Til Death

Death didn't pick me, I picked him. As soon as my soul was loose, I was ready to run and jump and play with him, but Death was serious and moody and determined to take me to The Crossing. His eyes might have been lifeless, but I could see a warmth lurking in those dark depths. I could also sense he needed me.

“Get on now, old fella,” Death grunted, pointing a long, bony finger toward the bridge. I glanced at him and then sat, refusing to budge. Death sighed. “Don’t be difficult. Ain’t no use whining. I can’t keep you. Against the rules.”

I didn’t care about the rules. I turned my back on the shining gateway to doggy heaven and placed a paw on Death’s dark robe. He hesitated and in that moment I knew I’d won.

“Yours?” the human souls would inevitably ask Death, and rumple my fur. Death would silently hand them a ball and allow one last game of fetch before depositing them in Glory or The Bad Place.

For decades Death and I traveled and worked together, until that fateful day when my brush with life changed everything.

I blame the bird. We had gone to collect a sweet old granny but her pesky cockatiel was loose and angry. It prevented Death from coming close. My barking scared the bird away, but not before it scratched me across the nose. I yelped. In all my time as Death’s companion, I had never been injured before.

Death paused, leaving the woman’s soul in limbo, and stared solemnly at the blood dripping into my fur.

“Life has caught you,” Death smiled sadly. “Too many good deeds by a good dog.”

Now I wait, again, for the end and to return to my Master’s side.



Good Boi ▼

word count: 298
Prompt: brush, bird, ball
Daily Flash Fiction Contest