Longtoes
By Ysabet
Hi! Welcome to my little exercise in 'Ysabet Loses Her Mind 101'! See, I was at this convention about 6 months ago (AnimeFest2001), and me and my friends Morgan & Bridget were talking on the way to getting some dinner, and….. ummm, I got this idea. First, it was "What if InuYasha got born as a dog-shaped half-youkai, rather than a hominid one? And then that idea turned into "But hang on here--- does it HAVE to be InuYasha? Howzabout somebody else?"… and then THAT turned into "What about a whole RACE of dog-types, animal-shaped from birth, but with intelligence? Whythehellnot??" Soooooo….. Like I NEED another fic to be writing on? Oh well. Please y'all, let me know what you think about this--- I know it's an odd one! By the way, my thanks to Becky TailWeaver for critiques and encouragement on this one! Bark Bark Bark!
Disclaimer: InuYasha doesn't belong to me, more's the pity; but I promise to return him to Rumiko Takahashi all bathed and fluffy when I get finished playing with him!………..Ysabet, Ducking the Hail of Flying Dog-biscuits That Will No Doubt Be Coming Her Way
Chapter One: Lairs
The Dog lay in his cave, sprawled loose-limbed and relaxed on a heap of soft, aromatic grasses and tanned furs. He was not asleep; his dark golden eyes were half-closed, staring contemplative and unseeing at the early morning sunlight-shadow flicker on the clean sand floor. Occasionally his tail would quiver, raise and thump against his flank, and he yawned once, jaws wide and cavernous.
At last he rolled over, stretching his sharp-taloned fingers and cracking the knuckles one by one as he shook off the last of his sleepiness; the Dog shook his head hard until his ears flapped, rising to his feet to trot out the door without a backwards glance. Time to start the day.
Behind him the sand settled back into his pawprints, gradually smoothing out the traces of where he had passed.
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He's back again.
I caught his scent early yesterday evening when I was laying on my hill, taking the breeze: cloth-scent, man-scent, dog-scent… anger-scent. Whenever I think about him, I always remember him as being angry, except when he was a tiny pup. Always the anger, sharp teeth flashing, eyes narrowed and waiting for an opening.
Silly young dog; the opening is always there, if you know how to sniff it out.
I suppose I should go take a look, just to see what he's up to; I'll handle this morning's set of lessons, then slip off for the day. He doesn't seem to want to stray very far from his forest just yet… if our Summer dens weren't so close by, I might've missed his scent entirely.
I wonder what the others will say when they hear that he's back? Of course, it's not like he's been gone, not exactly… but he has slept for so long, generations of pups. We don't count the seasons the way the twolegs do, but it has been a long, long time. Trees have risen and fallen since he was put down; we have lived and died--- oh, not us elders. Our blood is too close to our Sire's to age so easily, to die so simply. We endure, we old ones; I have lost one sister from my litter, but the others are still alive. My bones ache sometimes with the cold of winter, but I'm not so old as all that…..
I've a new batch of ignorant young pups to educate this morning, same as usual; I can hear their little yaps and mock-growls outside my cave as they tumble and play together. How shall I tell my people's tale this time? Shall I speak of our history as if I were not a part of it—or shall I tell it to them straight from the marrow, with the teeth of my experience sunk sharply in? I think… the latter. I'm no keeper of knowledge, I don't struggle with the inks and clipped reeds to write facts and legends down for future generations. But I was here when the Dogs began, and I think I'll be here for a long time yet. And anyway, it's much more fun to tell it to the little furballs like that—I love to see their eyes grow wide and their ears prick up. They're so *cute* at this age!
Ahhh, I'm a sentimental old cur….. Well, that's my business, isn't it? I don't mind.
As for him….. I'll tell my news to those who need to know, and then I'll bide my time. I didn't get to be an old Dog by being a bold Dog, but by being a cautious, clever one who knows well enough not to run howling at the first scent of trouble. And he is trouble, I'm sure of it--- last time it was that mess with the Miko and the stone….. But never mind. It's been many, many seasons since then, and she's long dead.
I wonder who the female he's traveling with is? And why, for all the gods' sakes, is he wearing that… that collar?? She says 'sit', he obeys….. Shameful, just shameful.
….. very amusing, though…..
Hmph; I'd better get busy—the morning's not growing any younger. Time to pound some lessons into more thick young skulls, just like I do every year. Whyever not? After all, who better than the one who saw it all begin?
I am Longtoes, and this is my story.
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It was our Sire who began it all, of course, young pups. Our blood, our shapes, our intellect--- we owe them all to our Sire. But it should be remembered that long ago we also had a Mother, who brought us forth into the world. We should never forget that.
I remember her…..
She had long, dark hair; it hung all the way down to her knees, and it smelled so sweet: salty human-scent, warm milk, cloth, the herbs she used to wash with, firesmoke and cooked food….. And her hands were strong, with fine fingers that knew just how to scratch your ears, right where the itch was. Her voice was soft and low, melodious as the crickets in the hedges, as the night-bird songs. She was the Mother of us all.
Why our Sire chose to lie with her I do not know; it might have been simply the Spring-time madness, the desire to couple that makes fools of us all--- or perhaps he thought she smelled sweetly also? Who knows? He was our Sire, and we only knew him from her tales, at least then. Later, ahhhh, that was another story.
Don't worry, pups; you'll understand when you're older.
At any rate, we were born a litter of four in the early months of Winter; not the best time for pups to be born, but that's just how it was. We were two females and two males, and our Mother called us by names that best befit our forms and habits. I was the eldest, with long, dexterous digits on my forepaws--- hands, not clumsy taloned stubs (we all had these useful fingers, of course-- mine were simply the longest); thus I was Longtoes. In their turns my littermates were Grey, Runner and Goldeyes. We were mostly pale in color, with shadings of charcoal and tan here and there; Goldeyes had some of Mother's black hair in her coat, markings that streaked her beautiful face. Her descendants show those markings even today. I was then as I am now: white, marked with palest grey about my face and forequarters and tail.
Perhaps I should be plainer here, for those who listen and have yet to understand (you, there, in the back: pay attention!): Our Mother was a human. She was not Youkai, nor Hanyo, nor Bakemono; she was in all ways human. And our father--- well, you all know, do you not? Our father was the Great Inuyoukai, the White Lord of the West and we---
---Well, we were Dogs.
What a shock that must have been to our Mother when she bore us! To bear four offspring at once was a rare enough thing for a human (especially when they all survived), but to find that you had born puppies…..
I wonder still why we were not killed immediately-- drowned in a sack in the river, perhaps, or thrown yipping into a fire with our birth-cords still wet. I do not know; I only know that my first memories of our Mother was that of her love, of her gentle hands and sweet scent and wonderful, wonderful kindness and caring. We lived, however it was--- and we thrived. Dogs are survivors. We loved our Mother completely, even before our eyes were open.
Why were we Dogs? As to that, I can only speculate. A dog-youkai, even a dai-inuyoukai like our Sire has dog-blood in him somewhere….. For reasons unknown, it bred true in us. Who knows why? Perhaps he had spent too much time in dog-shape; perhaps some magic passed on to us in the womb, some strength born of fur and claw and sharpened fang. However it was, we were born four-footed and undeniably canine, though our voices were those of children. It's true, as you all know, that when we get excited or angry we tend to bark or whine or howl….. but we have language too.
One of my earliest memories was hearing my littermates beginning to talk, as even I was: growls and yips were becoming plain speech, whines were becoming complaints and tale-telling to our Mother, who put up with all of this with great forbearance. Anyone else would probably have grabbed us by the scruffs of our necks and flung us off a cliff; but she taught us language.
(And that, oh my kin, is one of the greatest gifts of our people: the triumph of words. We have instinct and we have reason; we have claws and we have hands. Never, ever forget our Mother, for she gave us that which sets us apart from the beasts of the field and of the trackless wilderness. She gave us thought.)
(…..not that all of us think all of the time, of course; we can be perfect idiots when we choose. So it goes….. Are you listening, over by the entrance? Don't make me come back there…..)
So: we lived in our little hut on the outskirts of a forest west of here, our people's first home through our childhood—we wrestled and yapped at each other and played little puppy games (yes, just like you whelps do) and messed in the rushes until we knew better….. and our Mother watched over us and laughed at us and fed us. We were her children, no matter how we looked.
She lived alone, besides ourselves; and, as we later understood, she preferred it that way. I think—no, I know she feared for us, feared that ignorant twolegs would destroy us in our innocence, should we approach humans before we learned more about the world. I used to think that shame was part of the reason that she chose solitude, but truthfully I think not; she was simply wise enough to know our fate if the world found us out.
'What's shame'?? Ahhhh, little pups—that, too, you'll understand when you grow older, sad to say. But it's not something that Dogs like us really worry about much. We leave that for the humans.
Now, what questions do you have, whelps?
……..no, you can't go home right now. Not yet. And no, you can't have anything to eat….. Ohhh, well….. here; a little smoked meat--- don't fight over it, whelps! Didn't your mothers teach you any manners? I swear, pups these days….. Pass it along politely now—and save the last bit for me.
I SAID 'save the last bit for me.' There; that's better.
Was our Mother really human? Yes, she certainly was, from the soles of her feet to the crown of her head. She walked on two legs, she had hands, and she was not a bakemono, a hanyou or a youkai. She looked human, she smelled human, she was human. That's why we don't hunt humans for food, ever—we're part human ourselves, from way back when. Yes, really!
Did she make us wear clothes? Don't be silly; of course not! We are Dogs. WHY on earth would we want to wear clothes?
What type of games did we play? Well, tug-of-war, chase-the-leader, all sorts of games with balls of one sort or another, tag--- just the same sort of things that you play every day. We'd hide things from each other and then sniff out the hiding places, play jokes on each other and on our Mother, and generally get into all sorts of idiot trouble. And if we did stupid things like, ohhh, like digging in the garden or scratching up the floor with our claws or eating ALL the best parts of the evening meal when the others weren't looking, we paid for it with a cuff to the ear or a swat across the rump—just like you do. It's a mother's duty to discipline her children properly, so the world doesn't have to do the job for her. The world, little ones, has a much harder hand than one's mother does.
One last question, now; I've something to take care of. We'll continue this tomorrow. Ahhh, the little loud one by the entrance….. Did I ever get into trouble? Well, of course I did, whelp; I was a pup! I chewed the bedding when my teeth were coming in and my mouth itched so terribly, I got into our Mother's precious store of cloth and snagged the threads with my sharp young claws, I bit my sister Runner's ear so hard that I left a scar—ask her, she'll show you, it's there even now----- Silly little pup; of course I got into trouble. What pup doesn't?
It didn't matter to our Mother; she loved us anyway. That's how some mothers are.
That's enough for today; tomorrow I'll tell you all about how it was for us, growing up. It's time you were all on your way back to your mothers--- ahh, and don't tell them that I gave you the snack, will you? I'd rather not get into any trouble; it'll be our little secret, won't it, whelps?
…..Yes, I suppose you can have some more tomorrow, if you're good…..
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Smart little batch of furballs, weren't they? I believe they're getting brighter. Or perhaps I'm just getting older….. Ahhh well, my teeth aren't falling out yet!
Time to go and take a look at the young one, I guess. I hope his long sleep has improved his temper, but I suppose that's too much to hope for. Hrmph; maybe that young human female he seems to be keeping company with can do something about blunting his teeth--- one never knows with humans…..
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The Dog yawned again, stretching as he rose from his comfortable sprawl. Padding out the low entrance, he paused to watch a tangle of young cubs rolling over and over in the dust of the clearing, their high-pitched yaps and snarls intermixed with giggles. A smile twitched at his long jaws as he shared an amused glance with the young female whose turn it was to watch over their young ones that morning; her ears flattened slightly at a particularly loud yelp, and with a sigh she waded into the scrum to separate the brawling young bodies.
Stretching one last time, the Dog slipped out of the clearing, nodding a greeting at a returning party of hunters as he trotted down one of the paths that led into the forest. His movements were quick and stealthy, a graceful and easy pace; His nostrils twitched continuously as he took the breeze, searching for one particular scent, one unmistakable flavor on the wind. At last he caught it, scanning the view from a small ridge: ahhh, there. Cloth-scent, man-scent, dog-scent… anger-scent. Him.
"Mmph; hasn't changed a bit." The Dog's voice was soft and raspy, tinged with a mixture of amusement and exasperation. He shook his head and set out in the direction of the scent.
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To be continued………..