Seasons don't fear the Reaper.

Nor do the wind, the sun or the rain.

Which was pretty bloody obvious, thought Death, as he rocketed along the cold, windy and wet highway.

And it was then that Death came across a dog.

He was by no means the ‘Reaper’ of folklore, nor the skeletal figure that haunted every aspect of culture from medieval scripture to the modern-day. No, he was a fairly short, stocky figure, with the kind of physique that belonged to an ex-military type. A crop of short, military-grade blond hair interrupted by a long scar would have been visible if it were not for a long, black, hooded cloak. This was the one aspect of Death that carried across time and countless myths and legends; the ethereal black cloak that seemed to absorb all light. Rather than see how dark it was, you didn’t. It was a vaguely cloak-shaped absence of space.

Unfortunately, it had become somewhat tattered over the years and was now reduced to a ragged knee-length affair. Even more to undermine the otherwise threatening nature of the cloak were the blue Levi jeans and fresh red Nike trainers that sat below, screaming modern 1987 fashion against the unfathomably ancient black material. What finished the bizarre ensemble was a simple light grey crew neck t-shirt, its sheer simplicity and lack of importance contrasting violently with the abnormality of the void that connected across the chest of the shirt. A dull silver skull broach tied the two sides together, framing a long, pale face, square jaw hidden in shadow. The scar that drew a line across his face pulled his top lip up in a permanent smirk, which was quite at odds with the kind, sad hazel eyes scanned the horizon intelligently, though somewhat obscured by a pair of blued steel goggles.

Death’s paranormality was also undermined by the fact that, instead of a pale horse, he rode a motorbike. A WW2 vintage Zundapp, to be precise. The engine roared, robust frame carrying its supernatural rider through the pouring rain: the headlight cut a brilliantly light strip through the gloom, illuminating the sodden Northeast American landscape.

As he rode, Death thought about the universe. Quite an unusual pastime for his sort. Most supernatural beings were unquestioning of the Lord and his plans (or unquestioning of the opposition of his plans,) as many mortal beings were, but Death had an imagination, and a healthy if pessimistic cynicism. It was a pastime nonetheless, though. His thoughts mostly rested on just how mind-bogglingly big it was. He was a constant of this universe, alongside God, and he was fairly sure that even God didn’t know about all of the universe, even though he had created it: by the fact that he hadn’t been obliterated in holy lightning, or turned into a prairie dog, or simply vanished from existence for even thinking about it seemed to confirm the thought.

His mind then turned to business. Death was only one man: he couldn’t handle every single passing of every person on the planet. No, Death had a system in place: individual regional deaths dealt with certain districts on Earth: Death himself was a hands-on boss, and actively took over the districts whose regional ‘Death’ had taken a holiday. And so, Death found himself on a wet Ohio night, somewhere between Columbus and Cleveland. He enjoyed the solitude. Always had, from his living days. It rather made him perfect for the job.

And then this pale, solemn, but contented rider heard a whimper. Not close, of course: the thunderous pelting of rain was almost enough to drown out even the bike’s growl. No, he had felt the whimper. He began to slow down, the roar turning into a low burble, and then…silence. He dismounted and headed in the direction of the whimpering.

“Ach, scheiße,” muttered Death.

Before him was a cardboard box, sodden by the downpour, one flap open and waving in the wind. From it came a sad, high pitched whining and whimpering. Death’s heart, if he had one, (even he was unsure of this fact,) sank. He knelt as he got closer, sheltering the hole in the box with his body: through the dark, he saw a small, shivering furry shape. He cursed again. A puppy. On closer inspection, a very thin, very wet, very ill Shiba Inu puppy. Death sighed, heavily. There had never been this many Shibas before. Not since the damned Internet had come along. Then again, the puppy was pure white. Perhaps an errant dog showman had dumped it for the ‘fault’ in its fur. Either way, it was sad. Very sad. Death still had feelings after all, and the man who cares not for a dying dog is no man at all. Rather, he is a total bastard.

Death reached into the box and picked the puppy up. Even though it was thin and distraught, it still stared up at him intelligently, though suspiciously. Unusual, thought Death. Dogs were normally much more complacent, especially with him. He had a sort of charm with most life, quite ironically.

It is also important to dismiss the rumour of ‘Death’s Touch.’ No such thing exists, no matter how much human writers like to flirt with the subject. Death, theoretically, could meet up with you for a drink and pat you on the back. Rather than flop face-first into your pint/glass of wine/tequila sunrise with a little umbrella and a slice of lime, you would simply have a slightly colder than normal touch on your back.

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This dog, however, didn’t seem fazed by the cold. Then again, it had been trapped in a box on a freezing winter night. If anything, it seemed to cling to Death’s hands, if warily. That made Death smile. A dog as cynical as he was. Now that was something. Still, he was saddened by the fact that he would have to take this dog back down with him. That was unfortunate.

The dog barked at him, and he jumped in surprise, almost dropping, and then fumbling to catch the dog. The dog’s tail was wagging now, if a little weakly. Death would have been angry but seeing this made him smile again. A cynical dog with a practical sense of humour? That really was something. If he didn’t know better, which he did, he would have suspected the dog had been reincarnated. The dog yipped quietly, but happily enough. It seemed as though it could read his thoughts.

Death chuckled, and began to very gently stroke and pat the doge, and it seemed to calm a little, though its eyes still stared at him in a not entirely trusting manner. His smile turned into one that was softer, more reassuring.

“Alles gut, Kleiner,” he soothed, hugging the dog into his chest, his cloak protecting it from the rain, “I’m not taking you anywhere bad.” The dog made a half-moan, half yip sound in reply. Well, now. This was certainly one perceptive dog, he thought. A plan started to form in Death’s mind. While he enjoyed solitude, he had become a little lonely recently. Then again, he had found human companionship so tiresome, and animals were so much less perceptive. Yet here was a being that seemed to fall almost exactly in neither category. He was already quite attached to the tenacious little devil.

It had seemed to have sensed this and cuddled into Death’s chest a little more. He smiled again, caressing the smooth, wet fur. Finally, the dog’s eyes closed. Good, it trusted him. “Now, my Kleiner Freund, I think it is time for you to go. Sort of.”

The dog whimpered again, in a sad confirmation.

“Relax, little one. It won’t hurt and won’t be a moment.” He chuckled and wiped something he hadn’t felt in a long time from his eye. The dog shivered. Death concentrated a feeling in his fingers, and let it run into the furry shape in his hands.

The dog made a final sound.

The dog made no more noises.

And then it yipped, happily. And Death grinned.

He could feel two figures in his hands now. One was a very wet, very cold, very still puppy. The other was a warm, dry, much fuller, happier puppy. He hugged them both, though only one licked back. “Come on, little one. Hop off.” The dog jumped out of his arms, leaving its body behind. It moaned upon seeing it.

“I know,” murmured Death, “but it was to be. Don’t worry, I’m not taking you anywhere.” He stood with the dog cradled in one arm, reached into his jacket and retrieved a shovel. He held the box, and somehow it was dry; he placed the poor dog inside and closed it. The cardboard was now wood, rich mahogany, and Death carried it a little off the road, the dog, no, his dog following.

He found a neat spot underneath a fledgeling scarlet oak and began to dig. The dog sat at his side as he grunted with every shovelful of dirt. Death still had a physical body; no getting out of manual labour here. Not that he minded. He had maintained a strict fitness regime since his living days, so soon enough, the hole was dug. He gently lowered the box inside. “I would say something,” he grinned, “but I’m not the religious type.” The dog next to him yipped. “And neither are you, gut.” His smile widened as he looked at the dog, before returning to a solemn state as he filled in the grave. He knelt and pulled a few items from his pocket. A Stanley knife, a polaroid camera, and a candle.

The dog sat again at his side and began to watch. Watching Death carve busily into the tree a surprisingly accurate portrait of the dog, date of birth and death, (something Death always knew,) and a hollow beneath. He then paused.

“You don’t have a name, do you?”

The dog bowed it’s head and whined.

“Hmm. I suppose I should do it, ja?” The dog looked up again.

“Well…you’re a girl, I know that much…hm.” He pondered for a few seconds. “How about Toldi?” The dog wandered over, barked, and licked his face. Death froze for a moment…and then laughed, hugging his new companion. “Toldi it is,” he chuckled.

“One last thing,” he explained, pulling a Zippo from his cloak. He lit the candle, placed it in the hollow in the tree, and muttered some words to himself. The candle briefly flashed a brilliantly calm blue, and then returned to a warm orange.

“There,” he said, picking Toldi up in his arms and stroking her between the ears, “that candle will never go out, and cannot be moved.” Toldi licked his face again, and he chuckled. “Come on, Toldi. We have work to do.”

He was about halfway to his motorcycle when he stopped. “You need a tag, don’t you? And a collar…hm.” He thought then withdrew his knife again and slashed a strip from his cloak. The sky rumbled ominously, and Toldi yipped. “Ignore them,” he reassured her, “they’re all bark and no bite.”

The sky rumbled again, tetchily. Death laughed.

He then gently tied the strip of black around Toldi’s neck. Seemingly from nowhere came a steel blue coin into his hand which he tied onto the makeshift collar. “Toldi,” it read, with no number or address. Death didn’t really have a house. More a series of modest flats across continents.

Death strode back to his motorcycle, which now had a sidecar with a pillow in the bottom. He placed Toldi on the pillow, and she sat down on it. Her head didn’t even rise above the front of the compartment.

“It’s fine, little one,” said Death, “you’ll grow to be big and strong soon enough.” He grinned as Toldi yipped in reply and kicked the bike back into life. With a throaty rumble and a surprised bark, Death set off, the smile still on his face.

Death was happy.

The lucky sod.