Trenton Huestis

Good Dogs Die Slow

“There weren't always dragons in the valley.” Old Dog knelt down and scratched Luna behind her pointed ears, looking back at the morning's work. Crimson slashed the wilderness over the place he once called home. Speaking the words, to keep him in practice - and on the right side of sane, “There weren't always dragons in the valley. Soon they won't be here again”. Turning away from the morning's violence he left the scent of gore, the soft whimpers of dying men, and scrubbed the ruby splatterings from his face on to his sleeve. Luna's blood-drenched muzzle snapped up as Old Dog clicked his tongue. Her disappointed eyebrows furrowed as she attempted to turn back to her meal. He clicked again and Luna begrudgingly came to heel, her long tongue pulling the flavor of meat from her fur. “Come on you two.” And so, she fell into step with her lumbering mate, Cotton. His scruff browned with layered filth. Old Dog whistled his same old tune with a renewed spring in his step.