This dog would make even a dog like that slink nonchalantly behind the sofa and pretend to be extremely preoccupied with its rubber bone.
It was already growling, and the growl was a low, rumbling snarl of spring.. coiled menace, the sort of growl that starts in the back of one throat and ends up in someone else's.
Saliva dripped from its jaws and sizzled on the tar.
It took a few steps forward, and sniffed the sullen air.
Its ears flicked up.
There were voices, a long way off. A voice. A boyish voice, but one it had been created to obey, could not help but obey. When that voice said “Follow,” it would follow; when it said “Kill,” it would kill. His master's voice.
It leapt the hedge and padded across the field beyond. A grazing bull eyed it for a moment, weighed its chances, then strolled hurriedly toward the opposite hedge.
The voices were coming from a copse of straggly trees. The black hound slunk closer, jaws streaming.
One of the other voices said: “He never will. You're always saying he will, and he never does. Catch your dad giving you a pet. An int'restin' pet, anyway. It'll prob'ly be stick insects. That's your dad's idea of int'restin'.”
The hound gave the canine equivalent of a shrug, but immediately lost interest because now the Master, the Center of its Universe, spoke.
“It'll be a dog,” it said.
“Huh. You don't know it's going to be a dog. No one's said it's going to be a dog. How d'you know it's goin' to be a dog if no one's said? Your dad'd be complaining about the food it eats the whole time.”
“Privet.” This third voice was rather more prim than the first two. The owner of a voice like that would be the sort of person who, before making a plastic model kit, would not only separate and count all the parts before commencing, as per the instructions, but also paint the bits that needed painting first and leave them to dry properly prior to construction. All that separated this voice from chartered accountancy was a matter of time.
“They don't eat privet, Wensley. You never saw a dog eatin' privet.”
“Stick insects do, I mean. They're jolly interesting, actually. They eat each other when they're mating.”
There was a thoughtful pause. The hound slunk closer, and realized that the voices were coming from a hole in the ground.
The trees in fact concealed an ancient chalk quarry, now half overgrown with thorn trees and vines. Ancient, but clearly not disused. Tracks crisscrossed it; smooth areas of slope indicated regular use by skateboards and Wall.. of.. Death, or at least Wall.. of.. Seriously.. Grazed.. Knee, cyclists. Old bits of dangerously frayed rope hung from some of the more accessible greenery. Here and there sheets of corrugated iron and old wooden boards were wedged in branches. A burnt.. out, rusting Triumph Herald Estate was visible, half.. submerged in a drift of nettles.
In one corner a tangle of wheels and corroded wire marked the site of the famous Lost Graveyard where the supermarket trolleys came to die.
If you were a child, it was paradise. The local adults called it The Pit.
The hound peered through a clump of nettles, and spotted four figures sitting in the center of the quarry on that indispensable prop to good secret dens everywhere, the common milk crate.
“They don't!”
“They do.”
“Bet you they don't,” said the first speaker. It had a certain timbre to it that identified it as young and female, and it was tinted with horrified fascination.
“They do, actually. I had six before we went on holiday and I forgot to change the privet and when I came back I had one big fat one.”
“Nah. That's not stick insects, that's praying mantises. I saw on the television where this big female one ate this other one and it dint hardly take any notice.”
There was another crowded pause.
“What're they prayin' about?” said his Master's voice.
“Dunno. Prayin' they don't have to get married, I s'pect.”
The hound managed to get one huge eye against an empty knothole in the quarry's broken.. down fence, and squinted downward.
“Anyway, it's like with bikes,” said the first speaker authoritatively. “I thought I was going to get this bike with seven gears and one of them razorblade saddles and purple paint and everything, and they gave me this light blue one. With a basket. A girl's bike.”
“Well. You're a girl,” said one of the others.
“That's sexism, that is. Going around giving people girly presents just because they're a girl.”
“I'm going to get a dog,” said his Master's voice, firmly. His Master had his back to him; the hound couldn't quite make out his features.
“Oh, yeah, one of those great big Rottenweilers, yeah?” said the girl, with withering sarcasm.
“No, it's going to be the kind of dog you can have fun with,” said his Master's voice. “Not a big dog.. ”
.. the eye in the nettles vanished abruptly downwards..
“.. but one of those dogs that's brilliantly intelligent and can go down rabbit holes and has one funny ear that always looks inside out. And a proper mongrel, too. A pedigree mongrel.”
Unheard by those within, there was a tiny clap of thunder on the lip of the quarry. It might have been caused by the sudden rushing of air into the vacuum caused by a very large dog becoming, for example, a small dog.
The tiny popping noise that followed might have been caused by one ear turning itself inside out.
“And I'll call him ...” said his Master's voice. “I'll call him ...”
“Yes?” said the girl. “What're you goin' to call it?”
The hound waited. This was the moment. The Naming. This would give it its propose, its function, its identity. Its eyes glowed a dull red, even though they were a lot closer to the ground, and it dribbled into the nettles.
“I'll call him Dog,” said his Master, positively. “It saves a lot of trouble, a name like that.”
The hell.. hound paused. Deep in its diabolical canine brain it knew that something was wrong, but it was nothing if not obedient and its great sudden love of its Master overcame all misgivings. Who was it to say what size it should be, anyway?
It trotted down the slope to meet its destiny.
Strange, though. It had always wanted to jump up at people but, now, it realized that against all expectation it wanted to wag its tail at the same time.
* * *
“You said it was him!” moaned Aziraphale, abstractedly picking the final lump of cream.. cake from his lapel. He licked his fingers clean.
“It was him,” said Crowley. “I mean, I should know, shouldn't I?”