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Though I was not the young thing I used to be, and the hairs around the tip of my muzzle had begun to gray, I remained as I had always been—a good dog. If all else fell short, I was a good dog. A good dog does what they’re told. A good dog does what’s in His best interests. And this good dog? He hunts truffles.

Truffles—a fungus that grows in dank, dark places crowded by tree roots and highly sought after by the discerning hedonist. They have an intense, earthy smell, ripe with the grime and dirt encasing them. There are sweeter notes of pecan, sometimes an odor not unlike the vanilla He puts in His morning drink, but there is also a particular softness to their scent. It is more difficult to put into words. A small pile was my quota, so I would do Him right by finding double. I was already bound to meet this goal, and just one more large truffle ought to do it. An old, roughed-up pillow on the sill awaited me back home, and I was determined to be there before sunset. Perhaps I would even receive a treat this time. It was a lovely but ultimately fruitless thought—there was never any physical reward. But as I told myself time after time, a good dog doesn’t need these delights. A good dog is lucky to have His attention and companionship. I glanced behind me, searching for His leather boots and stained trousers. Yes, I am lucky to have Him. Even still, maybe I’d get a nice bone, a nicer pillow, or even a sweater for the cold months. My tail wagged at the thought. 

The twisting briars and brackens pulled at my woolen fur, and the ringlets tangled with small twigs and plants. But as my paws were sloughing through the wet dirt, I could think only one thing. There was no better place to be if one was looking for a sizable truffle. A cacophony of scents engulfed my nose, all so different and none what I was in search of. To sort through such smells would require the most well-tuned nose of all the breeds. This was what I was made for, my purpose on this earth. Lagotto Romagnolo—the best dog there is. And though I was a perfect creature in both make and form, the unforgiving nature of these woods did not always mean success. 

There would be nights where I would trudge back to His feet, fur unkempt and bones aching, and I would not receive those two words I longed to hear. There was no pat on the back or dried-up piece of pork jerky. He would glare at me with His dull eyes, almost black the way His cap shadowed over them. He would adjust His belt, then unhook the leash—that damned leash—and jangle it in front of me. There would be a gruff sound, often a roll in His eyes, an angered gesture, and, of course, the disappointed hunch in His shoulders. He smelled of smoke and tree sap, gunpowder, and rabbit’s hide; when He was dissatisfied, it was the worst smell in all the world.

As I pushed my nose along the soggy ground, a delicate ripeness caught the attention of my withered old snout. I picked up my pace. A steady trot became a gallop, became a run, where I soon found myself face to face with more dirt. More trees. Truffles are located underground, and these paws were bred to dig. The birds overhead seemed to quiet their ceaseless songs; every cricket held its breath. I scrambled at the ground, white legs stained a permanent brown. Had I done it? Would He be satisfied? A spongey texture met my paws, and I pulled back, triumphant. I stood there, basking in the last remaining rays of sun on my back. My chain collar glinted in those few droplets of sunshine just as it dipped below the horizon. In my eagerness, the cold metal tightened around my neck, but no matter. I would await the warmth of tomorrow. Tonight, I would go home a good dog. I barked. It was a bit wheezy and a bit tired, but it was loud. He would hear it and come my way. I waited. 

I did not think He wouldn’t come. It had not even occurred to me as a possibility. My bark was honey and He was the bear. He would always come, would not be able to resist. I’ve never been much good at keeping track of the passing hours. I don’t have a timepiece or a chime to tell me when to go, but I did have the sun, and according to the lack of it, we should’ve been well on our way home by now. Eventually, I laid myself down, joints creaking as I met the soft earth with my stomach. I could not leave a truffle of this size, but He must have kept the basket with the rest. If I had found myself lost, I could not risk angering him further. What if He returned, and I had nothing to show for my hours away? I needed Him happy. I needed those two words.

With a rustle and a crack, my eyes burst open from their snoozing state. My nose awoke as well, and the orchestra of smells returned. The break in the quiet had only been a doe creeping through the undergrowth, but I kept alert. I could not let this truffle go to waste, and if it were due to my foolishness and inattentiveness, my reputation would be shot. A chain on a stick outside. A tighter collar, the one that steals my breath. Begging for scraps. A swift kick to the rib. No, no. Enough. I will not be a bad dog. 

After some time, and a considerable amount of shivering later, my senses got the better of me, and I knew something was not right. I just knew, though I did not want to admit it to myself. He had left, and for the life of me, I could not put the words to why. I was a good dog. I always obeyed Him. I shook my head to clear my mind and gathered myself. The truffle would have to wait for tomorrow. I buried it back under the earth, careful not to bruise its frail skin. Thus began my journey back to the old cabin, my roughed-up pillow, and the old sill. I could crawl under the log on the eastern corner. The dirt was loose there, and the log was pungent and musty, having been rotted through for some time now. If I was discreet enough, I could avoid His boot. Probably.

My trek home was a long one, and I would be out for another few hours. The dusk glow in the sky was long gone, and the creatures of the night made themselves known. My path through the dark was cut off by the skittering and scrambling of small woodland animals. There was beauty in this place, a kind I had not noticed before. The busy work of hunting down truffles meant I never had the time to simply experience the grass under my paws and the mud in my fur. I used to stare straight past the squirrels and chipmunks as though they were made of glass, ignore the birds, and keep my head down. 

Find the truffles. Dig them up carefully. Mind your claws. 

The sweet scent of wild blackberries was not something I was accustomed to focusing on. It was pleasant. All of these things I had not previously known. This forest… I had been coming here all my life, yet it shook me—the heavy weight of understanding. I was not in a place of work but one of comfort. It was perhaps even more of a comfort than the old sill and the roughed-up pillow. 

I did not smell danger for a long time, not until I’d made it around half of the way back. A strange stench almost familiar to me filled my nose. Familiar, yet something entirely else. First, there was the sour, acrid breath. Next was the wet fur. An underlying woody musk approached at a steady pace, careful in the way that something that hoped to edge nearer unnoticed would. I was being stalked. The path home was exposed, the trees having been cut down and shrubbery torn through to make a winding dirt path through the forest. I could not see anything among the thickets of bark and leaves. My fur stood on end, and I curled into myself. Lagotto Romagnolo—world renowned for hunting truffles, not predators.

Two yellow eyes looked back at me from the dark, only a short length away. It stepped forward, revealing more of itself to me. He seemed to be a kind of dog, larger than I was, very much so. His fur was coarse and disheveled, and his teeth… They were too long. This thing felt so similar. He, and this was almost too much to bear, but he saw me see him, and I saw him see me. I was overcome. I almost forgot the collar around my neck. This chain that kept me… All my life, I have tried aimlessly to please Him. And for what? This dog before me had no chain, no master to answer to, no threat of violence looming over his head. He was free. I thought about the heaps of truffles, my life’s work, and just how pointless it all seemed now. Why go home? Before me was a life I had not known I longed for but had desired all the same. Why not stay here where I can run free? I was not a good dog. I was a fool.

We stood there in quiet contemplation, seeing one another. He nodded at me, a private, pitiful thing and walked off, nothing said. I thought for a moment, weighing the paths before me, but my mind was already made up. I followed.

Scout Baldwin's short story won second prize in the 2024 Humanities & Sciences Undergraduate Writing Contest. Scout is a recent 2D Animation graduate from SVA’s class of 2024 and a visual development and background artist. Her artistic inclinations lie in preproduction where she can bring people’s ideas to life by exploring various styles through characters, locations, and props. Though her career is more

oriented toward the animation field, she has always held a passion for reading and writing. She leans towards the more horrific and spine-chilling literature, perhaps because she sees the beauty underneath. In her mind, you cannot have one without the other.