Argos the Dog

Odyssey fan fic

Here I lie on this heap of dung, flea-bitten and sore, neglected by servants and abused by strangers in my master’s house. I’m old in tooth and my time is near, and my only wish is that I could hear master’s voice one last time before I die.

When I was a pup he held me in his arms and stroked my fur; he gave me the choicest bones; he trained me, and for my part, I followed his orders with all my heart and strength. In the evenings I would rest at his side while we gazed at the fire and listened to minstrels play into the night for his guests.

There were always guests of every kind in master’s courtyard, men and women who came from afar and anear, bowing and speaking to master with respect. He was master not merely of his pack but of every pack of men in the entire world. I knew this to be the case because they brought him gifts of entire sheep and goats and bulls.

The days I remember most fondly were those after a hunt, when master and I would eat until we were so satisfied that we would collapse and sleep together, his arm on my ribs, as the sun’s rays slanted through the trellis above to warm our bodies as we drowsed off under the curling vines. We would sleep and eat again and sleep again through the livelong day until the evening, when we would gnaw on the bones and listen to the minstrel’s stories. They would tell of how master would trick other men, always pretending to be someone or the other in order to better conceal his strength before pouncing on his prey. No one alive was as cunning as master, and he was loved by many and feared by all. The minstrels called him “Odysseus” and “king” and all manner of things, but to me, he was always just “master.”

Master was good to everyone in his extended pack, even the crazies who brought him worthless gifts that could not be eaten at all, but were made merely of shiny earth. The crazies inflated the values of these gifts by calling them all sorts of made-up things. This hunk of earth was a “tripod” and this one a “breastplate” and so forth. My master politely accepted even these worthless gifts and would have a servant take them away to bury them in his hole under the house. It was the greatest hole you ever saw, so big that one could walk through it and gaze at all the shiny things hanging on the walls, and yet this impressive hole was only the place for his most worthless things, not where he kept his meat and bread and grapes, which he displayed in the courtyard for all to see and share in.

But those days were short-lived. I only had my master for two short years before one day he left with a great deal of his pack around him, dressed in all manner of shiny things. I knew he was going not to hunt mere animals, but men, for he did not take me with him. I stayed behind obediently, to guard all of his females until his return. There was so much howling and baying on their part, especially from the alpha female, his prized bitch Penelope, who howled and bayed more than the rest and flung her arms around his neck and wept. It has now been twenty years since he left, and she is still much the same, frequently sighing and calling out his name as a forlorn female often will when she misses her mate.

He left behind his son, too, who was but a wee pup barely taller than myself. Now it has been twenty years, and Telemachus has grown up tall and strong. When he was young we used to hunt from time to time, but as he grew into the alpha that he is now, he ceased to have time for me, but became increasingly worried about his mother’s protection, and concerned that his father should return. He left me to the servants’ care, but they increasingly forgot to feed me and bathe me, especially when came the strangers.

The strangers! What filth. They came calling and braying, sniffing about to steal away master’s prize bitch. Telemachus and she have tried to be as gracious as father always was to guests, and provided meat and grapes and bread to the strangers, but these strangers eat and eat and eat for moons and moons, and in exchange only give back the occasional bit of shiny dirt. They howled and brayed and they reeked of that smell that young males have when they think they might challenge the alpha of a pack. And I yearned and yearned for master to come back so that he might tear into all of them and show them who was king of all, but he did not come. And the strangers kicked me and threw things at me, until the only place I could hide from their abuse was in the manure shed, and still master did not come. And the strangers plotted to kill Telemachus and take his mother for theirs, and still master did not come. And I grew older and older, sicker and sicker, with the fleas biting me and no one to give me a bath or see to my wounds, and still…master did not come.

I am at the end now, having lived a long life. My bones are weary and my joints do ache. I only watch with my eyes as the young pups of the other dogs go back and forth with so much vigor and zeal, and I remember what it was like to be alive and smell every scent on the wind and to flit from place to place following them.

And I remember most of all, when I drift into and out of sleep, what it was like to course down the misty woodland paths with master just as rosy-fingered dawn arose. I smell the prey, the gamey, strong scents, growing chops-lickingly strong, as we leap over logs and race around trees until the form of some goat or hare materializes through the mist, and we set to howling and baying and chasing after it until master catches up and shoots it clean through and it lies there, bleeding out in the dirt.

And I relive the anticipation of waiting patiently for my share, for I would never eat before master. He slings it over his shoulders and we canter the long walk home, and then he hands it to the females of his pack, and we wait and wait while they roast it just the way he likes, and the fat drips off into the fire with so much sweet-smelling smoke, and my jowls salivate until finally master takes a leg off the body and bites in. And I watch him eat, and every dribble of oil and fat that falls from his beard makes me happy for him, and I look forward to the moment when at long last he turns and hands me the bone. And it is good—so good.

Now, reflecting over the years, I realize that even better than the meat was the anticipation of it.

But now, all I have to savor is the memory. All of that is but a distant dream twenty years past, and I am old and can barely eat a bite even when someone thinks to throw me a crust of bread. I can scarcely eat at all now, and I know the time is near for me to go on to Hades, if indeed dogs do go down to be judged good or bad as men do. But I only wish that I could smell master’s scent one last time before I die.

Master’s son has been gone for many moons now. Penelope stays away from the strangers, with only the other females to keep her company. She looks down from her balcony above. The Strangers howl and bray and eat their meat and gaze up in heat, lusting to mate with her, with not even a second thought out of respect for master. And I sigh and wish for the hundredth time that he would come back and tear in to them and that all things would be made right.

A coughing fit takes me for a time. I pant and wheeze, exhausted. My time is near, and I only wish that I could see master on the hunt one last time.

Just then, I hear voices in the outer yard. I am too exhausted to lift my head; my time is too near. But I recognize Telemachus’s voice, so like his father’s, speaking to someone. And then a voice calls in response, and my ears prick up. I cannot believe what I hear. Is it…?

Master’s son comes in first, gazing at the strangers in disapproval. I can smell his anger rising; it is growing ripe these many moons hence. Someday soon it will erupt into action. He is nearly ready to be an alpha himself.

And then I see two more men come in together. The first is good ole Eumaeus, who used to always bring a pig to master to roast and eat. The second is an old man cloaked in dirt and grime, stooped and covered in rags. But then the second man’s scent drifts over the wind toward me, and I know him. I know him! It is his voice I heard earlier; it is master!

I lift my head, even as death pulls me down. I struggle and lift my head and wag my tail and gaze upon master, and he gazes at me kindly, and we know one another. His eyes fill with tears, but he doesn’t come to me.

Instead he says to good ole Eumaeus, “What a noble hound is over yonder on the manure heap; his build is splendid. Is he as fine a fellow as he looks?”

And good ole Eumaeus tells him all about me, as if master were a stranger who knew nothing at all.

Oh master, master! He is playing one of his tricks, disguising himself as an old beggar, the least of all men, as if he doesn’t even have a pack at all, when actually he is the alpha of all packs, king and master of all. He hides himself, which can only mean that he is on the hunt! I can only imagine what he intends to do to these upstart strangers. Master and his tricks, master on the hunt. I miss him so.

A whole conversation passes through our eyes. He knows me; he follows every thought I send his way. And I tell him: Master, you can fool everyone else, but you cannot fool me. I know your scent and I know your ways. I know the gait of your step, the way you hunt deer, the way you hunt women, the way you hunt men, which you are doing even now. But my time is near, Master. I am ready to go. Thank you for all the bones, for all the hunts, for the long hours by the fire and the scratches behind my ears. Thank you for all the love. I will never forget you in this life or the next.

Master’s eyes flow with tears. He understands all of this and nods in reply. And I give my tail a last wag and I lie my head down, and I close my eyes. It is my time now, and I am content.

Feedback

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Author Notes

I was inspired to write this story after reading The Odyssey. I was really struck by how when Odysseus comes home in disguise, no one recognizes him except for his dog. His dog has been ill-treated while he’s gone, and the dog recognizes him. It’s really cool.

And then the dog dies. He dies! So casually, it simply mentions that he dies while moving on with the story. And I thought: that’s very unsatisfying.

So I thought, hm. What if there was more of a backstory to this event that built up to it more? What kind of story would make it make sense, narratively speaking, for the dog to die just then? The answer came: what if he had been waiting to die all this time, but wanted to see his master one last time first, and so this event was a release for him? And I was off to the races.

I have endeavored to change none of the salient details of the original story. The one quotation is taken straight from Samuel Butler’s translation. One of the details that was particularly tricky to work with is that in the text, Odysseus doesn’t approach the dog or touch him at all. It’s just an eye contact thing before the dog dies. That’s not as naturally satisfying, but I worked with the author’s original details and simply embellished the missing parts as much as I could without changing anything canon.

Book of the Week

Last week I reviewed Hammerfall, a classic science fiction epic that has Dune vibes but has much more compelling characters and a thrilling plot. Read more here.

What’s Going on in My Life

Last week, Gretchen and I closed on our new property, moved in, got our stuff back from storage, and began working on the place. We are getting the upper two floors of our log cabin ready to rent out as an AirBNB. Here’s a picture of one of the rooms.

There’s also a basement level that we’re making that into an apartment for us to live in. It already has a bathroom, but it needs a kitchen. Over the last couple of days we planned out the kitchen, hired a friend to help us with that, and bought appliances and a bunch of building materials at Habitat for Humanity. We’ve been slightly busy! I’ll post pictures of that later when it’s closer.

What’s Inspiring Me

When I first stepped onto this property, I immediately felt a great relief of breath and tension being released from my body. I feel such a deep, pervading peace out here. It’s part of how I knew this place was perfect for us, because that peace is what I want for everyone who comes to our future retreat.

It’s the most beautiful, relaxing place to be. During the day, I have turkeys and songbirds, the rustling of the wind in the fir and pines, and just the utter peace and calm.

At night, I have sunsets over the hills that I can view from my porch, and then I have the ribbits of frogs from the pond and the stars above.

I’m just grateful. I’ve been so grateful this week that I hardly have time to feel anything else—and for that, too, I am grateful.

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Until next week!