Dog Heroism

She turned me into a dog.
A DOG.
Now what am I supposed to do? How am I to defeat the amassed armies of the Celleri? How can a DOG stop any battle? It’s not like I can run up, bite them in the groin and expect them not to kill me! It’s not like I can piddle on their armor and rust them to the ground! There isn’t a whole lot a dog can do!
“If you prove yourself worthy of being a man once more, I will change you back.” Raina sounds all too pleased with herself. I’m tempted to stick my cold wet nose somewhere sensitive. Just because I can. She glares down at me, and I feel this body I am in cringe. Great. I’m not even a tough dog. I’m someone’s lap dog!
I whine, wishing I was growling. She seems to understand what I am trying to say, because she leans down. “How are you to prove yourself worthy, oh little lordling?” she asks, stroking my head. I hate her, but it feels surprisingly good. “Kill Marinal Celleri.”
My ears cock forward in surprise. She stands, still smiling, but this dog body I am now inhabiting knows she is not amused. She is angry. Truly, powerfully angry. If she’s that angry, why not do it herself? I cock my head to one side and grunt. She looks down at me, and with one smooth move reminiscent of my hound master, grabs me by the scruff of my neck and flings me out the open door. “And stay out!” she yells after me.
What the-? Not like I piddled on her floor. I sit outside the doorway and scratch, trying to think. I’m a dog. A DOG.
And if I ever want to be a man again, to be my own blue-blooded, tall, elegant, popular with the women self… I have to kill the leader of the Celleri. And do it as a lapdog.
Dogs can sigh.
That’s good.
I think I’ll be doing a lot of that until I am human again.
Everything’s black and white, no color. How do they survive this way? Smells. I can smell everything, and it all leaves little trails in the air. I want to find that one strong smell and roll in it. What? No! That’s disgusting. I know what my hounds have rolled in, and I am having none of it.
I stand, shake myself, and trot away. First, to find out what kind of dog I am. Then, find a way to plan the death of the Celleri.
I wonder if I can talk to other dogs.
I mean real dogs.
Whatever I mean.

People in this town do not like dogs. Strange. I have always had dogs. These are my people. You think they’d be used to them. But no. They don’t like dogs. I’ve been thrown out of five homes, two pubs and a church. Out of a church! That’s not very charitable. I think that once I’m human again I’ll withdraw my support from that church. See how he likes it!
I manage to sneak – SNEAK – back into my own home. The servants are sounding worried. They should be! I’m not home yet! Well, I am, but… whatever. I’m here, but they don’t KNOW I am here. And as a dog.
A DOG.
Up the stairs – and who ever knew that dogs could have such a hard time with stairs - my legs aren’t long enough for this – and nose into my room. With a running leap I manage to get my front paws onto the table and with some fierce scrabbling get the rest of me up as well. The mirror is still propped against the wall where I left it. The servants haven’t been in to clean yet.
Lazy sods.
The mirror shows… a dog. Just a plain, mangy, rat-catcher of a dog. I turn and look over my shoulder at myself. At least I am relatively handsome. And NOT a lapdog. Short, yes. But not a lapdog. If I had a guess, I would say that my bloodline includes Carvan hunting hound, rat hound, and maybe a little Serapian badger dog. Maybe. The head looks more like the Carvan, but the legs are more Serapian. A pleasing mix. But I am dirty. And while dogs don’t seem to like water, the Carvan loves water, and I desperately want a bath.
My ears perk up – someone is coming. I leap off the table and slide under the bed. Finally. Servants enter and start cleaning. They gossip, and I am tempted to bite their ankles.
“Did you hear? The little lordling went to see that witch again. He should just apologize and be done with it!”
“Him, apologize?” My valet laughs. “Don’t be stupid, Betann. He’d never stoop to something so… peasant-like. He’s a lord through and through, like his father. And HIS father. All the Barreia lords have been, since my family has served them. Looks like this will be the end of the line, though. I heard that the only one who would consent to marry him was the witch. He wouldn’t have her. Oh, no.”
“Well, she is a witch,” the maid pointed out in a whisper. As though she could hear.
“But she’s a Celleri,” the valet answers.
A Celleri? HER?
“She was cast out by her father on account of the magic in her blood – from her mother’s side. He’s superstitious enough to think she’d go the same way of her mother.” There is a smile in the valet’s voice, even as malicious as it is. “But he couldn’t let the slight by our little lordling pass. So because of his insult to her, the Celleri will destroy us, unless we surrender him.”
“Is that why he’s not back?” the maid asks. Her voice is annoying. If I get back to human shape, I will send her away. And the valet. Malicious bastard. He’s enjoying this!
“Probably heard it from the witch and ran for his life. Like his father – he didn’t die. No, not like they say he did.” The valet’s voice drops. I don’t have to move to hear him, but I still want to bite him. I want to rend him limb from limb. Bite his throat. Something. My father was a good man!
“His father….” A pause, while he dusts something and moves the mirror back into place. I liked it where it was, damnit!
“His father was not slain in battle.”
“No?” She is excited now. Cow.
“No. He fled the battlefield, leaving Celleri to his fate. After the battle was over and Celleri victorious, the Celleri himself tracked the Berreia down to his hiding place – the old church in the deep woods – and dragged him out. The Berreia pled and begged – so the soldiers whisper – but the Celleri took the Berreia axe from his hands and used it to strike the coward’s head from his shoulders. That is why the Axe of the Berreia is no longer here, why we are a people weak and starving. Celleri has the axe. Without its return, we will remain that way.”
Bastard. Lying, brown-nosing, disgusting, rumor-mongering bastard. I can’t help it. I lunge out from under the bed, growling. I rip into the valet’s ankle. His shrieks are music to my ears. The maid begins to scream and I hear her flee. I am close behind her – I have no desire to be trapped and thrown to the hunting dogs. Not until I discover if I can communicate or control them.
I wonder if I can still write.
I may need help on this.
As much as it pains me… father always taught me to be independent and tough… but I may need help.
I streak down the stairs to the outer door and manage to slide through while the servants are running up the stairs. I can hear the valet still screaming. Can’t take pain, huh? I round the corner of the house, looking at the world from a new – and much lower – position. The path is clear, but it looks different from here. Harder to follow. The stream. There.
I leap in and do my best to get clean. It isn’t easy without brushes or soap. God, I smell like wet dog.
There’s a surprise.
I’ve got to figure this out.
What, by the high holy altar of Haramash, am I supposed to do? I’m a cur. A runt! Tough, maybe, but still….
How can a cur stop an army?


The path leads ultimately to the outer buildings, to the dog kennels and the stables. My father never wanted them close, but now I wish he had. If I am to find help, it will be there, in the kennels. Marush and I have always had a good relationship.
I think.
Sighing again, I stop and scratch at my cheek with a hind foot. Do I have a good relationship with my hound master? And how will he feel if a cur saunters in and tries to make himself at home?
I shoot to my feet and duck my head around under my belly to double check – yes, I AM fully male. That WITCH did not neuter me – though I would not have put it past her. With a grumble of relief and annoyance, I carry on. There is not much else I can do. If I am to regain my human form, I will need my hound master’s assistance.
The hounds howl and snarl at my approach. I growl back, but their sounds mean nothing more to me now than ever. So much for communications with them. Stupid beasts. Marush leaves his cozy and warm little hut to see what the fuss is about. He sees me almost instantly, and heads my way.
“What in Haramash’s name are you?” he demands. He scruffs me, lifting me from the ground without effort. He has done the same with my hunting hounds, so I am not terribly shocked. This body curls up out of reflex, and I hear a whine come from me.
A WHINE?
This cannot get much more embarrassing.
“Where did you come from, little one?” He tucks me under an arm – it CAN get more embarrassing – and heads back inside. He closes the door – no way out that way – and sets me close to the fire. I stand and look up at him.
Well, I’ve found him. Now how do I communicate?
He stares at me. “You’re not one of the Berreia’s hounds, nor a house-dog. But you’ve an intelligent look about you. A trick dog, perhaps, fled from the tinkers?” He roots in a pocket and holds his hand out. “Sit.”
Though it galls me, I sit.
And am rewarded with a treat. Were I not a dog, I would be red with humiliation.
“Stand.”
We work our way through any number of tricks, and I am no closer to making him understand. Finally he points at the hearth and says “sit” again. I head for the single chair in the hut. I sit there. I will not sit on the floor like a common animal. No matter that right now I am just that.
I am the Berreia, and I am NOT a dog. I am a MAN.
Marush frowns, then starts to laugh. “Clever thing you are – I will call you Verit.” Fabulous. I am named after the wolf hero-clown of old children’s tales. A trickster.
Perhaps that is not so bad.
I sit patiently, my tongue lolling. Lolling. With a sigh I pull it back into my mouth. Dog drool. When Marush gives me no other commands, I settle down to wait. He is still watching me, trying to determine just what my bloodlines are, how clever I am, and where I came from. I can wait.
He moves to stand over me. Trying to assert dominance. It won’t happen with me, Marush. I leap onto the table and growl. He freezes, eying me with wariness. “Tough little one, aren’t you, Verit? Where did you come from, hmmm?”
I leap down from the table and run to the door. It’s still closed, of course, but maybe I can make him understand…. With a mental shrug, I scratch at the door. It’s the best I can do. Marush watches. Frustrating man.
I pull myself up the wall onto my hind legs and scrabble at the door, trying to reach the latch. Finally Marush stands. “Going to show me, hmmm, Verit?”
I stop dancing about like a lunatic and dip my head. Marush laughs. “I’d almost think you’re answering me, Verit-my-lad.” He moves to join me, and it is a complete shock when he loops a length of fine chain around my neck. A choke-chain. Lovely.
He opens the door and I burst out, all but dragging him along behind me. If I can get him to the witch’s house, she can tell him what she did. I’ll bite her until she does. Then we can put an end to this nonsense and I’ll be a man again.
If she wants her father killed, I’ll do it. But NOT as a dog. I’ll do it as a MAN.
And then she and I will have a reckoning.