Wholly Holy

I don’t think I’ve ever been a good dog.

Good dogs protect their families without hesitation, but I always ran when He came home. I never knew how to act around Him. The bad times could happen at any time and even though He mostly ignored me no one else was that lucky.

I thought about biting him. I growled once, before I learned to never do that again. After that I hid, only coming out to follow the sounds of crying and nose at the bruises. Pathetic.

A good dog would have fixed it. A good dog wouldn’t be scared.

When we moved into the new house there was something already living there, something that good dogs chase away. A thick shadow thing that stood in the halls at night, making hungry sounds.

It watched Him.

I watched it.

We had been living there for a year before I saw it move. I followed it down to the living room where it crawled up the couch and poured itself into his sleeping mouth. He gurgled and twitched and I hid under the big chair until he stopped clawing at his throat. When he sat up, he smiled and tried to call to me.

I stayed under the big chair for three days.

It’s been inside him for a while now, constantly writhing under his skin. No one else notices. It’s hard for humans to see I think. Seeing is a dog’s gift and if I was a good dog I would tell them.

But.

No one has cried for so long. No one hides. There are no more bruises. I let it sit beside me and scratch behind my ears. It’s voice is so nice and calm.

It calls me a good dog.