Pussy by name, pussy by nature.

Colonel Pussy barrelled round the corner in his souped-up, cut-down Jeep: its tyres left trails of black rubber as he screeched to a halt. The Willys MB had barely stopped moving as he stood and vaulted over the door: opening it would have taken too long. And his paws had no sooner hit the ground than he began striding purposefully towards the officers’ mess.

That was Pussy all over: he always hit the ground running. It was said around the base that there were only two occasions on which he took things slowly: the first was when drawing a bead on a baddy; the second was when keeping company with a lady. And there were many opportunities for both. Pussy was the best shot in the squadron, and his tabby stripes, military bearing and gallant air were like catnip to the fairer sex.

“Pussy by name, pussy by nature,” he would roar whenever his news of his latest conquest raised eyebrows in the mess hall. Strictly speaking, the corps preferred its senior men to keep their private affairs just that: private. But it was hopeless trying to hush Pussy’s bragging: it was like a force of nature. And in any case, his success on the battlefield and in the bedroom usually won admiration, rather than arousing envy.

It had obviously been a good mission: Colonel Pussy had the satisfied air of one who had got the cream and the canary. One of the engineers would be stencilling a fresh batch of pointy-helmeted heads onto the fuselage of his Spitfire tonight. He swept into the mess, smacking the door into the wall with a thunderous crash, and bellowed: “Drinks for everyone! On me!”

The words had barely left his lips, to be greeted with a cheer from the occupants of the mess hall, when someone rushed over to him with a saucer brimful of milk. Pussy seized it by the rim, applied his tongue swiftly and drank it down in one long lick. He dragged his forepaw across his whiskers to brush off the few drops that had strayed, and then downed the next saucer proffered him in similarly rapid fashion.

Two underlings – barely out of kittenhood, their ears and feet still oversized – helped Pussy out of his flight suit, while the barman scurried to distribute Pussy’s round to his grateful beneficiaries. Underneath, Pussy wore Army colours, although he’d transferred to the RAF long ago. It was just another eccentricity that his superiors chose to overlook, like his penchant for parading up and down the drill field for no readily apparent purpose. No one ever dared ask why: that was just Pussy.

“Good trip, Colonel?” asked Lieutenant Snowdrop, with a twinkle in his eye. “Very good, Snowy,” rejoined Pussy, holding up a paw and extending its full complement of claws. That meant four kills – maybe five, if the dewclaw up his sleeve was standing similarly proud. “There are going to be some dashed gloomy faces behind the Axis line tonight! And not just because their women are ugly and their fish is rotten!”

There was a roar of laughter: they’d heard it all before, but the jubilance of Pussy’s return had a way of making everything seem new and exciting again, and at the same time, as though nothing would ever change. As long as Pussy kept soaring up, up and away and swooping back down to barge through the mess hall doors, the war could be kept at bay. The menace of Kitler remained little more than a looming presence.

Pussy drank down another saucer of milk – his fourth since entering the mess – and approached the bar. His stool, as always, was waiting for him, its worn leather seat welcome. He straddled it, then sat down, his rear claws scratching at familiar grooves in its sturdy legs. “A few close calls, Snowy, one got off a clean shot at me. Thought I was going to be pushing up daisies and no mistake!”

There was a concerned muttering, but not too concerned: Pussy had never suffered so much as a graze in combat. Intelligence reports suggested that even the other side knew of his charmed life.  “I made ‘em pay dearly for it, though,” said Pussy. “Made widows of a few young kitties in Berlin!” He laughed grimly and patted at his pockets, looking for a cigarette. Abruptly, he stopped: slowly brought his paw back up to his face.

Its white fur was smeared with red.

Pussy stared it for a moment, then patted again at his pocket, hesitantly this time. This time, when he brought it up, there was no mistaking it. The paw was covered in blood. The mess hall fell silent. “I say …” started Colonel Pussy. “I … Snowy, I don’t feel too well.” And with that, Pussy staggered back off the stool. As he stepped back from the bar, the dark, spreading splotch on his shirt was plain for all to see.

“What does this mean?” said the Colonel, his unaccustomed doubt striking fear into the hearts of every tomcat in the room. There was a pause, and then Snowy replied, reluctantly. “It means the day has come,” he said. “The day that we knew would come eventually. We survived sex – in fact, you seem to have rather thrived on that. But it seems that your dreamer has become aware … aware of …” His words trailed away.

“It can’t be!” hissed Colonel Pussy, and for a moment his amber eyes flared with an anger that made those nearby step back. “I can’t die! I refuse to die! I’m COLONEL PUSSY, DAMMIT!” He fell silent for a moment, then added quietly: “Anyway, it’s just a flesh wound.” A drop of blood fell to his floor, its splash audible in the hush. Pussy dragged his paw across his face; a streak of dark red stuck together the fur around his mouth.

“I’m afraid that’s just the way it is,” said Snowy. “There’s no going back now. The dreamer no longer believes.” His icy blue eyes were dispassionate, but his drooping ears told of his real feelings. “From now on, it’s for real. Everything is for real.” This time, the silence endured, the only sound the increasingly rapid patter of Colonel Pussy’s blood dripping on the floor.

It was broken by the crash of the doors. “Scramble, scramble!” cried an orderly. “We have radar contact; they’re only ten minutes out! To your planes! To your planes!”

Pussy straightened up; if the motion caused him pain, he showed no sign. “Well, that’s torn it,” he said, and started pacing towards the door, his tail stiffened. “Fun while it lasted, eh, Snowy?” A trail of spots marked his passage across the floor. “Stop,” said Snowy softly, desperately. “You’re in no shape. Let someone else take them on. You’ll live to fight another day.”

And Pussy did stop, but only for a moment. “But that’s just it,” he said, and strode out of the door. ##

Like a wolf on the fold.

He had always believed in the black dog.

He had heard, as a child, of its depredations. Of how it stole away those who were too old and infirm, or too young and naïve, to cry out before they were snatched up in its jaws. Of how it did not even need to do that: even its poisoned breath was enough to ensure that sleepers would never wake. Of how it crept through the dead of night, its velvet footsteps falling softer than snow, its breath smoking in the chill air, its form shrouded by darkness but for the red of its eyes and the white of its teeth. He had learned to be afraid, with a child’s unquestioning belief.

And he had learned, as an adult, how to invoke the black dog’s power. The fear remained, but became deeper, more complex, more intimate. People swore by it and cursed at it; they begged its indulgence and asked its forgiveness; they wished it upon their friends in jest and their foes in earnest. They spoke of it as a faithful companion, an eternal enemy; a fell beast and a fever dream. But like the children they had once been, they believed in it absolutely; and yet they believed it would never come for them.

The black dog was rarely seen, and its witnesses were unreliable – sots, dotards and infants, in the main – and the suspicion was that they sought attention for themselves rather than speaking the truth. Occasionally, their testimony had the ring of truth; even more occasionally, it coincided with the discovery that a victim had been taken in the night. But even then, it was often difficult to tell if the sighting had prefigured or post-dated the discovery. And so some of the people came to believe that the dog was perhaps more spectre or symbol than flesh and blood.

They argued that it was needless for the congregation to huddle fearfully in the crossed arms of the church through the long winter nights: that the muttering of prayers and the trailing fumes of incense amounted to little more than insipid superstition unbecoming of their race. They scoffed at the long clawmarks in the church door; they mocked the priest’s talk of the devil playing games with shapes. Their ancestors, and their ancestors’ ancestors before them, had spoken of the black dog: what safety could the upstart from Palestine provide against such ancient evil?

To keep the peace — and to be doubly sure — the people began tethering a sheep outside overnight; but when morning came, they more often found its corpse frozen than gnawed. And when it had been taken by violence, the marks were those of a wolf; sometimes a bear. And the shepherds began to grumble that the preacher talked of protecting flocks inside the church even as they sacrificed theirs outside it. And so, in time, that practice, too, came to an end, and the people merely barred the door of the church and fed the fires that kept them warm through the night.

But it was a hard winter that year.

The first deaths were few and far between, and while mourned, did not give rise to general alarm, beyond some remarks upon the unexpectedness of the passings, of the marks that disfigured the departed. But it was not until the trickle of deaths broadened into a stream that people started to talk of the black dog: first in whispers, then in murmurings. The priest began to speak of unseen adversaries, but words rang hollow in their ears. Sheep began, once again, to be tied outside the church.

He watched all this with detachment. He did not know if the black dog had returned; he did not care. He had always believed in the black dog, but for him, it was a question of surviving the night. He was strong; he was alert; he was hale and hearty. If the black dog came, then he would fight it. If it did not, he would not think of it.

But the dog did not come for him.

It came, instead, for his mother, who did not wake, one morning, to stoke the fire. It came for his sister, who did not break bread, one morning, to feed her family. It came for his daughter, who did not shout, one morning, to greet the dawn. And it came for his wife, who did not turn, one morning, into her husband’s arms.

In his grief, he stood numbly by as the people peered at the door, looking for fresh marks. He stood by as they cried and shouted and argued, as the priest alternately prayed and preached and chastised, as the shepherds cast lots to decide whose sheep to give up to the black dog. And as he stood by, his grief smouldered and kindled and burst into a perfect effulgence of rage.

The night came. The people barred the church door.

He remained outside, wrapped in his robes.

And he waited for the black dog.

And he waited. The stars became hard and brilliant, but he waited, motionless, watching his breath cloud the moonlight. And the longer he waited, nursing his anger, the more he felt of a piece with the night. He felt as though it was his home. Like the dog, he thought. The dog was of a piece with the night. And then he started to think that perhaps there was no dog. Perhaps there was only him and the night. Or perhaps there was only him. Perhaps he was the night, the black dog. Perhaps he was the curse on the people, his family. And after a while, he could no longer tell where the black dog ended and where he began.

But later, much later, he saw the smoke of breath in the air, though the black dog remained hidden among the trees. And so he ran, crying out, screaming out, into the darkness, into the night, calling its name, the blood flowing into his eyes and his arms and his heart; but he was heedless, exulted in it, wished that he had more blood to give if only that would sate the beast; and in his rage he tore and kicked and struck out with his fists.

And he did not know, or care, if he won or if he lost. It mattered only that he fought. ##