Pairing(s): Mentioned Tintin/Katrina (or Tintrina, if you will *dodges tomato*), though that's not a truly important aspect to this drabble.
Rating: K+
POV: Tintin, Third Person
Warning(s): Established Character Death. You guys are probably going to want to kill me for this one. *stifles an evil laugh*
X
March 23, 1954
"He was a good dog," Katrina murmured somberly. "The best I'd ever known."
The young reporter's only answer were the tears that gathered at the corners of his eyes, one escaping as he stroked his wife's hand reassuringly.
His damp gaze remained on the collection of newspaper articles around him on the kitchen table, clippings of his adventures past spread out for the couple to look at for the umpteenth time.
Not only were these testimonies to Tintin's success, but they were one of the only things that contained photographs of his beloved fox terrier.
Tintin could only sigh as he took each faded black and white picture in, his mind being transported back to the times that they had been taken. Regardless of the location, whether it was Sussex or Gaipajama, the same dilemma had always arisen when the time came to take the photo for the article.
Even though the dog had always possessed the ability to seek and capture attention with ease, strutting down the street close beside his master, chest swelled with pride and nose in the air, Snowy had always been dreadfully camera shy.
Immediately upon noticing the swarm of reporters coming his way, he'd always take off, forcing Tintin to chase after him for at times, the next hour. Eventually, Snowy would tire or get distracted by some garbage bins and from there would allow Tintin to carry him back and quickly complete the interview and snap a quick photograph on the spur of the moment before he could react again.
It had pained Tintin to see the dog age as time went by. He'd watched his step lose its spring and his soft brown eyes grow tired.
Before he knew it, Snowy had begun to spend his days asleep at Katrina's feet as she wrote her novels, an immense difference from the days when he'd wedge himself between the young couple, growling at the young woman each time she and Tintin held hands or sat beside each other on the train.
Despite the number of kisses he'd dismantled over the years however, he'd eventually learned to tolerate Katrina. Months quickly turned into years as the wedding of the two reporters came and went. And when the expectancy of their first child was announced soon after, time seemed to unravel even faster.
In spite of the enormity of those changes that had taken place in the iconic boy reporter's life, he knew that he'd never truly get over this new reality.
Tintin without Snowy.
It was going to be a painful thing to get used to.
He now walked down the street alone with no four-legged companion to snatch away from any passing alley cats. He no longer had to wait for Snowy to do his business at that same street light on the corner of Flyaway Road on the way to the bus stop each morning.
The hassles to get the dog on a leash whenever they flew internationally were now a thing of the past, and his habit of constantly checking to see if Snowy had chewed it through certainly wasn't helping the young reporter forget his loss.
Never again would Tintin fall face first into the bathtub each time he and Katrina tried to get any small amount of soap in his scruffy white coat, something Snowy found particularly amusing if the couple was due at a dinner party within the next hour.
What's more, there was no more hope of him coming to the rescue to free Tintin's wrists of the ropes when the scent of chloroform still lingered in his nostrils. And Tintin didn't have the advantage of Snowy's keen sense of smell to track down just about any crook within a ten-mile radius anymore.
Needless to say, Tintin's approach to his job had changed dramatically.
In nearly everything the young reporter did in his daily routine, he wasn't able to do so without the feeling the somewhat odd sentiment of a cloud hovering over his very being, pregnant with a downpour and in danger of bursting at the most inopportune time possible, hyperbolic as it was.
Mealtimes were one of the worst parts of the day in bringing up memories, when Tintin would discover the morsel that he'd been setting aside for Snowy would now only go to waste. He had to mop the kitchen floor nightly with all the little tidbits he'd drop over the course of the evening.
Each time Tintin thought he was in danger of losing it though, he'd keep reminding himself that he'd had his cry already: the dreadful morning when a wolf whistle and a call of the terrier's name in both English and French didn't summon the clicking of claws along the kitchen floor.
The rest of the world was quick to mourn with him once the papers realized that Tintin was no longer with a canine companion.
He was more than thankful for the tremendous comfort his friends had offered throughout this difficult time for him, and the fact that the dog's death had been a peaceful and painless one always made him feel a little bit better.
Captain Haddock had been insistent on having the fox terrier's final resting place be at Marlinspike Hall, underneath one of the rose bushes that Professor Calculus had bred and christened 'Milou' in his honor. Tintin certainly hadn't been in the position to argue, especially since it had been after indulging himself in one too many toasts to Snowy, much to Katrina's dismay.
Regardless, the weeks following his Snowy's passing had been a good time of reflection for Tintin on who he was and had ultimately become over the years.
Snowy just had been an odd sort of dog, which had been precisely why he been perfect for Tintin; both had been misfits from the beginning.
His dislike of being rubbed on the belly and his only obeying commands in French were only a few of the quirks that had made him different from other dogs.
His loyalty, though admittedly overbearing at times, made up for the few flaws he did have. Above all, Snowy was the friend Tintin had needed during those first few years on his own when he was first hired at Le Petit Vingtiéme. And in more ways than one, it was an understatement to say that he'd been responsible for the fact that Tintin was still alive and kicking.
In fact, save for his nickname, the dog had been the only thing that Tintin had had left of his caretaker. What had become of him, Tintin still had yet to find out…
"We could always get another dog, if you like." Katrina's voice yanked Tintin out of his numerous flashbacks. "I know it wouldn't be the…"
"No."
Exhaling, Katrina instantly clammed up. She knew better than to attempt to convince him otherwise. Instead, she slid her arm onto his shoulder, her head following suit as the two of them continued to sift through the photographs together.
X
Author's Note:
Have had this drabble idea up my sleeve for a while now; I finally took the time to flesh it out more and this is the finished result. While there was still a part of me that protested "You can't post this! You haven't finished It Started Out as a Feeling yet!", I figured "Well, what the heck? It's been almost two years and I've actually finished something for a change!"
If you do happen to be curious in regards to ISOAAF though, you can mosey on over to my profile for my current thoughts and plans for that.
Anyway, yeah. A new year; a new style, tone and concept.
As always, thanks for reading and I'd love a review of your thoughts on this little snippet. There are definitely more where that came from.
Cheers.