Sawdust Heart

Rossiel rubbed the back of her neck sheepishly as she tried to get her enthusiasm back under some semblance of control. It was certainly true, though-- get herself and James in the same room and both pleased as Punch about something, and innocent bystanders may fear for their shins!

Inside the parcel for Qrow was a wooden box meant for keeping recipe-cards. The lid was burn-engraved with her mother's honey-cake recipe, exactly as it would have been made back in Arfda. She'd had guidance from her adults with the pyrography tool, of course, but it had been traced over Rossiel's own handwriting in her careful Tengwar.

When I was a kid, between six and fifteen, one of our Pyrenees would escort me, off-leash, between my grandmother's house and mine. I'd just have to call him, and he'd show up and walk me there, placing himself between me and anything he considered threatening- Cranky farm animals, holes in the ground, bodies of water, etc.

That same dog found a (unfortunately deceased) lamb my grandfather had buried a few hours earlier, dug it up, realized it was cold and not breathing, and carefully carried it to our barn, where he covered it neck-deep in straw and tried to cuddle it warm again to bring it back to life.

One of our older dogs, at about sixteen years old (keep in mind, this breed tends to average out at about 12 years max) had arthritis in his hips, a bad back, and a respiratory issue, was fucking ancient and essentially palliative, but would still go stock-still out of nowhere, let out one subtle "boof", and then set out at an awkward-yet-speedy bunny-hop sprint at the slightest whiff of a cougar, bear, or wolf. Like, grampa would jump fences. Gentle geriatric giant would kick up to 7k to protect the family, never mind the three other, much younger dogs already on the case.

When I was a baby, like a literal in-diapers infant, he would lay on the ground and let me dress him up as a wizard and crawl all over him with zero complaint.

His nephew was 100lbs and often alarmed visitors who mistook him for a bear, yet never so much as bumped into a person in his life and feared only string and kittens.

a Great Pyrenees is not Balto. A Great Pyrenees is Robert McCall, John Wick, and John McClain wrapped in Marry Poppins and a snuggly Mr. Rogers wool sweater.

They are not only the best dog, but I would argue that they are also the MOST dog.

With me she will lay on her back on the couch and plop her giant goofy fluff head in my lap and paw at me with her giant crime paws until I pet her gently, and then she will snuffle happily as I do so. She is very careful with the cats. She likes to nap sprawled on the floor like an inconvenient white shag carpet, preferably right over the air conditioning vent. She won't bite into an egg I give her unless I break the shell for her first. When I walk her past the neighbor's cows she has to sit and stare at them and the calves for a bit. When she was a stray she was chased out of several cattle barns because she kept trying to get in to sleep with the cattle and calves. Never tried to hurt one. She will also sit and stare at chickens for hours very happily. Won't hurt them, will just, you know. Keep an eye on things.