Dog Days

This is a story of two dogs who climbed the Long Stair between their habitual place of residence in the dungeons and the well-furnished (that is to say, provided with all manner of couches) Family Room, a place of unimaginable delights and innumerable treats. It happened in the winter of the year of the Ubiquitous Cat, which everyone later agreed was a remarkable year, barring the cat, who made of point of never appearing impressed.

The dogs had names, but names are only placemarkers, after all, and often tell us nothing of character and identity and idiosyncrasy (since they are given by those who are not us), and thus the two protagonists are best described in terms of their essential dogginess; though different, they each measured up to and exceeded the expectations associated with certain canine stereotypes. The older one was a Wicked Uncle, and what he lacked in dignity, he made up in irascibility - masked, of course, by the traditional "good dog" aura, soulful dark eyes and a thin layer of fat. He was a firm proponent of the philosophy, "All good things come to those who wait," except when some young pup had the impertinence to travel through his Territory uninvited; in such cases he delivered the good thing immediately: it was discipline, and it was sure and swift. Like so many wicked uncles, he was burdened with an unwanted charge on whom he took out his troubles from time to time.

His charge was the younger dog, and despite this ignominious position in Life, the uncle-afflicted pup bubbled with the enthusiasm, anxiety, and headstrong idiocy of youth. He was, in short, a Swain.

These two were languishing in the dark recesses of their cage, casting their mournful (the Swain) and baleful (the Wicked Uncle) eyes despondently about, until the elder companion spoke. He said,

If thou beest he; But O how fall'n! how chang'd
From him, who in the happy Realms of Light
barked joyfully and occasioned rabbit flight;
If he whom mutual league, united woofs and counsels, equal hope
And hazard in the Glorious Enterprize,
Joynd with me once (joyned now by misery in equal ruin!)
If he, I say, then give me that T-bone, for I would chew.

The Wicked Uncle prided himself on his ability to rise to any oratory occasion. But his magnificent adaption of a famous speech was entirely lost on the Swain, who understood only that he must give up his sole attachment to happiness. He cowered away to the corner. The Wicked Uncle chewed with dissatisfaction on the bone. It was a very old bone, and besides, the Swain had abandoned it up so quickly there hadn't been even the slightest pretext for a fight. Both dogs were thoroughly depressed.

To make matters worse, they were being watched. A cat, free to come and go as it chose, drifted silently from shadow to shadow, its alien eyes glittering at them strangely. There was no telling what it was thinking, but the way it sauntered along the top of the fence separating them from the free world was infuriating. The Swain grew more and more anxious. Though he tried, he could not contain his distress. It escaped at first in small whines that gave way to trembling moans, and the Wicked Uncle took no notice. But his charge was contracting a bad case of cabin fever, and the matter was far from over. The trembling moans became high pitched yips, which developed into full-throated woofs. There were shouts from the Upper Realms beyond the Long Stair, and the ceiling shook with threats of retribution and with pounding feet. Some fell creature roared down the furnace duct, Shut Up, but the Swain had gone mad. The Wicked Uncle saw his chance, and began to howl frightfully. Together, they made a dissonant symphony that would have had even Franz Liszt begging for quiet. It sounded a bit like this:

Young Dog: Whiiiine whiiine moan yip!
Old Dog: OOOoooooOOOOoooo.
Furnace Duct Creature: Shut up! Shut up!
Young Dog: Whine whine yip woof!

Abruptly, there was the sound of feet thundering down towards them, and the dogs ceased to raise their hue and cry. The cat melted into shadow.

The Furnace Duct Creature said, "Oh all right. Come upstairs. It's rotten outside anyway." And the impassable gates, no doubt forged of legendary Damascus steel and bound with adamant, were flung open. There was a pause. The Swain looked incredulously from freedom to the FDC. It said, "go on." And then the dogs burst forth.

Intermission: Another Installment Will Arrive In Good Time