[ WP ] In the canine world , humans are celestial beings who live for more than 500 years at a time . The caretaker of you and the past seven generations of your family will die soon .

“ C ’ mere, Miss. ” 
 
 My tail wags reflexively, but I don ’ t move. I lay with my head in my human ’ s lap, her long-toed paw curled like a bird foot in the warm spot under my ear. My human ’ s pup ’ s pup pats me on the side, and I shift a little so she can get to my belly. I wag my tail once, twice, in great lazy thumps. 
 
 “ C ’ mere, ” she repeats, baring her teeth and then reaching to tug at my collar. I whine, and she stops. Her teeth disappear. She makes more sounds, but I don ’ t listen; she ’ s not going to say anything I understand, anyway, other than my name and “ don ’ t. ” 
 
 My human ’ s paw tightens and she coughs, loudly, with the rasp of fresh-clipped nails on hard gray ground. I whine again and nose her side. I wag my tail for her, but she doesn ’ t seem to see. Her eyes have taken the milky white my mother ’ s eyes did before she was taken away. Her short fur, what little she has, is almost colorless. 
 
 Pup-pup sighs and she stands up on legs I remember my mom saying she used to knock out from under her when she was actually puppy size. She isn ’ t anymore, and hasn ’ t been for as long as I ’ ve been alive. 
 
 I nudge my human again, and Pup-pup reaches to take my collar. 
 
 I whine and I twist, but she says “ No, ” and hauls me off the bed. I shake her off and jump back up and throw myself across my human. Pup-pup shouts “ No! ” with panic and I flatten against my human. 
 
 She coughs again and I lick her chin. 
 
 “ C ’ mon, girl. Don ’ t- ” Pup-pup starts, and I look at her. Her voice has changed. It was brittle before, but it ’ s hitched the way humans ’ voices do before their eyes leak. My humans, because Pup-pup is mine, too, even if this human under my paws is most my human, have always buried their short muzzles into my shoulder when the eye-leaks start. 
 
 “ Missy, ” she says again. I look between her and my human; her breathing has gotten worse. “ Missy, come, ” Pup-pup says and when she pulls on my collar, I move to the floor—away from my human. I whine and press my chest against the side of the bed, but I can ’ t reach her. 
 
 Pup-pup takes my place beside her. There ’ s room enough for us both, but I don ’ t think she ’ d appreciate it. Instead, I place my chin on the blanket and watch. 
 
 Pup-pup takes hold of my human ’ s bird-like paw and holds it between her young ones. She inhales sharply, and on the exhales says, “ I love you. I ’ ll Miss you- ” 
 
 My human exhales. 
 
 My human ’ s pup walks in with her mate. In his paw is my leash. I ignore him when he hooks it to my collar and tugs once, lightly. I grunt, and he tugs again. I whine and snap at him. He drops my leash and I jump up on the bed again, moving to my human ’ s other side and snuggling up tight against her. I place my chin on her stomach and prick my ears. 
 
 Pup-pup ’ s mother places her paw on her mate when he reaches for my leash. Instead, he sits beside Pup-pup, and Pup sits on my side of the bed. 
 
 I turn my head to look up at my human. I lick her chin lightly. Her eyes are closed, and I can hear just how weakly her heart is beating. 
 
 My human ’ s pup puts her paw on my back. I glance at her, but she doesn ’ t make me leave. I give her a small tail wag, and her lips move, but don ’ t part. Her cheeks are shiny. 
 
 This pup drove the car that took my mom away, when she was gray in the muzzle the way my human is now. Dogs aren ’ t eternal, but humans are. Or something close to that—like stars, they ’ d always been and always would be. My human had been her human, had been her father ’ s human, and so on. 
 
 Pup had used the great air-sucker, the loud one I learned to bark at because my mother barked at it, too, to take away the fur that had clung to the soft insides. And though she ’ d thrown away the blanket my mother had slept on, I still smell her on the wind sometimes. 
 
 I inhale as my human does, and exhale the same. 
 
 When her chest doesn ’ t rise again, mine does. And keeps rising, and falling, as does Pup ’ s, her mate ’ s, and Pup-pup ’ s. Their eyes leak with salt-sweet tears, and I tuck my nose beneath her arm, expecting her to startle because that ’ s what she should do. 
 
 She stays still, and so do I, even when the other humans walk out, brushing their paws against my fur. I hear “ I love you ” and I hear tears. But I hear no heartbeat, even when I press my ear to her chest and listen until men in white clothes come to take her and her blankets away in a big gray car.
