A/N: This is a story I wrote in response to a prompt a few years ago, when I was in 8th grade. It’s been about four years now, but I’m still proud of it enough to post it to places, so here you go! I’ll probably write something along the same lines later on, but for now, I give you this.
My Boy was a strong man, once, but that was long ago, when his hair wasn’t silver and his legs didn’t shake with every step he took. He refused a cane whenever it was offered, insisting he was still strong enough to move about on his own. His light blue eyes still held their old twinkle of mischief, though his laughing mouth had lines now. He wore a flannel in faded shades of green and blue, open and loose over a plain white button-down shirt. Faded blue jeans wrapped themselves around his weary legs and old leather boots cradled his feet. He ambled down the path, his feet as heavy as his axe, which—when no one was looking—served as a walking stick. Still, he insisted he was strong.
He moved to the creaking old door of the pub, pushing it open. I trotted passed first, and he followed, hiding a cough as the smoke from the other patrons assaulted his nose. We moved together through the hazy atmosphere, headed to the back booth where we always sat. He sank down with a heavy sigh, closing his blue eyes briefly. I clamped the leg of a nearby chair in my jaws, dragging it over to him as I had for the past lifetime, now. He propped his feet on it with another sigh, holding his hand down. I accepted his gratitude as he tugged on one floppy black ear, his hand smoothing over my black-specked-gray pelt as I lay with my own sigh. An old woman with the same silver hair and blue eyes as my Boy came over, not as world-weary. She wore a blue dress made from scratchy wool and a soft white apron.
“You want the usual, hon?” Her voice was raspy and grating, as it had always been; I barely suppressed the urge to cover my ears with my paws.
“Yes thank you, Sal.” Unlike the woman, my Boy’s voice was still as soft and musical as it had been twenty years ago. The woman wandered off to get my Boy’s drink while we sat and watched the drunken revelers brawling by the bar. The woman came back, setting down a glass of iced tea, no lemon, as she had over the last lifetime. My Boy drank it slowly, the bitter liquid soothing his throat. When he’d finished, I dragged the chair out of the way and we walked out, leaving the smoke and drunks behind. The only signs of our ever being there were teeth marks in a chair leg and a five dollar bill.