Hello. My name is Paul and I am a writer and proud owner of 6 years old Coton de Tulear Hardy. I would like to share with you my short story inspired by real street dogs who live in my city and with whom my wife and I have a long friendship. I want to warn you that the story is very dramatic. Not for the faint of heart! For street dogs, life is not as easy and pleasant as for pets, so I didn't want to cheat to make this story more fun and joyful.
What Does Your Soul Smell Of?
“It’s beautiful here,” said young Grrraht, inhaling the fresh morning air.
“That’s why I brought you here,” answered old, disheveled, and gray-haired Grrrahng to his nephew. “The sunrise over the fortress ruins is always a spectacular view. But it’s time to move. The Grrrurots will soon start coming out of their dwellings. If you want to live comfortably in our town, you have to get to know the Grrrurots first.”
They got up from the ground and set off across the field toward the town. Old Grrrahng walked slowly, struggling to move his legs. Grrraht, still very young and full of energy, kept hopping impatiently around his uncle, “Grrrurots? Why should I care about Grrrurots? I thought all I needed to know was how to find food and a warm place to sleep.”
“You’re still very green, Grrraht. You don’t get it. As you know, I’m the oldest surviving member of our family. I’ve outlived my father by five winters and my grandfather by seven.”
Grrraht nodded in acknowledgment.
“And not only of our family. From the big water to the rocky summits, no one in our tribe has seen more sunrises and sunsets than I have.”
Grrraht got distracted by a sheep herd grazing nearby and ran several yards away from his uncle, but Grrrung, whose sight and hearing were already far from perfect, didn’t notice that and went on with his story.
“You’ve asked me why you need to get to know the Grrrurots, and here’s my reply. If you want to make it to the ripe old age in this rough and cruel life, you need to be brave, strong, clever, or at least fast. You know better than I do that no one in our family has ever boasted any of these qualities. And the only reason I’m still alive is that I understand Grrrurots’ souls way better than any other Grrronit in this land. Sure, my nose is not what it used to be when I was young. I don’t see so well, and I walk slowly, but I can still smell a stranger’s soul from a hundred steps away.”
“Do souls really smell?” Grrraht had just run back up to his uncle and heard only his last words, but instantly got curious.
Grrrahng let out a chuckle that sounded like a mix of a cough and a growl.
“Just look at this youngster! It’s been no more than two days since he got out from under the wing of his mother, and he already doubts that souls have smells! Everything has a smell! Green grass smells of freshness and moisture, meat smells of blood, and the soul smells of its owner’s qualities. A brave soul smells like cedar—a noble, powerful, bitter-smoky scent with a tarry hint. A smart soul smells like oakmoss—a muffled, dryish scent that never strives to come to the fore and never pretends to be something else.”
“What does my soul smell like?” Grrraht went back to running around his uncle impatiently.
Grrrahng let out another growling chuckle, “You’re too young to have your own smell. Your soul smells of the mother’s milk and cucumbers.”
“What does the smell of cucumber mean? Courage? Power? Honor?” Grrraht listed off dreamily with growing impatience.
“The smell of cucumber means that you recently ate cucumbers!” this time Grrrahng actually burst out laughing.
Grrraht turned away resentfully and stopped hopping around his uncle. They reached the first house, a dilapidated shack with rickety walls. Sitting on the bench in front of it was a man, who looked just as ancient and disheveled as Grrrahng. Once the uncle and nephew approached the bench, the old man yelled out something. Grrraht jerked to the side but immediately stopped, noticing his uncle's complete indifference to the screaming.
“You don’t need to be afraid. This is old Andrey. That’s his name in Grrrurot. He’s harmless. Screams a lot, but that’s all. His soul smells of dust.”
“What does it mean?” asked Grrraht.
“It means that he lost his mind. There’s no intelligence, courage, or even fear left in his soul, only dust. Dust is not a bad smell. It’s quiet and calm. All quiet and calm scents are safe for us. That’s why they are so weak—we don’t need to smell them from far away. Strong, poignant smells that strike your nostrils from a distance—they are the ones you should be afraid of. Actually, the souls of mad Grrrurots can smell any number of ways, but only the smell of dust is safe for us. It indicates that there’s nothing left inside the Grrrurot. One might go insane, but still keep anger, hate, or perverse desires in his soul. That’s the worst type of madmen. They are more dangerous than the biggest, strongest, most evil, but not insane Grrrurots.”
As Grrrahng talked, they walked past several more decrepit buildings. Finally, the first decent looking house came into view, with freshly whitewashed walls, sparkling-clean windows, and brand-new orange roof tiles. Its front door swung open and outside came a middle-aged, overweight woman with a nice face.
“This is Todorka,” said Grrrahng, nodding in the woman’s direction. “Sometimes she offers food to our lot. Nothing fancy, but when you’re hungry, it suits your needs perfectly. Her soul smells of fennel and mimosa.”
“What does it mean, uncle?” Grrraht started to jump impatiently again.
“Fennel is a honey-sweet and warm scent with a tinge of bitterness. That’s how kindness and generosity smell. Mimosa’s smell is nauseatingly sweet. It indicates excessive friendliness and chattiness. Mimosa Grrrurots are nice, but you get tired of them really fast.”
Grrrahng suddenly turned from the main road onto a small alley.
“What happened, uncle?” Grrraht’s anxiety level instantly skyrocketed.
“Do you smell milk and sugar?”
Grrraht started to move his nose eagerly in all directions, but couldn’t pick up anything, except for the scent of the flowers growing nearby and the stink of a garbage pile. Grrrahng interrupted his nephew’s pointless efforts, “Boy, with that nose of yours, you can’t go on without my teachings. The mother’s milk and sugar is the smell of children.”
In all his short life, young Grrraht had only met one child, an utterly helpless and consequently absolutely harmless baby.
“What’s wrong about children?”
“Most of the time, nothing,” replied Grrrahng grumpily. “But more often than not, they are stretching out their tiny arms toward you. I never allow anyone to touch me, and I would advise you the same! Grrrurots believe that once they’ve touched you, you owe them something. I don’t want to owe anything to anyone. If you want to give me food, go ahead, but don’t expect anything in return! I don’t sell out for food, unlike other Grrronits.”
From behind Grrrahng’s and Grrraht’s backs indeed came the sound of thin voices, testifying to the accuracy of the uncle's sense of smell. Grrrahng continued, “But their urge to touch you is not the worst thing about the Grrrurot children. Just like in your case, their smell hasn’t been formed yet. Milk and sugar are all they smell of. But because of that, you can never know in advance whether some of them are stupid or evil, until they do something to show it, but by then it will be too late. For a child to have his own smell, albeit weak, but his own nonetheless, he has to be truly extraordinary. Unfortunately, I had to learn this the hard way,” Grrrahng shivered, barely visibly. “Since then, I prefer to stay away from all children.”
As uncle and nephew kept walking, the Grrrurot homes were getting taller and taller. Making their way to the town center, Grrrahng introduced his protégé to about a dozen other residents. Among them was another woman smelling of fennel, although not as strongly as Todorka. The smell of her soul also had a hint of pungent myrtle. Grrrahng explained that it’s the smell of grief. The woman lost her husband a year earlier, and ever since then, her soul had been crying with myrtle.
On their way, they also met a group of three men. Grrrahng didn’t like the smell of their souls. They reeked of alcohol and tobacco. Grrraht also smelled that, but Grrrahng explained that the unpleasant cigarette stink of their clothes and the wine breath are not the same thing as the tobacco-alcohol smell of their souls, “Those smelling of alcohol are wicked, petty, and weak souls. Such a Grrrurot will never start a one-on-one fight with an equal opponent because he’s too afraid of getting hit back. What they do is bully the weak, attack someone three on one, or throw a stone in the back. A heavy, all-pervading stink of tobacco is the smell of parasite souls who live at the expense of others. Those Grrrurots could be leeching off their parents long after the time came for them to earn their own living. They could be stealing small stuff whenever it’s safe or just slacking at work. Worthless tobacco Grrrurots!” added Grrrahng, his voice ringing with contempt, “Just a waste of space!”
Overwrought with the unfamiliar sights of a big city, Grrraht didn’t even notice how he broke into a run and, leaving his uncle far behind, shot out into an adjacent alleyway. Horror instantly gripped his heart. Standing right in front of him were three menacing-looking hounds. Upon noticing the stranger, the dogs grew tense and fixed their piercing gazes on him. The biggest of the three— smooth-haired, black-and-white hound—bared his teeth, signaling that strangers were not welcome there. The dog’s face and front paws were strewn with multiple scars betraying his substantial combat experience.
Grrraht had never seen such a huge and formidable dog before. He could probably run away, but the fear that gripped his whole body was too much to even look away from the predator’s jaws, let alone turn tail and run.
“Where did you go?” from behind came the voice of Grrrahng who had finally caught up with his nephew.
For a split second, Grrraht felt relief, but in the next moment, he realized that his old and barely moving uncle was in no condition to stop the horrifying dogs from tearing him to pieces.
“Grrrahng! Hello, buddy!” the big dog’s menacing scowl in an instant transformed into a friendly smile. “And this must be the nephew you told us about?”
The other two dogs—one of them shaggy, short-legged, looking somewhat like Grrrahng, only beige instead of gray, the other one red-haired, his snout wide and his right ear tattered—approached Grrraht and started sniffing him. The young snow-white dog was still in shock, so it didn't even occur to him to return the gesture and stick his nose under the tail of his new acquaintances.
“Hi, Grrritus,” said Grrrahng. “Yes, that’s him. Name’s Grrraht. I’m just introducing him to our town and its residents.”
“Hey, Grrraht! I’m Grrritus,” the big hound sniffed him and then nodded at his friends. “The red one is Grrriton, the beige one is Grrrughit. Sorry if we got you scared. We have to protect our territory from the outsiders, you know. But since you’re Grrrahng’s nephew, this land is yours too. He’s been living here the longest. I know your uncle for as long as I know myself.”
The fear had gradually loosened its grip on Grrraht, and he finally mustered enough strength for a greeting, “Hello. Pleasure to meet you.”
“Hey, boy,” Grrriton addressed him in his husky voice, “You like sand? There’s a children’s playground being built not far from here. It’s gonna be a while before the kids come, but they’ve already brought the sand. A huge pile of it! You could run in it, you could climb it…”
“But digging is the best!” shrieked Grrrughit, interrupting his friend.
“Yeah, digging is awesome,” drawled Grrriton wistfully.
“You shouldn’t be hanging out there, guys,” said Grrrahng.
“Relax, gramps,” answered Grrritus, who was clearly the leader of this group and probably of all Grrronits of the town. “We go there as a gang! Nothing bad can happen to us!”
Grrrahng just reprehensively shook his grey, disheveled head.
The image of a pile of sand, so perfect for all the running, jumping, and digging, instantly cleared Grrraht’s mind of the remaining torpor. He was on the verge of asking his uncle for permission to go play with everyone else, but Grrrahng spoke first, “You go, guys. We’ll join you later. There’s still a couple of important places I need to show Grrraht.”
“Is he going on about the soul smells?” there was a hint of mockery in Grrritus’s voice. “Has he already informed you that if you can’t smell them, it’s because you have a crappy nose? Don’t stress it, boy, none of us can! Only Grrrahng knows his way around all those mimosas, lavenders, carnations, and the rest of the flowers.”
Grrraht broke into a slightly embarrassed smile. Grrrahng snorted disapprovingly. Grrritus looked at the old dog and added seriously, “But you should listen to the old guy! He knows what he’s talking about. His advice saved me and many in our tribe on more than one occasion. No one knows the two-legged as well as your uncle,” Grrritus’s voice once again rang with mockery. “Although in my opinion, Grrrahng is fretting too much about Grrrurots. We can find food even without their handouts. And if someone decides to have a piece of us, our fangs and loyal brothers will always come to our rescue!”
Grrritus proudly threw up his big head with a noble profile, glanced over his squad, and took a step forward, “All right, guys, let’s go have some fun in the sand!”
Grrraht watched his new acquaintances leave with admiring eyes. Grrrahng snorted again and started walking slowly in the opposite direction, mumbling under his nose, “Fretting too much about Grrrurots… Isn’t he smart! In my lifetime, I’ve seen at least twenty dogs like you! Where are all of them now? And Grrrahng is still here.”
The next ten minutes passed in the grumbling of the old dog, with Grrrahng only occasionally pausing to show his nephew the garbage bins behind a supermarket where one can often find decent food, a window of an apartment building’s cellar that provides a nice shelter in case of rain or cold, and some other noteworthy places of the town.
Finally, the uncle and nephew reached a tall, nine-story building, painted in garish peach. Grrrahng lay down in the grass across the street from the high-rise. Grrraht was too excited to join his uncle, so he kept jumping around, “Are we waiting for something? What are we waiting for?”
“Calm down already. All in good time.”
Grrrahng focused all his attention on trying to chew a barb out of his paw, where it had been stuck in the matted fur for so long that sometimes the old dog thought the barb was actually a part of his body. But Grrraht just wouldn’t stop, so in the end, Grrrahng was forced to reply, “We’re waiting for the two Grrrurots who live in that house over there. They are kinder to our tribe than anyone in this town. Giving us all kinds of treats. A lot of other Grrrurots also give us food, but most of the time it’s just leftovers or cheap kibble. But these two might actually give you a piece of meat or even share their own food. Once, they gave me half an ice cream.” Grrrahng closed his eyes dreamily. “You’ve never even heard of it. But it’s such a delicious thing.”
The old dog licked his face, scratched behind his ear with his hind leg, and continued, “And they don’t just feed you. Once, Grrriton fell into a pit and remained there for two days. We tried to help him, but the pit was too deep. That happened in winter, so it was cold. He almost froze to death in there. But those Grrrurots pulled him out. Brought a blanket from home. Sat with him, warmed him up. They even tried to take him with them, but Grrriton got stubborn and refused to come. They are also the only Grrrurots in the whole town who not only give us food but also play with us. It’s not something I’m interested in, of course. I’ve never been in that kind of relationship with any Grrrurot, but Grrrughit, Grrriton, and even Grrritus—all love to run around with those two. They even let themselves be petted.”
Grrrahng said the last words with a tinge of contempt.
“What’s wrong with letting yourself be petted? You said that those two are the best Grrrurots in town.”
“By letting yourself be petted, you allow Grrrurots to get too close to you. That’s not a good idea. Never trust the two-legged! NEVER! However nice they might seem to you! It’s the second most important rule of survival in our world.”
“What’s the first one?”
“Care only for yourself. Remember, boy, never stand up for anyone! NEVER! That’s a one-way ticket to the valley of shadows! I’ve seen so many decent Grrronits—strong, courageous, fast—who were doing everything right, and things were going well for them until they broke this rule. Some died instantly, some fell into the clutches of the Grrrurots with long sticks who drive the blue cars. Others got lucky a few times and started to think that things would keep going their way. Remember my words, Grrraht. I have survived fifteen winters and seen thousands of Grrronits in my life. Not a single one of those who broke the first rule lived to grow old. Not one!”
Grrraht started to think about his uncle’s words, but Grrrahng quickly interrupted his thoughts, “Over there, look, that’s them!”
A young couple walked out of the building. Even though the guy was swarthy, brown-haired, and brown-eyed, and the girl was green-eyed, with a magnificent shock of blonde hair and aristocratically pale skin, many people thought them to be related. Not because of their looks, of course, but because of some spiritual connection that you could feel emanating from both of them. In reality, they were neither siblings, nor cousins, nor even half-cousins, as many assumed. They’ve simply been married for so long and had spent so much time together that became closer to each other than a lot of actual blood relatives.
The girl had a tiny jittery dog on a leash who squeaked from time to time for no apparent reason. Before his nephew could even ask the question, Grrrahng answered, “Yes, they have their own Grrronit. But don’t pay her any attention. A furry idiot. All she ever does is squeal all the time. Never heard her utter a single normal word. And the way she behaves with us, you’d say she’s not even a Grrronit. To be honest, I think both of them like hanging out with the street crowd more than with their moron.”
The couple walked across the parking area in front of the building and stopped at a small grass patch separating the yard from the road. Their tiny dog slowly proceeded to relieve herself. While waiting for her to finish, the girl was looking around until she noticed Grrrahng lying in the grass. She waved at him and shouted, “Hey there, Batich!” The guy also turned around and upon locking eyes with an old friend nodded hello.
“Was it for you? What did she say?” asked Grrraht.
“I don’t know. They are not from here. Moved in two years ago. I don’t understand their language. But Batich is what she calls me. The guy calls me Batya. They’ve got a name for everyone from our tribe. Grrritus is Bolshuha, Grrrughit is Mokhnatch, and Grrriton is Ogon. That’s another thing in which they stand out from the other Grrrurots. Everyone else calls us the same, “dog,” or “pooch,” or don’t call us anything and just chase us away. I’m sure they’ll give you a name too. They are called Sasha and Katya. Sasha is the guy, and Katya is the girl. And their idiot Grrronit is Lady.”
“What do these Grrrurots smell of?”
“The girl smells of fennel and cottonwood buds—it’s a sweet scent with a faint balsamic tinge that means she’s a sunny and cheerful person. Sometimes she also smells of grapefruit. Bitter, fresh, and cold. It’s the smell of thoughtfulness, doubt, and anxiety. But her case is plain and simple, whereas Sasha is the only Grrrurot I’ve ever met whose smell I could never quite figure out. He has way too many scents in him, and the composition is constantly changing, with different notes becoming dominant at different times. One day, he might smell exactly like the girl, and the next day, the cottonwood buds would disappear and give way to myrtle. Sometimes there’s a tinge of cedar present in his smell, a noble scent of courage, and sometimes it’s the opposite—the oily, bitter, and heavy oregano. That’s the smell of cowards. The muted, dryish scent of oakmoss, so typical of intelligent people, stays with him at all times, but the rest always changes. Once, I even noticed the intoxicatingly spicy smell of nutmeg. It’s a very bad smell. The smell of despair. That’s what you sense on people who want to kill themselves. But the next day, that smell was gone. The base of his soul is very strong. It smells of mint—a brisk, fresh, thin, and frosty scent. But he lived a life full of hardships. That much can be told from how muffled all his soul smells are. It is because of those hardships that he can sometimes feel grief, despair, or cowardice. But sooner or later, either he will get rid of the smells of myrtle, nutmeg, and oregano, or his soul will break, and then he will become one of those who reek of alcohol and tobacco.”
Lady had finally finished her business and trotted after her owners along the path to the park. Grrrahng lowered his head and resumed his pointless attempts to chew out the barb. Grrraht wanted to ask him something, but the uncle suddenly jumped up and dashed for the nearest bushes at a surprisingly fast pace, “Follow me! Now!”
Grrraht ran after his uncle.
“Can’t you smell it?” the old dog clung to the ground, completely disappearing in the tall grass.
Grrraht tried to do the same, but his big, upright ears were sticking out undermining the entire camouflage.
“No, I can’t,” he answered with a poorly disguised disappointment.
“It stinks from a mile away, but you still can’t sense it!”
“Stinks of what?”
“Of something rotten. Like that box with bad tomatoes behind the supermarket. Only this is worse.”
“So what does it mean?”
“It means that there’s an insane Grrrurot somewhere close. Not insane like that old man who scared you with his screams. That one smelled of dust—it’s passive, harmless insanity. But a rotten smell is the complete opposite. It’s a smell of active, vicious, and violent insanity. And I know perfectly well whose stink it is.”
From behind the corner of a nearby building appeared a young man in his early twenties, his greasy shoulder-length hair unwashed for many days, but carefully combed, his eyes shifty. His right arm was constantly bent at the wrist, but not in the way that is typical for joint diseases. For whatever reason, the man was deliberately twisting his palm outwards.
“Look closely, Grrraht. Remember him well. His face, his walk. The moment you see this Grrrurot, run or hide. There’s nothing more dangerous in this town than this Grrrurot. I call him The Reaper. He has collected many souls of our brothers. Other Grrrurots know that he’s insane, but don’t do anything about it. Some even feel sorry for him. But I’ll tell you this: he might be killing only those from our tribe for now, but sooner or later, he will definitely turn on his own!”
When The Reaper came close to their hiding spot, Grrrahng fell silent. Only after the man could no longer be seen, the old dog rose to his paws and walked out of the bushes. Grrraht followed him. A cheerful, sonorous bark came from somewhere close. Grrrahng looked at his nephew, “You want to play in the sand with everyone?”
Grrraht even started to quiver with impatience and nodded energetically in reply.
“All right, go play. The sand pile is right behind this building, the one where Sasha and Katya live. Sometimes they even throw down some treats out their window. But be careful. Between the bushes there you will see a path going down to the ravine. Never take it! It leads to the Reaper’s shack. He doesn’t walk there very often, preferring the main road, but sometimes he does appear near the sand.”
“Aren't you coming?”
“I’m too old for that kind of games. But you should go. Enjoy your youth while you can.”
Grrraht happily wagged his tail and ran off to meet his new friends. Grrrahng sighed, scratched behind his ears, and slowly went about his business.
…
A week had passed since Grrraht moved in with his uncle. The young dog loved the big city. There was a lot of food, a lot of interesting places, and most importantly, new friends who instantly accepted him into their group. Grrraht also liked his uncle’s favorite Grrrurots. On several occasions, they gave him sausages. Katya also showed Grrraht what it meant to be petted. He really liked it. More than being caressed by the Grrrurots, the dog loved only one thing—playing in the sand. Running around, as his legs sank into something loose and warm, wallowing in the sand, feeling it with his whole body, and of course digging! Nothing could compare to the wonderful experience of digging!
On that day, just like on any other previous day, Grrraht and his new friends—red Grrriton, white Grrrughit, and their leader, big black-and-white Grrritus—were hanging out in the sand. They would run around, feign attacks in a friendly imitation of a fight, bite each other slightly on the scruffs and legs, collapse on the sand in complete exhaustion, fall asleep, and, upon waking up, return to the same games.
That evening, an unfamiliar dog appeared in the neighborhood. Being the leader, Grrritus rushed to chase him away. Grrriton joined the chase, but Grrraht and Grrrughit, too absorbed in playing, kept fooling around in the sand. As dusk fell, old Grrrahng came over to pick up his mischievous nephew who was always breaking his curfew. Grrrahng never stepped on the sand and always kept his distance from the forbidden path leading to the Reaper’s shack.
Grrraht approached his uncle, hoping to get five more minutes to play with his friend who was lying sprawled in relaxation on the opposite side of the backyard. Suddenly, Grrrahng cut off his nephew mid-begging, “Run, now!” Showing unnatural agility, the old dog started to run farther away from the sand.
Grrraht darted after him, but several yards later paused to glance back. His friend was still lying on the same spot, watching, perplexed, him run away.
“Grrrughit, let’s go!” yelled Grrraht and immediately realized why his uncle told him to scram.
Something big flew out of the bushes next to the path. It flew out and landed right on top of Grrrughit. Frightened, the dog jerked to the side, but his paws instantly got tangled up in the net. He fell and tumbled over, which made his situation even worse. Grrraht tensed up, preparing to rush to his friend’s rescue, but was stopped in his tracks by his uncle’s voice, “No! Remember the first rule, Grrraht!” the oldster yelled from behind the bushes a couple of yards away. “Care only for yourself! Never stand up for others!”
In the next moment, a human figure with dark oily hair and the strangely twisted right hand appeared from behind the bushes. Only his eyes were not shifty anymore. On the contrary, his gaze was disturbingly fixed on his victim. The Reaper approached the dog floundering in the net and kicked him. Grrrughit howled.
Grrraht took a step in the direction of the villain, but his uncle’s voice stopped him again, “No! Grrraht! Not now! You have no idea what his soul smells of right now! It has a horrible rotten stink! He has completely lost his mind! He’s too dangerous! Care only for yourself!”
Grrraht paused to think for one second. The Reaper kicked Grrrughit again. A hammer appeared in his hand.
“Grrraht! Come to me! It’s safe here! Run away from this stink!”
The young dog turned to his old, seasoned uncle and yelled, “What does your soul smell of, uncle? Even I can tell that you reek of oregano!”
And then Grrraht dashed forward, took a leap, and sank his teeth into the arm with the hammer raised for a strike. The Reaper screamed and dropped the hammer, but quickly composed himself and started hitting the dog on the head with his second hand. By the fourth blow, Grrraht loosened his grip, and the man managed to throw the animal aside. The dog landed on all fours, but then a kick to the stomach sent him down on the ground.
Grrrughit was whimpering and trying to claw his way out, but that was only making the net more entangled. The Reaper kicked Grrraht several more times, on the stomach and muzzle. Once he saw that the dog was in no condition to escape, the man reached down for the hammer and smiled viciously. Grrraht was lying on the side, unable to get up. His eyes fell on the bushes into which Grrrahng had disappeared. In between the branches, Grrraht could see his uncle’s furry face.
Grrraht tried to call the old dog for help, but instead of a scream, a gut-wrenching cough came out of his mouth. The Reaper raised the hammer above his head. Grrraht prepared to die, but the heavy tool came crashing down on Grrrughit bounded by the net. A horrifying scream tore through the darkness, then another one, and another one. The Reaper was delivering each blow without a hurry, making sure he doesn’t hit the animal’s head to prolong his suffering for as long as possible.
Grrraht tried to call for his uncle again, but still, only a cough escaped his mouth. No words were necessary, however—Grrrahng understood everything from the eyes of his nephew filled with tears. Grrraht’s eyes were begging for help. It pained the old dog to watch his nephew suffer like that, but the first rule was more important than family sentiments. Care only for yourself! Never stand up for others! NEVER! That’s a one-way ticket to the valley of shadows. And what was happening to Grrraht was just another proof that there’s nothing more true and unwavering in this world than the first rule.
Finally, Grrrughit fell silent. The Reaper cast aside the net with the dog and raised his hammer over Grrraht. Grrrahng looked away. This time there was only one scream, short and muffled. Old Grrrahng didn’t lift his eyes until the stink of the Reaper’s insane soul was completely gone. Only then he abandoned his shelter and stepped onto the sand. Grrraht looked as if he simply lay down to rest as usual after running around with his friends. Only a small red spot near the ear stood out on the young dog’s snow-white fur. Grrrahng approached his nephew and nuzzled him, “Forgive me, Grrraht. I was supposed to look after you… Forgive the old fool… I failed you…”
Grrrahng was interrupted by the young dog’s weak whisper, “Uncle, what does my soul smell of now?”
Grrraht’s eyes rolled back, his tongue went limp and fell out of his mouth.
“Of cedar, son. Of course, of cedar…”
The old dog choked; two big tears formed in his eyes and quickly disappeared in the disheveled fur under his eyes.
…
The nephew’s death changed something in old Grrrahng. He became more reflective and distant. He started to avoid other dogs and wander around alone without any purpose. His nephew’s last words, “What does your soul smell of?” kept popping up in his head. Not wanting to answer that question, Grrrahng would chase it away, but it always came back.
After the sun rolled beneath the horizon, the old dog went on another aimless walk around the area—it was the only way to take his mind off things. Grrrahng had become very absent-minded. He didn’t even notice that the wind was now blowing in his back, something the seasoned dog would have never allowed to happen before. Because that’s when a dog cannot smell in advance what’s in front of him.
Grrrahng made this mistake for the first time in his life and immediately had to pay for it. He came face to face with the Reaper who jumped out from around the corner. The meeting didn’t seem to be an accident. In his weirdly twisted hand, the man was holding a rope with a noose on its end. Grrrahng didn’t even have time to react before the noose tightened on his neck—right on top of the old scar covered with the fur.
A horrible stench hit the dog’s nostrils, and horror penetrated his insides, “No! Not this! No!!! This can’t be happening again!” Grrrahng never got to tell his nephew that he had already had a close encounter with the Reaper. A long, long time ago, when Grrrahng was still a young dog, and the Reaper was three feet shorter. He was the kid from whom Grrrahng learned that only extraordinary children have their own smell.
Even then, his smell of milk and sugar was already mixed with a faint scent of rotten vegetables. Young and inexperienced Grrrahng didn’t think anything of it. He allowed the child, whom he knew, back then, by the name of Luben, to pet him. The boy petted him every day for almost a week until one day he came with a rope and tied it on the neck of the dog who suspected nothing and consequently didn’t resist.
For three days, the future Reaper kept Grrrahng tied up in a cellar. He beat him up, choked him with the rope, shone a pocket flashlight in his eyes, and threw caustic lime powder in his face. It was only on the fourth day that the dog managed to bite through the rope and escape. Ever since then, Grrrahng never allowed people to pet him. But now, twelve years later, history was repeating itself. The grown-up, matured, and completely out of his mind Luben once again had him in the noose.
The Reaper laughed and started tugging the makeshift leash from side to side. Grrrahng growled, but the man instantly made him stop with a kick to the nose. He then jerked the rope upright, and the dog dangled in the air. The noose tightened, and the dog started to choke. Then someone’s voice came. Grrrahng didn’t catch the words. Or rather he did, but couldn’t recognize them.
It was Sasha, talking in some foreign language. The Reaper didn’t understand him either. He didn’t want to understand, too busy with his favorite pastime. The voice spoke again, louder and firmer. This time Grrrahng recognized the words “Let the dog go!” spoken with a horrible accent. The madman didn’t let Grrrahng go, but at least put him back on the ground.
The dog sensed Sasha’s smell next to the rotten stench of the Reaper’s soul. For the first time in his life, the dog met such a strange combination: the noble aroma of cedar, which is the smell of courage, and at the same time the oily, bitter scent of oregano denoting cowards. The dog couldn’t understand how a person could be brave and cowardly at the same time.
Sasha couldn’t understand that either. He was trembling inside. The Reaper was taller and more broad-shouldered than him. But it didn’t stop Sasha from taking a step forward and repeating his words with even greater firmness, “Let the dog go.” The Reaper’s face screwed up in a menacing smile, the same one he had while killing Grrrughit. A new wave of rotten stench slammed into the dog’s nostrils. The Reaper suddenly released the rope. Grrrahng quickly dashed aside and disappeared in the nearest bushes.
Something glistened in the Reaper’s hand. The blade of a kitchen knife. Not a big one, but dangerous nonetheless. Grrrahng sensed a sudden change in the smells. The rotten stink emanating from the madman with a knife had a new tinge. It used to be a relatively faint rotten smell, the kind coming from bad vegetables or other human food thrown into the dumpsters behind the supermarket. But now Grrrahng could smell heavy notes of rotting raw flesh. That’s how a cat hit by a car and left under the scorching sun smells.
Grrrahng had never encountered that smell before, but the experienced dog guessed what it meant: the Reaper’s insanity reached a new level. He didn’t care about dogs anymore. He now wanted to torture other Grrrurots. Next to the rotten stench, Grrrahng smelled oregano that became considerably stronger. The sight of the knife made Sasha even more scared. His soul was now literally reeking of cowardice.
Grrrahng expected the guy to do what everyone should do in these cases: turn around and run. But Sasha didn’t move. The dog stared into the guy’s eyes. He seemed to realize the same thing as Grrrahng did: the Reaper was after the human blood. But for the reasons incomprehensible to the old dog, that realization gave Sasha strength. The smell of oregano abated, even though it didn’t go away completely, and the scent of cedar grew more intense.
The guy knew that running away was a smart decision, but he didn’t want to back off. Not because of some bravado, stupid pride, or haughty machismo. No, he just didn’t want to let a psycho with a knife roam the streets of his town—the same streets where his wife was now walking their stupid little dog.
“Run! Run! Run!” Grrrahng kept saying in his mind, still hiding in the bushes. “Why are you doing this? Care only for yourself! Never stand up for anyone! NEVER!”
Sasha started forward, aiming a kick at the hand with the knife. He missed, but then managed to punch his enemy in the face. The Reaper lunged. The blade glistened dangerously in the air. Sasha dodged and punched the madman in the face again. Then again and again. The Reaper staggered and took a kick to the stomach.
Grrrahng watched the fight, spellbound and excited to see that any moment now his worst enemy, his nephew’s torturer and murderer would be defeated. But good triumphs over evil only in fairy tales. The Reaper took several more blows and fell to one knee. Only that was a trap. When Sasha got closer, his opponent lunged forward with incredible swiftness. Sasha stopped abruptly, clutched his stomach, and dropped down on the asphalt.
A wave of horrific stink crushed on the dog’s nose. The only smell left in the Reaper’s soul was a heavy, nauseating stench of rotten meat. The madman bent over his defeated, but still breathing victim and slowly started to choose the spot for the next stab.
The heart in Grrrahng’s chest started pounding like crazy, the drumming echoing in his temples. It was as if the drum roll was beating his nephew’s last words into the old dog’s brain.
WHAT DOES YOUR SOUL SMELL OF?
WHAT DOES YOUR SOUL SMELL OF!
WHAT DOES YOUR SOUL SMELL OF?
WHAT DOES YOUR SOUL SMELL OF?!
“What does my soul smell of?” said Grrrahng to himself and, with a threatening growl, jumped out of the bushes, for the first time in his life breaking the most important rule of survival: never stand up for others.
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from Pets https://www.reddit.com/r/Pets/comments/ojhc06/i_am_a_dog_owner_and_writer_here_is_my_short/
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