A Shadow In Broad Daylight

He had always been a good dog—never barking at the wrong people, never eating his food without permission, and, above all, always keeping the sheep safe, no matter the cost. It was a thing of pride for him to protect the sheep. They were his duty, and he had always been a dutiful dog. The sheep were white like him, something he saw as a sign of their connection. They were a family after all: he, the sheep, and his human, with the dark hair and blue eyes he hoped matched his own ever since he was a puppy. He had never known his parents, unlike the sheep, but he didn’t care; his master was enough for him.

He liked protecting the sheep, but he could never understand why some things wished them harm. To him, the sheep were more than animals—they had thoughts, dreams, lives worth preserving. He would never hurt a living being; he’d rather die before that could happen. Even as a young puppy, he understood that his master relied on the sheep, and from that moment on, he vowed to protect them if only to make his human proud. After all, his human fed him, bathed him and treated him with great kindness, a kindness he would always repay.

Twenty moons ago, he realised the creatures in the forest were not truly alive. They approached him, almost dragging their bodies forward in the night; they were like skeletons. Their fur was matted and brown, and they itched as if they wanted to crawl out of their skin. Their mouths were stained red, and their eyes were hollow, empty pits. He barked at them a few times, and they scurried away like rats. He knew that night that they could do nothing to harm him and his sheep, and that thought made him happy, especially when his master gave him an extra treat the next morning.

One day, something seemed off. It had snowed that night, and when his human went to him, he had a light cough, and every day since then, he seemed to cough a bit more. However, he wasn’t worried; his owner had always been so strong, and the coughing would pass; it always did. As he predicted, the coughing finally stopped. He was overjoyed and was already thinking about all the walks they would take together. So he followed his owner’s scent and reached him. His owner was taking a nap on the floor next to the swings, but when he nudged his master’s side, he did not stir. Only then did he notice the faint trickle of blood on the grass beside his human, and only then did he realise his master would not move again.

He did not like the sight of blood; it was sticky and a shade of red much too bright for the eye. He did not like the blood, but he did like his owner, so he decided to continue protecting the sheep like his human would want him to. He had always been a good dog, and nothing would stop him from being one.

The days passed by, and no one filled his bowls with food or water, no one bathed him, and no one treated him with kindness. He started to be envious of the sheep; they had nothing to worry about. They could eat the grass around him; he could not. He had tried to eat the grass, but it had made him sick, and he decided it was not worth the effort. He was more tired than usual those days, and lifting his body became harder; it seemed like his lungs were not getting enough air. Every night, he could feel the figures in the forest watching him, taking their time. He could not let them win; he could not fall. His master would not want it. Soon, he could not walk steadily, and he decided to see his master. Only when he reached him, all he saw were bones; the creatures had eaten him, but had left blood around the bones. Only the blood no longer seemed too red or sticky; it was natural, after all. That day, he went back to his sheep and was strong for another night.

He wanted to be indestructible like his master was, but how could he save the sheep when he had no energy? No, it would be impossible. So he decided to eat one of the sheep. It was what his master would have wanted; he would understand that he had no choice in the matter. In fact, it was a selfless decision; he had never eaten anything raw, and doing so would disgust him, but to save the sheep, he would do anything he could to have enough energy. He ate one, trembling with disgust the whole time, an old one with little meat, whom he told himself would not have lived much longer anyway. After he ate, he saw the creatures in the wood again, and he told himself that he would never be like them. He was nothing like them; he would never harm the sheep. His promise to protect them would remain unbroken.

The next day, the itching began, starting in his ear and slowly spreading to the rest of his body. He rolled and rolled in the grass, but nothing ever satisfied the growing discomfort covering his body. That night, he had a hard time sleeping, and while lying in the dark, he realised he could hear the sheep talking about him. He had never known he could understand them, but that night he heard every word they said. It felt strange, the way the sheep talked about him; if he could concentrate enough, it almost seemed as if they were laughing about him. But no, that couldn’t be true; he had always helped them; they had nothing to laugh about.

The following morning, he woke up, and when he reached the sheep, he understood nothing at all. It was in those early mornings that he felt scrutinised. The sun rose and set four more times before he ate another sheep; he had no choice after all, but this time the disgust had diminished, and so had the guilt. Initially, the sensation worried him, but he soon realised that it was his adaptation to the necessary means of survival that had caused all of his emotions to seem duller by comparison. It was the only logical explanation, and he was proud of sacrificing a part of himself for the sake of others. It meant that he was still his master’s dog, and he was a very good one at that.

As the days lengthened and the sun grew hotter, he had settled into a routine. Every couple of days, he would eat one sheep, taking care in choosing the right one. He never chose one too young or too fat; no, he always put himself last, so he chose the weakest and oldest of them. He was doing them a favour after all; he did not want them to suffer and die of old age as he had seen happen. However, there was one thing bothering him: every night, he could hear the sheep talking about someone. He could never quite catch the name, but the sheep spoke of this person very highly, and he had started to suspect that maybe they had been betraying his master the whole time. He couldn’t be sure just yet, so he took his time and waited.

The following week, he was sure of it; the sheep had been planning his master’s death all along. They were behind his sudden weakening and had planned to escape to their mysterious new master after the death of the other. It was he who had unknowingly prevented them from finishing their evil mission, and it was he who had singlehandedly saved his master’s reputation. He had felt betrayed as soon as he pieced it together, but the more he thought about it, the more it made sense. The master had not, as he had previously thought, put him there to protect the sheep but had instead put him there to prevent them from escaping and causing harm. The dangers had never been outside the barn; they were inside it.

As the first leaves fell from the trees, he noticed that the sheep were not as plentiful as they had been, a fact which filled him with immense guilt, though he could not seem to remember why it would elicit such a reaction. The sheep in his mind had ceased to be living beings; they were like the growing shadows in the woods, soulless and heartless. They had harmed another living thing, and whoever did that could not himself be truly alive.

There was only one sheep left, and when he saw the little lamb with fur as white as his had once been, he remembered his original purpose. He and this lamb had once been family; after all, he had been supposed to protect the lamb with his life. But that was silly; the master wouldn’t care about that. The master only wanted him to live; he was the sole person who had never betrayed his human, so naturally he was the favourite; there was no other explanation.

He ate the lamb and then faced the woods. He stood for a long time, waiting—though for what, he did not know.

As the days passed, he grew weaker and weaker. His legs trembled with each step, and his breath came in shallow pants. He often dreamed of his master during those days, recalling their daily walks and that one laugh which always came before a treat. It was those dreams that kept him going—he could not fail his master, not after everything.

The darkness seemed to lure him closer each night, and as the sun set, he thought he could hear his master’s voice, softly beckoning him. He stumbled frequently now, falling to the ground only to rise again on shakier legs and with shallower breaths.

One particularly dark evening, he dragged himself to the bones of his master, his energy draining with the setting sun. The silence that night was suffocating, and he almost felt relieved when small footsteps approached. He knew what was coming was inevitable, and so he did not bark, and they did not bite. It seemed as though they had reached some unspoken agreement. Without a word, he fought to stand one last time. He almost succeeded before his legs gave out, and he crumpled to the ground like an autumn leaf. Desperately, he tried to growl, to bark, to do anything to protect himself—one final time. To protect his owner’s grave. But he had no breath left; only a whisper escaped, lost in the wind.

In that brief moment of utter darkness, he realised he wished his master were still there—if only so he could eat him.

When the creatures from the forest finally reached him, he struggled to open his eyes one last time, seeing in theirs his own hunger mirrored. That night, the wolves feasted on one of their own.