement would do. So I nodded, again. He continued to watch me for a minute, then sighed. The skin on his face suddenly looked paper thin. "It'll have to do, I guess. I did alright, so I suppose you will, too." He turned his head away. Away from me, and from the window. "Go get your Ma, Charlie. I need to talk to her about a few things." I jumped up and started moving towards the door, relieved to be released. But his voice stopped me as I reached for the doorknob. "Hey, Charlie?"

"Yes, Grampa?"

"Tell him...tell him that he was a real good dog, okay?"

"O...okay, Grampa."

I left, running all the way down the stairs and into the kitchen, skidding on the linoleum tile to deliver my message, then right on past, through the back door, and into the yard. I gasped as the fall air hit me. It felt good and clean after the air of the house, which was cloyingly warm and smelled of medicine, even away from the sickroom. I ran, just away from the house at first, but eventually I circled around to where the dog had been keeping his vigil, and stopped a few paces away. Dusty didn't look at me, didn't look at anything, really. He had his head tilted it back, like he was watching a bird or something, but the sky was clear.

Grampa had said to wait until he was gone, but I couldn't make myself. Feeling rather silly, I walked over and sat next to the large, furry body. There was a dish of leftovers nearby, untouched. I looked at it, then at Dusty. "Um. Uh...Grampa said that you were a real good dog, and that I was yours now," I blurted, my face turning red. "Not that you can understand or nothin', but that's what he said." I moved to get up.

"Thank you, Charles. It was kind of you to pass the message on, and I'm certain that we'll get along together." The voice was smooth, resonant, and had a faint accent. British, perhaps. It was also, without a doubt, coming from the dog's mouth, accompanied by an odd twist of an expression that managed to convey the sense of grave amusement without being any recognizably human expression.

I stared at Dusty, and he stared back at me. I don't know for how long, but I do know who moved first. The dog's muzzle suddenly swung to the side, and pointed at the bedroom window. He took a deep sniff of the air, then threw back his head, and howled. There was more than animal anguish in the sound, and after a moment, I reached out and hugged him. He howled, and I hugged, and that's how Mom found us when she came to tell me that Grampa was dead.

IN Fic Thing.

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