The Bird and the Dog: A Short Story
- Juan-Pablo Pina
- May 7
- 3 min read
by JP Pina
“He’ll never make it. Look at him!” quacked the feathered creature. Bird was old, a croaking and crooked raven. He stamped his feet on the ebony fur of the head of his friend: the great black dog.
“He will. I believe in him,” responded the canine as he watched the young man toil away in the forge. The sun had already set, and a chill hung in the December air like a dead man. Steam and white-hot metal hissed and clanged within the forge.
“I don’t. He has no standout traits, and his progress is slow and even regressing at times. What makes you believe in such a creature, old friend?” squawked Bird.
“...I don’t know. I just know he will,” replied Dog. The boy kept working in the forge, sharpening blades and refining hilts.
“As far as I’ve seen, Dog, he’s not going to go anywhere. His dreams are too big. The great conquerors and kings and presidents, they made fast progress with grand steps,” said the raven, fluffing up his wings.
“But look, Bird, don’t you see what the boy is doing?” The raven looked at the boy. He just kept working as thunderstorms of sweat ran down his face. Hell, he was probably weeping too, as he hands bore great burns and callouses.
“He’s just working. He’s been doing this for hours, waking up before the sun and going to sleep long after it’s set. He may as well put himself out of this misery and be done with this fruitless business.” Dog snarled at that, baring his gnarled teeth and curling his lips.
“Never say that about that boy. You hear? Never,” growled the hound. Bird flinched at the sound, flapping his wings thrice, then settled once again. Dog continued.
“You’re right about one thing, old friend. He is just working,” declared the black dog with an assertive nod. The raven cocked his head with a chirp.
“And wherein this toil lies this supposed worth?” squawked Bird. Dog paused to think.
“Do you know why the boy’s father, my Master, chose me to be Top Dog?” said the hound. Bird nodded.
“Because you are a good fighter. Not once under your watch has a coyote or a rustler taken a member of our herds.” Dog replied with an ‘mhm’.
“Yes. But do you know how I became a good fighter, Bird?” followed-up Dog. Bird could sense the point of this conversational detour was nearing.
“You were born a sheep dog. You’re a born fighter. Speed and savagery are in your blood,” answered Bird, trying to prod Dog onward so he could just get to the point. All the while, the boy kept working. He lifted slabs of steel, melted them, pulled levers and ran whetstones across their edges.
“Wrong. One of my litter-mates is faster but not a good fighter. Another is twice my size but isn’t fast enough. I was neither the biggest nor the fastest, but I stayed with the herds for so many nights and guarded their pastures for so many days that Master named me Top Dog,” explained the hound, wagging his tail. Bird stayed silent and simply sat down with an upbeat sigh, realizing he had been defeated.
Dog said nothing and grinned, knowing he had won. And a bellowing cry of relief let him know the boy in the forge had won, too, as he raised a freshly-made sword, the finest sword the world had ever seen.
Comments