Dog — The Loyalty Clause
Dog — The Loyalty Clause
You find the medallion tucked against a fire hydrant, because of course you do. The moment your fingers brush the metal, you hear:
“Oh! Hi there, human! You’re early. Or late. I forget which.”
You turn and spot a big, golden mutt with kind eyes, flecks of grey in his muzzle, and a tail thumping in slow rhythm. He gives you a friendly pant and a nod, then groans as he settles onto the grass.
“Don’t mind me. These joints aren’t what they used to be. I’m seven. Which means I’m basically… president.”
He chuckles at his own joke.
“Name’s Max. Or Buster. Or Maybe-Sit-Down-Please. Depends on the day. My humans have kids. They experiment.”
He squints up at you.
“Look, I’ve been trying to talk to humans for years. Barked at empty corners, fetched the wrong ball to prove a point, herded toddlers away from electrical sockets. I earned my language badge the hard way. And now one little medallion and—poof—fluency. You’re lucky, you know that?”
You smile. “Why can I talk to you now?”
He shrugs, his ears flopping lazily.
“Beats me. Maybe the world’s finally catching up to what dogs already knew: humans are worth talking to.”
He yawns, stretches one paw, then snorts.
“Don’t trust the raccoon though. He’s been causing all kinds of tail-tangles lately. Convinced the fox to help him replace my chew toys with cabbages. Ever tried chewing a cabbage? Soggy betrayal. Had a whole name for the prank too. ‘Operation Roughage.’ Jerks.”
You laugh.
“He means well… maybe. Probably. Honestly? I’m too old to untangle raccoon motives. I just miss naps where no one’s scheming behind the shed.”
A distant whistle sounds.
Max perks up, ears high.
“That’s them. My humans. They need me.”
He stands, stretches, shakes the sleep out of his fur.
“They think they’re walking me, but really—I’m keeping the pack together. Always have.”
As he trots away, tail wagging gently, he calls over his shoulder:
“If you see that raccoon, tell him I’m onto him. And if you’ve got snacks, bury ‘em deep. He’s got… pockets.”