A/N: I own nothing related to Rohan or The Lord of the Rings. The title comes from Saruman's line in "The Voice of Saurman:" "What is the house of Eorl but a thatched barn where birgands drink in the reek, and their brats roll on the floor among the dogs?" The other half of the inspiration for this fic comes from my babies at work: purebred, mutt, or trendy poodle mix, it's hard not to love the dogs you've romped with. This fic goes to the dogs and the people that look after them.
"Among the Dogs" placed first at Tolkien's Realm on LJ.
There was a time, my father was fond of complaining, when being Master of the Royal Hounds actually meant something. A time when lads vied to work in the kennels nearly as much as they did in the stables. A time when the hounds were not mongrels barely worthy of the name filching scraps from the long tables of the Golden Hall, but the purest lines of coursers, ratters, mastiffs, and bird-dogs. He spoke with a great sense of wistful loss as he described the spaniels whose mouths were so soft and delicate that they could pick up a newly hatched eyas and return it to the mews without a scratch. There was pride in his voice as he remembered the terriers that had caught more rats in a single day than a cat could get in a week. I could nearly believe him when he spoke of his great wolfhounds; as big as Huan himself those dogs had been.
Or so my father always said. As more orcs filtered through our outermost defenses, we found ourselves with less time and waning manpower to care for so many creatures. We had always tried to find homes for the culls if we could, but as the noose tightened around Rohan, even my father's favorite stock became thin and needy. There was nothing for it but to sell off the dogs we couldn't keep, no matter how much this displeased their master. The giant breeds had been amongst the first sold completely from the kennels. He and I had both cried when we had been forced to give away his favorite breeding bitch, for she had been gentle enough to be my first "steed" at the time my elder brother first began to ride a pony.
For my part, I could only count us lucky in that we could find homes for the dogs. Many of the noble houses in Gondor had also been forced to begin emptying their kennels as the battles against Sauron intensified, and while the farmers always welcomed another set of teeth between the orcs and their stock, there was no place for extra animals in a city. Strays formed packs, becoming nearly as much of a problem as a pack of Wargs might be, once there were enough of them.
As we lost dogs, we began to lose help, prolonging the vicious cycle. My brother had joined an eored, neglecting the family duty in our father's eyes. When he described the things he'd seen out there, the people he'd helped save, I couldn't bring myself to feel disappointed with Sigegast, but I didn't like to hear my father and my work belittled, either. I may not be shieldmaiden material, but I don't hide from the real world, either. I've kept the agilest swifthounds and the strongest-jawed terriers, which can hang onto a running horse, if they have to. I've traded the hunters for the biggest farm dogs I can find, and bred for intelligence. They may be mongrels, but I think my brother would be surprised, should he ever take my dogs with his eodred. A messenger pigeon cannot bite, and it is a rare horse that can run unerringly towards a destination so far on its own. My father despairs of ever finding an heir worthy of the kennels of old, but for these new times of war, I am willing to step into the role.