He was always the most faithful of the lone wanderer's companions.
The legend of the vault dweller from Vault 101 was matched only by his loyal dog companion, who saved him from many dangers and accompanying him on many adventures since their chance meeting in a DC scrap yard.
But all things come to an end.
Dogmeat was a very clever, very self aware dog. Clever than most other dogs were given credit for.
He was old.
He knew his end was near.
It was one peaceful, uneventful night in Megaton when he decided it was his time. His bones ached, scar tissue felt like new wounds, his eyes were dulled. He wouldn't last much longer in the wastes, so he would find a nice dark corner in the town and wait for Death to take him.
"You feeling it too, huh, boy?" A husky, but soft voice said from behind him. Dogmeat looked around and up to see the silhouette of ex Sheriff Lucas Simms. He too wasn't aging well. His bushy beard was white, and his long leather duster was no more than tattered fabric that struggled to hang over his shoulders. Both of then shared an understanding that their time on earth was coming to an end.
"Least we've had a good life, and left a great legacy, right?"
Dogmeat did have a lot of pups. Some with strays, others following would-be heroes of the wastes. He had faith in his genes. As for his life, though violent and torturous at some points, his master and others made it worth living.
"I can make it quick for you," Lucas offered, tilting his head once to the Chinese assault rifle that hung off his shoulder. The old dog growled softly, but with no real malcontent, making the sheriff laugh. He leaned forward and patted Dogmeat on his head, the soft worn fabric of his gloves feeling pleasant against his fur.
"Good boy. I guess I'll see you soon. What say you and I go down fighting? Heard some raiders have tried to move back into the school in town."
The dog barked once, almost nodding his head at the same time, in agreement.
"Let's go then,"
The old man took his gun into his hands, holding it with familiarity and careful care, as though it was an old and dying friend. He trudged to the huge town gates, Dogmeat following alongside him.
His bushy beard was white, and his long leather duster was no more than tattered fabric that struggled to hang over his shoulders. But his rifle was well kept, and the old sheriff had more than enough bullets.
His bones ached, scar tissue felt like new wounds, his eyes were dulled.
But he could still pack a hell of a bite.
(Notes: A short story idea that I thought would be a fitting end to Dogmeat, one of the best video game companions anyone could ask for. Hope you guys enjoy and adios!)