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Three sorts of people lived in Isis’ house.
Firstly, there were the Good. This group included the Master, of course, who threw sticks for hours and rubbed Isis’ tummy and let her chase ducks, even if she never caught them. The mere sight of the Master filled Isis with so much love she sometimes thought she would burst. She settled instead for resting her head on his knee and letting him scratch her ears.
The Mistress was in that group, as well. When the Master was not around, she would occasionally let Isis climb into bed with her, her head on Isis’ side as they lay in the warm morning sun. The Old Lady was another Good. She said things like, “My heavens, Robert, dogs in the drawing room? Whatever’s next, a travelling circus in the conservatory?” but she often dropped hors d’oeuvres onto the carpet in front of Isis, especially when they were made of pâté or sausage. On one occasion, the Old Lady even bent down and whispered, “I won’t say anything if you don’t, old girl.”
The second group were the Indifferent. Most of the people in the house fell into this category. They were the ones who passed Isis on the stairs, carrying large trays and grumbling at her to, “Get out of the way.” They were the Master’s grown-up puppies, the fair one and the dark one and the one who’d gone away and then come back and then gone away again. They were the babies, the slobbery, sticky-fingered little creatures who shrieked, “Doggy!” whenever Isis was foolish enough to wander into the nursery, and who would grab her ears and pull on her fur if she wasn’t quick enough to get away. Isis didn’t love any of these people, but she bore them no particular ill will.
And then there was The Bad Man. He had been at the house for as long as Isis could remember, perpetually blowing smoke from his mouth like the painting of the dragon in the babies’ nursery. He had been an Indifferent, until the day he took it upon himself to tear Isis away from everything she’d ever known and loved.
Isis had gone with him, innocent and unsuspecting. The Master sometimes had the Indifferents take her out for a walk, if he was busy or away. Isis never enjoyed herself as much as she did with the Master—the Indifferents tended to hurry her along, dragging her by her lead, or else they wanted to dawdle and smoke and take extended breaks—but she was prepared to bear the disappointment heroically. Until The Bad Man shoved her into a shack that smelled of rotten mushrooms and slammed the door behind her.
At first, Isis suspected this was a game. She barked, showing her appreciation for this attempt at levity. There was no reply. Isis barked again, and again. Panic began to rise. She ran toward the door, then to the back of the shack, then in a circle. She sniffed at the bottom of the walls; she dug her paws into the dirt floor. She barked and barked and barked, but the Bad Man did not come. No one did.
Gradually, the light faded, disappearing from the crack beneath the door. Isis was hungry, and thirsty, and cold. She lay on her stomach, resting her head on her paws. There was no sense in fighting; she was done for. The Master would find her one day, a skeleton, and he would weep and rend his garments, consumed with grief for the finest dog that ever lived. She was picturing this heart-wrenching scene, the Master clinging to her lifeless body and screaming to the Heavens, when there was a rattle and a bang and the door swung open.
“Hello, dog.” It was a child, a little girl. Isis recognized her, dimly, from walks in the village. She had never been so happy to see anyone in her life. Even her feelings for the Master seemed paltry, a passing fancy when compared to the sheer adoration she possessed for this little girl. Isis leaped at the girl, conveying her eternal gratitude with licks to the face and a tail that felt about to wag off into oblivion.
The girl giggled and put her arms around Isis. “Come on. Let’s go home.”
Isis spent the night at the girl’s house, curled in front of the fire, tummy full of table scraps and joy in her heart. The next morning, the girl’s father took Isis home to the Master. He greeted her with such enthusiasm Isis almost forgot how close he had come to losing her, until the Bad Man came in. He smiled, infuriatingly. He even had the nerve to reach down to pat Isis on the head.
“There you are, Isis. You gave us quite a turn.” The deception was outrageous. This was her kidnapper, her would be murderer, acting as if all were right with the world. She didn’t understand the Bad Man’s motives; she didn’t want to. She would have bitten him then and there, but she was not that kind of dog. Instead, she tucked the experience away in the back of her memory, and waited for the perfect moment to get her revenge.
It was a long wait. Years passed. People came and went from the house, but the Bad Man remained and Isis did not forget. Then, at last, her chance came.
It was a warm evening, late spring, and the people had gone to bed. Isis took a turn in the garden, sniffing at the flowers and catching a moth in her mouth. It was disgusting, papery and jittery. She spat it out again. It flew away, and Isis wandered into the kitchen, hunting for any scraps of food that red-faced woman might have carelessly left lying about. She didn’t find any—she never did, although that didn’t stop her from trying—but she did come across something almost as intriguing. For the first time in Isis’ long memory, the heavy door at the end of the hallway was ajar.
It was only a crack, but it was enough. Isis padded over and nudged the door the rest of the way open. A tall, steep staircase was on the other side. Isis, ever an explorer, climbed up, her excitement growing with each step.
Many of the Indifferents used these stairs. Isis could smell them. She sniffed as she climbed, deciphering the rich tale before her, until the unmistakable scent of the Bad Man hit her nose.
Isis would know it anywhere. She followed it to the top of the staircase, then down a hallway to a closed door. The scent ended there, but before Isis could feel disappointed, a voice came from within, so quiet that she had to prick up her ears to hear. It was the Bad Man. He was murmuring something, talking in a low, gasping voice. Another voice replied, equally quiet. It was one of the Indifferents. The fair-haired one who served at the dinner table, Isis thought, and who on rare occasions took her for walks. She had nothing against him. He was a good walker, and he would throw a stick from time to time, if Isis insisted on it. She heard him whisper again, and the Bad Man laughed. There was something odd here. Isis could feel it, although she didn’t know what it was. She sat in front of the door, waiting to see what might happen.
Nothing happened. Isis could hear the voices, interspersed with moans and laughter and, on one occasion, a bang, as if something had fallen heavily against the wall. After that, it was silent for a very long time. Isis began to lose interest. She yawned widely, stretching her jaw. She was about to wander off, to see if the Mistress might allow her into the bed tonight, when the door opened.
The Indifferent stepped out. He was shirtless, a bundle of clothes clutched to his chest, and his feet were bare against the wooden floor. He smelled of himself, and also of the Bad Man, and when he saw Isis he stopped dead in his tracks.
As the Indifferent stared, the Bad Man came up behind him. He was half-dressed as well, wearing only a pair of shorts similar to those the Master wore beneath his dressing gown. He looked at her, eyes growing wide, and in that instant, Isis knew he hadn’t forgotten either.
“Isis,” the Bad Man whispered, panic in his voice. “Good dog. What are you doing here? Good dog,” he repeated. From him, the words were hollow and meaningless.
Isis stood, drawing herself up to her full height. With a sense of bone-deep satisfaction, the sort usually found only by rolling in the innards of dead birds, she looked the Bad Man in the eye and barked.