Aslan

I know the sound of the house before it wakes.

That is the first thing I know every morning: the way silence breathes. Walls sigh as the night loosens its grip. Pipes click like old bones. The refrigerator hums low, steady, the way a contented animal hums in its sleep. Even before my eyes open, my ears have already counted the rooms.

Upstairs: three heartbeats. Downstairs: one clock, ticking too loudly, and the ghost of yesterday’s coffee.

They think I wake when they wake.

They are wrong.

I wake when the world shifts—when intention stirs.

My name is Aslan. They chose it because I am big and golden and because the man likes books where lions speak and die and come back. I do not know about dying and returning, but I know about guarding thresholds. I know about watching.

That is what I do best.

I lift my head from my paws as the woman—my woman—turns in her sleep. Her breath changes first. It always does. From deep and slow to shallow, uncertain. Dreams do that to her. She dreams often. Her hands twitch. Sometimes she cries without sound.

I stand and walk to her side of the bed, my nails clicking softly against the floor. She does not wake, but her body knows I am there. Her breathing evens. The dream releases her like a tide pulling back.

This is something humans do not understand:

their bodies know the truth long before their minds admit it.

I lie down again, facing the door.

The man will wake soon. He always wakes with a sigh, as if he is disappointed to still be himself. He will swing his legs off the bed and sit there for a moment, staring at nothing. His sadness smells different from hers—older, heavier, like dust trapped in fabric.

They think they hide these things.

They do not hide them from me.

When the alarm goes off, I do not jump. I knew it was coming. The house had already told me. The woman groans and fumbles for the phone. The man groans too, though his groan is quieter, folded inward.

“Morning,” she says, voice thick.

“Morning,” he answers, but what he means is: Another day I must perform being okay.

I rise, stretch, and shake myself, my fur rippling with purpose. The sound makes them smile despite themselves.

“There he is,” the woman says. “Good morning, lion.”

She presses her face into my neck. I breathe her in. Soap. Sleep. The faint metallic tang of worry.

The man scratches behind my ears, exactly where I like it. His hand trembles today. Just a little.

Something is wrong.

I catalogue the house as we move downstairs. Nothing out of place. Doors locked. Windows sealed. No intruders. But the air tastes sharp, like before a storm. The clock ticks louder than yesterday. The woman avoids looking at the calendar on the fridge.

The man pours coffee and stares into it as if it might speak back.

“Today’s the day,” she says.

He nods.

That is all.

But everything in them tightens.

They think I don’t understand words like court or hospital or meeting. They think I only know tone.

They are wrong.

I know the word goodbye.

I know it because it has weight.

We leave the house together. That alone is unusual. Normally one of them stays behind. Today, all three of us move as a unit. I sit in the back seat, watching the world slide past.

Humans see roads and buildings.

I see territories layered on top of each other like ghosts: who passed here, who was afraid, who was angry, who lied. I smell arguments that ended years ago. I smell grief that soaked into pavement and never quite left.

The woman keeps checking her phone. The man grips the steering wheel too tightly.

They do not speak.

I shift forward and rest my chin between the seats. They both reach back to touch me without looking.

Good.

They still remember I am here.

The place we stop smells like antiseptic and old fear. Humans call it a hospital. I call it a place where hope comes to bargain.

The woman kneels in front of me. Her eyes are bright, too bright. She cups my face.

“You stay,” she says softly. “Guard Daddy.”

I do not like this.

I press my forehead against her chest. Her heart is racing. She kisses the top of my head and stands quickly, before her resolve can crack.

The man clips my leash on, though his hands fumble.

“Let’s go, buddy,” he says.

The doors close behind her.

Something tears.

I do not whine. I do not pull.

But I watch the doors until they swallow her completely.

This is another thing humans don’t understand:

dogs know when a moment is a hinge.

We sit in the waiting area. The man pretends to read. I lie at his feet, alert.

People pass. I smell fear layered in different flavors: sharp panic, dull despair, exhausted acceptance. I smell sickness clinging to clothes. I smell death nearby—not here, not yet, but close enough to cast a shadow.

The man’s leg bounces.

I put my paw on his foot. He stills.

“You’re a good dog,” he murmurs.

I already know.

Time stretches. Humans think waiting is empty. It is not. It is full of things unsaid.

When the woman returns, her face is rearranged. Not crying—yet—but altered, like furniture moved in a dark room.

She kneels again, gripping my fur too tightly.

“He’s okay,” she says.

But what she means is: Not really.

They leave together, quieter than before.

In the car, the man finally speaks.

“So… we wait.”

She nods.

I rest my head on the woman’s knee this time. She strokes my ears absently, her thoughts elsewhere.

They do not notice the way the sky has dimmed, the way the world seems to hold its breath.

I do.

At home, the routine tries to reassert itself. Food. Water. Walk.

I patrol the yard, nose to ground. Nothing new. No threats.

Inside, the man sits at the table staring at papers. The woman stands at the sink, not washing anything.

They orbit each other like planets afraid of collision.

I position myself between them.

This is not something I was trained to do. No one taught me this. But instinct is a deep river.

The woman finally breaks.

“I can’t do this again,” she says, voice cracking.

The man closes his eyes.

“We don’t know yet,” he says.

“That’s worse,” she whispers.

I whine softly and nudge her hand.

She sinks to the floor, back against the cabinet, and I go with her, curling against her side. Her tears soak into my fur. Salt. Grief. Love.

The man joins us, awkwardly folding himself down, one hand on her shoulder, the other on my back.

They cling to each other through me.

They think I am comfort.

What I am is witness.

Night comes.

The house changes after dark. Shadows lengthen. Sounds sharpen.

The woman sleeps fitfully. The man does not sleep at all. He lies awake, staring at the ceiling, replaying every decision that led here. Humans love to punish themselves with imaginary rewrites.

I rise and place my head on his chest.

His breath stutters.

“Hey,” he whispers, voice breaking. “I don’t know what I’d do without you.”

I know.

You would survive. You would endure. Humans always do.

But you would lose something important in the process.

I stay until his breathing slows.

Later—much later—there is a sound downstairs.

Not the house settling.

Not the refrigerator.

Footsteps.

I am on my feet instantly, body taut, ears forward.

The smell is wrong.

Fear spikes through me—not for myself, but for them.

I move silently to the stairs, positioning myself between the sound and the sleeping humans. My growl is low, controlled, a warning pulled from my chest.

The sound stops.

A shadow shifts.

Then: retreat.

The back door clicks softly.

Gone.

In the morning, the man finds the door unlocked.

“Must’ve forgotten,” he says.

But I know.

Humans miss things because they assume the world is mostly harmless.

Dogs know better.

Days pass. Appointments. Phone calls. Long silences.

The woman grows thinner, her laugh more brittle. The man grows quieter, his shoulders heavier.

I watch them miss each other even when they are inches apart.

I intervene when I can: a nudge here, a well-timed demand for a walk, a strategically placed head on a lap.

They call me intuitive.

I call it paying attention.

Then one afternoon, the woman collapses onto the couch and laughs—really laughs, startled by it.

“They called,” she says. “It’s benign.”

The word explodes in the room.

The man drops his phone. He laughs too, a sound halfway to sobbing. They cling to each other.

I bark once, sharp and joyful, then wiggle into the middle, tail a blur.

Relief smells like rain after drought.

They think the danger is over.

It is not.

Life never stops testing the weak places.

But this one—this one has passed.

That night, as they sleep tangled together, I take my place at the foot of the bed.

I think about all the things they never noticed:

the unlocked door,

the way grief almost pulled them apart,

the moments they nearly gave up on themselves.

I think about how small humans are, despite their big thoughts.

I think about how love makes them fragile.

I will guard them.

Not just from intruders and shadows—but from the quiet dangers: despair, isolation, forgetting to touch.

This is my purpose.

They gave me a name from a story where a lion watches over a broken world.

Perhaps they understood more than I thought.

I close my eyes.

The house breathes.

All is well.

For now.