She knew he was terrified of small spaces. She knew that. Colonel Woofles had made it plain to her as best he knew how, through plaintive whimpers, soulful gazes, and frequent tail droops. He had even, on a few rare occasions, despite all protocol, growled. It wasn’t his fault the witch couldn’t speak Dog.

And yet, here the Colonel was, tucked away in a pocket dimension, with only a few mournful trees surrounded by endless dark, waiting for her to return. And why? Because she had to go and see some mystical power or other so she could ascend to new heights of evil. How this was to happen he wasn’t quite sure. In her defense, she had offered him a biscuit midway through her monologue which was much more interesting, in his considered opinion, than the monologue was.

But she hadn’t returned, and Colonel Woofles’ stomach was beginning to growl. It was difficult to be sure in the pocket dimension, but some innate sense told him that it was close upon dinner time. The Colonel waited until he could wait no more. Then, at last, he took a breath, puffed out his chest, and let out a tentative bark.

The sound echoed amidst the trees around him and died away. Then, in the darkness, something barked back.

Photo by Přemysl Čech on Unsplash