Argos

This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are either products of the author's imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, business establishments, events, or locales is entirely coincidental. The author makes no claims to, but instead acknowledges the trademarked status and trademark owners of the word marks mentioned in this work of fiction.

Copyright © 2016 by Phillip W. Simpson

ARGOS by Phillip W. Simpson

All rights reserved. Published in the United States of America by Month9Books, LLC.

No part of this book may be used or reproduced in any manner whatsoever without written permission of the publisher, except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles and reviews.

ISBN: 978-0-9968904-3-4

Published by Month9Books, Raleigh, NC 27609

Cover illustrated and designed by Mat Dawson

To all the dogs I've shared my life with and loved: Patch, Timmy, Whiskey and Raffles. The best companions a man could ever want or need.

“… Argos passed into the darkness of death, now that he had fulfilled his destiny of faith and seen his master once more after twenty years.”

Homer, Odyssey, Book 17, lines 290–327

S
o this is what it's like to die?

I don't know what I expected, but it certainly isn't this slow humiliating descent into darkness. My body aches, bruised by the fists and feet of Penelope's suitors and servants, joints painfully swollen by age.

Flies swarm around me, attracted by the stench of the manure pile beneath me, or perhaps sensing that death is slowly creeping toward me. If I am honest, they don't annoy me so much. My vision is cloudy at best, eyes misted over by the passage of time. I can barely see their dark flickering shapes and I haven't the strength to dislodge them when they land. To try and maintain a little dignity, I make the odd attempt to flick my tail or ears but both the flies and I know my heart isn't in it.

Two old men walk past, leading an ox and open wagon
through the palace gates. I lift my head slightly in an effort to see them better, more out of habit than any great interest. I sniff the air, trying to gauge what is in the wagon. All I can smell is feces. My sense of smell, almost overcome by what lies beneath me, fails, and I silently curse my aging, traitorous senses. If I had to guess, I would say they are farmers, bringing produce for the palace kitchens, probably to feed the greedy, slovenly mouths of the suitors who buzz around Penelope much like the flies above my dying body.

The two old men spare me a glance. Although my eyes are not what they once were, I detect sympathy in their gazes. Perhaps they recognize me for who I am or who I once was. Or perhaps not. Maybe they just see an old dog dying on a steaming pile of manure.

Hours later, two other men pass by, dressed in finery that makes them anything but farm hands. I recognize their faces but I would know them regardless by their swagger. Two of Penelope's suitors come to steal another man's wife. I hate them with every ounce of my being. If I were even five years younger, I would launch myself at them and tear their arms and legs off with great bites of my powerful jaws. But I am not five years younger. I am incapable of doing anything but glare at them balefully.

Like the two older men earlier, they look in my direction. One of them says something I can't quite catch and they both laugh. The taller suitor reaches into a pouch at his side and pulls out an object that he throws in my direction. It lands off the manure pile, well out of paw reach. I suspect it is a piece of dried meat.

“Here,” he says, laughing. “Eat this. If you can.”

His companion joins in the laughter and they disappear through the palace gates knowing full well that I will not be able to reach the tasty morsel. I wouldn't eat it in any case. I would much rather starve to death than receive salvation from the likes of them.

Directly overhead, the sun beats mercilessly down. Heat washes over me and warms the manure pile even more. The pile of droppings from mules and oxen are a mixed blessing. For the last two nights, my bed of filth has kept me warm and soothed my aching joints. During the day, however, things are altogether different. The heat is stifling, unbearable, and even I, well accustomed to the most repulsive of scents, am sickened.

My tongue lolls slackly from my open mouth. It is almost too much effort to pant but I will die from the relentless heat if I do not. I am no longer hungry but would give almost anything for a bowl of cool water to quench my thirst. Perhaps even a tub that I could plunge my whole body into—something I would never have done as a young pup. All my life, I have avoided baths, but now I am driven almost crazy by the thought of indulging in something I once hated.

A bath would have an additional benefit. The fleas and ticks that infest my body would probably decide that my scrawny carcass isn't worth the effort and depart for more luxurious quarters. I would not miss them. The flies I can tolerate, but the incessant biting of these degenerate little creatures is almost more than I can bear. If I had the strength, I would obliterate them with mighty paw strokes.

When I was younger, Penelope or Telemachus would sometimes gently comb them from my body while I lay before the fire in the great hall of Odysseus. Just the thought of such times sends a pleasurable tremor coursing through my body.

I daydream about what they would do if they knew I was lying here, dying and surrounded by filth and decay. Penelope would gather my head into her soft hands and gently kiss my forehead. Telemachus, my human brother, would hug me and rub salves into my open wounds. Together, they would ease my pain and comfort me like they have many times throughout my life.

But those times are long gone. Penelope is locked in her rooms in the palace of Ithaca, besieged by unwelcome suitors. Telemachus left the island months ago to seek out his father, my master, the great hero Odysseus. It is probably a futile quest. Odysseus has been gone for twenty years and, if the words of the palace staff are to be believed, long dead. But neither I nor Telemachus believe it, cannot bring ourselves to believe it. I have heard from the gods themselves that he lives, and whilst they like to play with the lives of mortals, I want to believe them. A man like Odysseus does not simply just die. He is destined for more than death.

It is he that keeps my soul harnessed to my body. The loyalty toward my master and a forlorn hope that he will return to me before I am claimed by death. All of my contemporaries have been in the grave for years already. Not me. It is this loyalty and hope that has kept me going for twenty years.

What I would give to see him one last time.

I
awake only to discover that I have died. I am surrounded by gloomy silence. The landscape is devoid of features—or color for that matter. Mist washes over me, tendrils swirling together to form almost recognizable shapes and figures. I can hear whispered voices but from which direction they come, I'm not sure.

I know where I am of course. Hades. The Underworld. The halls of the dead. It makes sense that I am here and yet it does not. The last thing I remembered was lying dying on the manure pile outside the palace gates. Clearly, my body had given up its futile quest for life and so here I am.

But that doesn't ring true. As far as I know, the Underworld is the place where the souls of the dead dwell. The
human
dead. The souls of other creatures do not find their rest here. Dogs certainly aren't allowed in—at least I had never heard of any dogs being
granted the privilege. I had heard the stories of the heroes who had ventured into the Underworld before their time: Aeneas, Cupid and Psyche, Heracles, Pirithous and Theseus. Not one of them mentioned encountering any dogs.

Perhaps I am going to be the first. But why single me out for this singular honor, if honor is indeed what it is? I have done nothing special. Like most dogs, I have devoted myself and my life to my master. I don't believe that is so unusual.

A thought occurs to me: maybe I'm not in the Underworld after all. Perhaps I'm dreaming. As dreams go, it's pretty bland, although still better than reality, where I have to face endless torment from fleas and ticks.