Sense

It took a few steps forward, and sniffed the sullen air.

Its ears flicked up.

There were voices, a long way off. A voice. A boyish voice, but one it had been created to obey, could not help but obey. When that voice said "Follow," it would follow; when it said "Kill," it would kill. His master's voice.

It leapt the hedge and padded across the field beyond. A grazing bull eyed it for a moment, weighed its chances, then strolled hurriedly toward the opposite hedge.

The voices were coming from a copse of straggly trees. The black hound slunk closer, jaws
streaming.

One of the other voices said: "He never will. You're always saying he will, and he never does. Catch your dad giving you a pet. An int'restin' pet, anyway. It'll prob'ly be stick insects. That's your dad's idea of int'restin'."

The hound gave the canine equivalent of a shrug, but immediately lost interest because now the
Master, the Center of its Universe, spoke.

"It'll be a dog," it said.

***

Good Omens - Wednesday