Beaumont Collie Contest Hall

[Shadow17]

Entry Form

Entry for Contest 10!
Username: Shadow17
Kennel Page: Summer Living Kennels
Collie Entering: Lark
Entry: base by Listek

[Kenjaku]

Entry Form

Entry for Contest 9!
Username: Kenjaku
Kennel Page: https://toyhou.se/BOGH0UND/characters
Collie Entering: Boghound
Entry:

base cred

[Baobabel]

Entry Form

Entry for Contest 9!
Username: Baobabel
Kennel Page: Here
Collie Entering: Brindlewood
Entry:
(Mackiot's lines!)

[Lierre]

Entry Form

Entry for Contest 10!
Username: Lierre
Kennel Page: Hedera Bay Kennels
Collie Entering: Kim, Haiku, Peanut, Hunter, Toro
Entry:

lines by rainbowspongefactory!

[Griffin Torrens]

Contest 10 Results

1 Uncommon Marking Ticket has been awarded at random between all completed entries. Congratulations PeepinBones!
When using this prize, just state which round it was won from.

The next contest is now open!

[Kenjaku]

Entry Form

Entry for Contest 11!
Username: Kenjaku
Kennel Page: https://toyhou.se/BOGH0UND/characters
Collie Entering: Forum/viewtopic.php?f=124&t=4460578
Entry: Option A
Beauregard has lived a long, storied life; and he’s only five years old. How much of a story can one collie possibly tell? Buckle in, it’s campfire-worthy.

Beau was born to collies Etsi and Rolland in a large litter of four. He stood out amongst his siblings because he was the sole puppy to inherit striped harlequin. He was raised as any collie is, well taken care of and loved by his parents and their owners. He was named Tarrant, which meant thunder. He never wanted for anything and lived up to his first name by his rambunctious nature. He was always getting into some kind of trouble or muddying up his pretty white coat. The only worse offender was his even higher white sibling Micco; though you’d never know on account of the mess!

Tarrant stayed with his father, Roland’s, family for a few months. He had been their holdback for his genes and well natured temperament. The breeder’s goals shifted, however, and they soon decided to rehome him as a sports prospect. (Thanks to all of that boundless energy and penchant for getting into trouble!) It didn’t take long for Tarrant to be taken into another collie fancier’s kennel – he was gorgeous, he had great genes, he was going to do awesome in sports, and his temperament was award-winning. It was no surprise that he was clamored over.

Tarrant would go on to join another kennel and gain a new name: Gennadiy. He was now an adolescent and had more pent-up energy than ever. He was very, very excited to stretch his legs and enjoy a change in scenery. Gennadiy had always been very independent when it came to interactions with other dogs – not very social, but not anti-social, either. He didn’t mind hanging out with a pack, but preferred quiet time when not working. Speaking of working, his new home gladly entered him into the title program.

Gennadiy was a force to be reckoned with! While he never did quite make that conformation championship (We believe it’s the mismark near his nose looking unfavourable to judges. Not that it bothers anyone whose ever known, loved, and owned this dog. In fact, Boghound cites it as their favourite aspect of his coat!) he did go on to bring home titles in both herding and agility. His titles, to date, are: three select males, two awards of merit, hunting trial dog one through three in both cattle and sheep, herding trial champion, herding trial master champion, and master agility champion. It’s clear to see that he was meant for this, and he flourished in his new home.

With some wins under his belt and being of breeding age, Gennadiy courted a few different collies. Gennadiy would go on to father six total pups, his first coming around in August of that year. His first litter was to Saga, a beautiful, good natured curly collie. She gave him two pups and he quickly realized that he was not into the whole puppy raising thing. Sure, he didn’t mind helping out with other animals, but when it’s your own pups? It kind of took the wind out of his sails. His son Fanboy would go on to live with Gennadiy’s current owner at the time, while his daughter Nesta went home with Saga’s owner. They still live in those exact kennels to this day, much to his delight. He’s thankful they found forever homes. His second litter would be to a stunning collie named Sloane. To his delight, they had a full litter – four pups! Alright, so raising pups wasn’t really his thing, but when they got old enough to play? He loved playing with them! All that to say, four new buddies to play with was totally enough to get excited about. His son Wight went to live in an unrelated kennel, as well as his son Lycan. His sons Rizzo and Gonzo went to live with Sloane and are still with her to this day.

Gennadiy lived a very happy life with his family he’d come to know. He stayed in that home for close to three years until tragedy struck. In a turn of events, he needed to be rehomed, no fault of his own or his owner, either. Sometimes life just throws a wrench at you, and you’re left picking up the broken pieces of glass. The list of names interested in him was not a short one. A curious breeder who had been admiring him since his birth stepped forward with a generous offer. They had watched him grow, compete in the title program, and have puppies of his own. Their heart sung just as loudly as it had the day when they first saw him as a tiny whelpling.

Gennadiy changed hands one last time, welcomed with warm arms into the Boghound kennel. He started out at the main house, rubbing noses with the legendary Halcyon. Halcyon knew exactly how to make him feel at home. Halcyon's son Samhain showed him around the grounds, and his other son Freefall showed him where the best sunbathing spots were. He was homesick for a while, missing his children and the kennel he’d spent a good deal of his life thus far in. Still, he learned what it meant to be a Boghound dog and fit in fairly well.

He was given a new name once more: Beauregard. He didn’t mind getting used to a new name, it kind of felt right that he was to go by a new name in new company. He was fawned over and treated like royalty from his first day at the Boghound compound. As far as they were concerned, he was. Beauregard had earned his retirement and Boghound was a safe place to land. He enjoyed spending time with Halcyon and reminiscing on their shared youth.

Another chapter was waiting for Beauregard, though. The main house rotated dogs based on who was competing and whelping. Beauregard, doing neither, was offered a home within the Boghound community where he could enjoy himself. He was transferred to a new set of owners, a guardian home. They had plenty of ways for him to expend his energy; it came with living on a farm. He found himself absolutely enamoured with every new baby that was born every spring.

For a while, Beau was content just helping around the farm. Herding with the kelpies and Australian cattle dogs, cuddling with the barn cats, going nose-to-nose with the horses. He longed for more though, he wanted to make a difference in a greater way. He’d always had such a lovely temperament, and his new owners could tell he was restless. They decided to do the best they could for him and look into new sports or activities. He tried a few: barn hunt, disc dog, and flyball. While they were awfully fun, they didn’t scratch the itch between his ears.

Disaster struck. One of the little girls, a daughter of his owners, grew very ill. He didn’t know what the word cancer meant, but he could get that it was serious. She spent less and less time at the house, more often at what his owners called a hospital. Beau had always been close to all three of the children his owner had and going so long without seeing her weighed on his heart. One day they asked permission for Beau to visit in the hospital. He had the good foundation for obedience, and they cleaned him head to toe in preparation. (Even between his toes. Freaky feeling!)

Beau hated the smell of this hospital, but walked through it silently, obediently at his owner’s side. He did his best to remain as calm as possible, it seemed like the right mood to have here. Everyone seemed so solemn, so sad. It made Beau feel awful. He caught the scent of illness, the scent of tears, the scent of despair. As they walked to his little girl’s room, another child passing in the hallway lit up as they saw him. They asked, excitedly, if they could pet him. Beauregard’s tail gave a soft wag, and he gladly let the child (a little too enthusiastically) pet him. He nuzzled into their hand, their face, and gave a lick. They didn’t seem so sad anymore.

He was stopped by a couple more children on the way to the right room. Everyone he greeted with a happy face, relaxed body language, and a lick or a nuzzle. He felt so good that he could take away their frowns and make them smile in a place so desolate as this. When he finally reunited with his little girl, it was all smiles and happiness. She looked so different now: pale, tired, hairless. He licked her face until she couldn’t giggle anymore, and she stroked him until she grew tired.

Beau would go on to make weekly visits to the hospital from that point onward. Mostly to see his little girl, but also to visit other children whose spirits were down. He felt right in his heart: this was it; he was making a difference. Maybe he wasn’t saving lives, but he was making the ill feel less so. He was bringing healing in a sense that no one else could. He was more than happy to visit over and over again.

Beau’s little girl got better, got stronger. Soon, she was able to come back home. They were inseparable after that. Though he’d done the title program in his youth, he was happy to do an encore at her side. She entered into the junior show ring with him at her side. They won a few ribbons, nothing too notable; but he was in it for the joy it brought his girl and nothing more than that. He didn’t mind playing in the show ring again, but he felt drawn to go back to the hospital. He wanted to keep making a difference, especially to little kids like his girl.

Another of the kids in his family had an accident and broke a leg. They had to stay in the hospital for a tense week while they set the bone and monitored them. Beau was more than ecstatic to be going back to the hospital. This time he wasn’t just in a kid’s ward; he saw people of all ages. Despite the variance in age, it seemed like everyone was happy to see him. He was as polite as he could possibly be and took pride in how he behaved. His owners started to catch on that this might just be his calling.

They decided to sign him up to be an official therapy dog. They talked to the local hospitals and a nursing home to see if they’d enjoy visits from Beauregard. Everyone was very excited to have him be a part of the care they provided. He was incredibly well behaved, sweet on just about anyone, and brought a sense of positivity and lightness with his wagging tail. Beau went on to make many friends and always got excited about going to visit these places. He never did enjoy the clean smell of a hospital or a nursing home, but he enjoyed visiting the people, and that was all that mattered.

He went weekly for the better half of two years. Beauregard watched people take their first steps in recovery, watched some people grow sicker and some better. He watched people go from dismal to a new light in their eyes as he sat at their bedside. He was always there to encourage them, to help them heal in any way he could. Many people cited him as a real part of their healing journey. Beauregard did it all for the joy he brought people; nothing made him feel better than that.

Beau has earned his retirement twice over. These days he spends time sunbathing and watching the farm life go on in front of him. He’s not quite frosted in the face just yet, but he feels like he is. He feels like he’s lived a few lives at this point. He looks forward to the idea of siring more pups some day; he thinks he might enjoy raising them now that he’s gotten older. He isn’t sure what the future holds for him, but for now? For now, he is content.
2064/2000

[parsnip]

Entry Form

Entry for Contest 11!
Username: parsnip
Kennel Page: kennel link
Collie Entering: all my current dogs as of 14/09/25
Entry: Option B
the misadventures of having long floppy ears vs water bowls (the wire and rough collies deeply understand her pain and the smooths gently tease them about being portable sponges and dripping water all over the floor and furniture (and the other dogs)). just wanted to develop some friendly kennel relations with a silly story/comic! inspired by the fact I think spaniels (and all dogs) in snoods are so cute



orion is very much confused, is she bald or not?! O.K is question her lifes choices (and orions), swift and endo are losing it and have stitches coming for them in another five minutes. bliss is very much sympathetic, his cheek fur also get soaked. blizzard has no thoughts aside from the fact it looks good! fox and honey are partially distracted by two little bundles but fox is very much for this new fashion trend and honey is a fan of using them for loud storms.
(please ignore the way my style refused to remain the same,, I was working on it in between things so the vibes for each session were not the same lol)

[werepickle]

Entry Form

Entry for Contest 11!
Username: werepickle
Kennel Page: Maple Springs Kennels
Collie Entering: MSK Echo of the Jackdaw 'Kaja'
Entry: Option A + Whiskey (non collie)

"Come on, Kaja! Dinner!" Mom's voice echoed from the kitchen. Kaja ignored it, her nose was pressed against the gap beneath the front door. Outside smelled like wet pavement and pigeons and something thrillingly rotten. A delivery van rumbled past, rattling the brass mail slot. Her claws scraped hardwood as she pushed, shoving the unlatched door wider with her shoulder. Cool air rushed in, carrying the sharp scent of diesel and rain. The hallway rug ended abruptly at concrete steps leading down to the sidewalk. She hesitated for only a heartbeat before tumbling down them, landing in a clumsy heap on the damp pavement. The door swung shut behind her with a soft, final click.

The city soon swallowed her whole. Towering buildings blocked the sky, their windows reflecting a grey, indifferent light. Strange feet hurried past; polished shoes, scuffed boots, wheels dragging suitcases – kicking up grit that stung her eyes. A low growl rumbled nearby; Kaja froze, ears flat, as a huge garbage truck roared past, spraying oily water. She scrambled backwards, tail tucked tight, pressing herself against cold stone. Home’s warmth soon become a distant memory, replaced by the shuddering vibration of the street beneath her paws. A shadow abruptly detached itself from the grimy alley across the road. Lean, scarred, and moving with a loose-hipped confidence that spoke of pavement miles. Yellowed teeth showed briefly in what wasn’t quite a snarl or a smile. "Lost, little rabbit?" The voice was rough, like stones scraping together. Whiskey didn’t wait for an answer. He padded closer, head low, nostrils flaring as he took in her scent; milk-fat puppy and pure, stupid fear. "Smells like trouble found you first." His gaze flicked towards the busy intersection where a delivery driver yelled curses. "Move."

Kaja scrambled after him, her claws clicking frantically on the wet sidewalk. Whiskey flowed through the chaos like smoke, slipping between rushing legs and ducking under dripping fire escapes. He led her into a narrow canyon between buildings, where overflowing dumpsters leaked sour-smelling sludge onto cracked asphalt. The stench was overwhelming; rotting food, stale urine, and something metallic and sharp. Kaja gagged, her small body trembling. "Breathe through your mouth, rabbit," Whiskey grunted, not looking back. He stopped suddenly beside a fractured concrete stoop, his ears pricked forward. A low, rhythmic thumping echoed from deeper in the alley, punctuated by a harsh, wet cough. Kaja pressed against Whiskey’s flank, feeling the tense ripple of muscle beneath his coarse fur. His hackles rose slowly, a silent ridge of warning. "Quiet now," he whispered,the sound barely louder than the distant city rumble. "Bad dogs here." His eyes, hard and watchful, scanned the shifting gloom ahead. The thumping grew louder as heavy paws hit the pavement. Two shapes emerged from behind a mountain of soggy cardboard boxes. One was thick-necked and barrel-chested, missing an ear, saliva dripping from jowls that hung loose and raw. The other was whip-thin and twitchy, lips curled back in a constant, nervous snarl. They froze when they saw Whiskey, the bigger one letting out a guttural growl that vibrated in Kaja’s chest. "Whiskey," the barrel-chested dog rumbled, his voice thick and phlegmy. "Bringing snacks?"

Whiskey didn’t flinch. He shifted his weight slightly, placing himself squarely between herself and the pair. "Passing through, Brute," he stated flatly, his own voice devoid of fear but edged with caution. "Got no quarrel." The thin dog skittered sideways, eyes darting hungrily towards Kaja. "Smells soft," it whined, a high-pitched, grating sound. "Tender." Brute took a heavy step forward, his remaining ear flattening. "Toll," he grunted, his gaze fixed on Whiskey. "For the alley.". A low rumble started deep in Whiskey’s throat, a sound she hadn’t heard before; a pure, predatory threat. His lips peeled back just enough to show sharp, yellowed teeth. "No toll," he said, each word clipped and cold. He didn’t look at her, but his body was a coiled spring angled towards Brute. The thin dog whimpered and backed up a step. Brute hesitated, his small eyes flickering between Whiskey’s bared teeth and the trembling pup behind him. The sour alley air crackled with tension thicker than the stench.

Kaja pressed her belly flat against the cold, greasy asphalt, trying to disappear. She saw Brute’s muscles bunch beneath his scarred hide. Time stretched thin. Then, a sudden clatter echoed from the street – metal trash cans knocked over, followed by a sharp human shout. Brute’s head snapped towards the noise, distracted. Whiskey didn’t hesitate. "Go!" he snarled, not at Brute, but at her, a sharp command that cut through her fear. He lunged sideways, not attacking, but creating a sudden, chaotic movement towards the alley’s deeper shadows. Kaja scrambled blindly, paws slipping on wet refuse. She heard Brute’s enraged bark and the thin dog’s yapping pursuit behind her. Whiskey was a dark blur beside her, shoulder bumping her forward, guiding her around a pile of moldering mattresses. The alley narrowed, walls slick with grime. A chain-link fence blocked their path ahead, sagging under the weight of tangled vines. Whiskey didn’t slow. He shoved Kaja bodily towards a gap near the bottom, rusted wire ripped and curled outward. "Under!" he gasped, already turning to face the closing threat.

She wriggled through the sharp metal tangle, feeling a sting as a wire scraped her flank. On the other side, she whirled around. Through the fence links, she saw Whiskey standing firm, facing Brute and the snapping thin dog. He wasn’t running anymore. He planted his feet, hackles a solid ridge, a low, continuous growl vibrating the air. Brute slowed, wary now, circling. The thin dog darted in, snapping, but Whiskey moved like lightning; a sideways snap of jaws that missed flesh but sent the smaller dog yelping back. Kaja trembled, pressed against the fence, watching the standoff unfold in the dim, garbage-choked alley. The distant shout came again, closer this time. Footsteps slapped wet pavement. Brute’s head jerked towards the sound, indecision flickering in his dull eyes. Whiskey used the split-second distraction as feinted towards Brute, causing the bigger dog to flinch back, then spun and dove headfirst through the gap s she had used. He scrambled out beside her, fur snagging on the torn wire. "Move!" he barked, already loping down the narrow, unfamiliar passage behind the fence. Kaja raced after him, the furious barks of Brute fading behind them, muffled by the fence and the growing rumble of the city waking up.

They burst out onto a wider street slick with rain. Delivery trucks idled, spewing exhaust. Pedestrians hurried under umbrellas. Whiskey didn't pause, weaving through legs and puddles with desperate grace. Kaja struggled to keep up, her shorter legs pumping furiously, dodging a rolling suitcase and skidding on wet concrete. The overwhelming smells; coffee, wet wool, frying grease assaulted her senses. She kept her eyes locked on Whiskey’s ragged tail, the only anchor in the terrifying, swirling chaos. He ducked suddenly under a dripping green awning, into a shallow alcove piled with damp cardboard boxes. Panting hard, he pressed himself against the grimy brick wall, eyes scanning the street. Kaja collapsed beside him, sides heaving, her heart hammering against her ribs like a trapped bird. The sharp sting on her flank throbbed, mixing with the sour tang of fear in her mouth. Whiskey glanced down at her, his breath still ragged. "Close," he muttered, his gaze lingering on the scrape. "Too close." He sniffed the air cautiously, ears twitching towards the street noise, listening for pursuit.

The relative stillness of the alcove felt fragile, temporary. Rainwater dripped steadily from the awning onto Kaja’s head, cold and startling. She flinched, pressing closer to Whiskey’s warmth. He nudged her gently with his muzzle towards the driest corner behind a stack of flattened boxes. "Rest," he ordered, his voice low but less harsh than before. He remained alert, head turning slowly, watching the legs rushing past their meager shelter. His own exhaustion was evident in the slight tremor of his hind legs and the way his ribs expanded with each deep, controlled breath. Kaja licked tentatively at her stinging flank, tasting iron and grit. The chaotic blur of escape replayed in her mind; Brute’s looming bulk, the thin dog’s snapping teeth, Whiskey’s fierce growl shielding her. A small whimper escaped her. Whiskey’s ear flicked towards her. "Quiet, rabbit," he murmured, not unkindly. "Fear smells stronger than blood." He shifted, blocking more of the alcove entrance with his body. "They won't follow here. Too many humans." He tilted his head, listening to the rhythmic clatter of dishes and muffled voices drifting from a vent above them. "Kitchen smells. Busy place."

The scent of roasting meat suddenly cut through the alley’s usual stench, rich and tantalizing. Kaja’s stomach growled loudly, a sharp pang of hunger cutting through her lingering terror. She looked up at Whiskey, her eyes wide and questioning. He sniffed the air deeply, his expression unreadable. A flicker of something, calculation, maybe hunger passed through his weary eyes. He looked down at her small, trembling form, then back towards the vent. "Stay low," he said finally, a new tension entering his posture. "And stay quiet. We eat soon." He didn't move yet, his gaze fixed on the vent, ears pricked forward like radar dishes. A metal door slammed nearby, making Kaja jump. A man in a stained apron emerged from the kitchen entrance just steps from their alcove, tossing a steaming bucket of scraps into a large bin. The smell intensified; gravy, burnt ends, grease. Whiskey waited until the man vanished back inside before creeping forward, belly low to the wet pavement. He circled the bin cautiously, sniffing for danger, then nudged the lid open with his nose. Steam billowed out, carrying the promise of warmth. He glanced back at her, a silent command in his eyes.

Kaja scrambled forward, driven by hunger overriding caution. The bin was taller than she was. Whiskey planted himself beside it, offering his scarred flank as a step. She clambered onto him, wobbling, then peered over the rim. Below, nestled in slop and coffee grounds, were chunks of fatty meat, soggy bread, and discarded vegetables. She plunged her muzzle in, gulping down a greasy piece of chicken skin. Whiskey didn't eat yet. He kept watch, his body rigid, head swiveling constantly between the alley mouth and the kitchen door, his growl a low, continuous rumble in his chest. The sudden screech of hinges made them both freeze. The kitchen door opened again. This time, a different man stood there, holding a dripping mop. His eyes widened as he spotted Whiskey poised beside the bin and her small head vanishing inside. "Hey!" he yelled, raising the mop handle. Whiskey didn't hesitate. He snapped his teeth sharply near Kaja’s hindquarters; not biting, but startling her into action. "Run!" he barked, already launching himself away from the bin. She tumbled backwards onto the pavement, scrambled to her feet, and bolted after Whiskey’s retreating tail as the man’s shouts chased them back into the rain-slicked chaos of the street.

~~

Years blurred into seasons marked by hunger, sharp lessons, and Whiskey’s watchful presence. Kaja’s soft puppy fur thickened and coarsened, her legs grew longer and stronger, honed by navigating treacherous alleys and sleeping rough beneath dripping bridges. She learned the sour tang of spoiled meat versus the metallic danger of poisoned bait, the rumble of a friendly truck engine versus the predatory idle of an animal control van. Trust was a currency spent sparingly; humans were unpredictable storms of shouting or thrown stones, rarely offering the fleeting warmth of a dropped scrap. Whiskey taught her silence, shadows, and the sharp, quick bite needed to defend a meager meal. Their world was concrete, grime, and the constant gnawing ache in their bellies, punctuated by moments of shared warmth huddled in forgotten doorways during bitter winter nights.

The turning point came not with a bang, but with a persistent, gentle hum. An old blue pickup truck, its sides painted with faded white daisies and the words "Bluebell Farms," began appearing near their usual haunts. The woman who drove it, her face weathered but kind, didn’t shout or chase. She simply stopped, cut the engine, and sat quietly, placing bowls of clean water and plain kibble near the curb before driving away. At first, Whiskey watched from deep cover, hackles raised, warning Kaja back with a low growl. Hunger eventually outweighed caution. They’d dart in, gulp the food, and vanish before the truck’s dust settled. Weeks turned into months of this silent ritual. The woman never approached, never tried to touch. She just waited patiently. And slowly, cautiously, the rigid tension in Whiskey’s shoulders began to ease, replaced by a wary, watchful curiosity. She herself was less scarred by betrayal, found herself lingering a moment longer each time, drawn by the quiet steadiness the woman radiated, a stark contrast to the city’s harsh rhythm.

The farm itself unfolded like a dream she hadn’t dared imagine. Rolling green pastures replaced grimy alleys, the air thick with the scent of hay and damp earth instead of exhaust and decay. Transitioning wasn't instant trust. They were given a drafty, clean shed first, space to retreat. The woman, Sarah, moved slowly, speaking in soft, low tones, letting them set the pace. Kaja, fascinated by the rustling chickens and the warm bulk of the placid dairy cows, ventured closer first, nudging Sarah’s offered hand tentatively with her nose. Whiskey remained a shadowed observer, his gaze tracking Sarah’s every move, a low rumble still vibrating in his chest if she moved too quickly. Yet, he didn’t stop Kaja. He watched the other farm dogs too older, calmer creatures who ignored the newcomers rather than challenged them and the absence of constant threat was a balm his wary soul slowly absorbed.

The real thaw in Whiskey came during a vicious thunderstorm. Trapped in the open pasture when the skies cracked open, she panicked, bolting blindly through the lashing rain. Whiskey, frantic, tried to herd her towards the distant shed, but the downpour was too thick, the lightning too close. Suddenly, headlights cut through the gloom. Sarah’s truck bumped across the field. She didn’t get out shouting; she simply opened the passenger door wide, the dome light casting a small, dry circle of sanctuary. Kaja scrambled in without hesitation, trembling violently. Whiskey stood frozen in the deluge, rain plastering his fur flat, staring at the open door, then at Sarah’s calm, expectant face illuminated by the dash lights. The rumble in his chest died. With a slow, deliberate movement, heavy with the weight of relinquished vigilance, he stepped into the truck, dripping onto the worn seat. Sarah closed the door softly against the storm. That night, curled together on an old horse blanket in the shed, dry for the first time in days, Whiskey rested his chin on Kaja’s back without scanning the darkness every few seconds. A deep, shuddering sigh escaped him, the sound of a guard finally, tentatively, standing down.

Trust bloomed slowly, like wildflowers pushing through cracked concrete. Sarah kept her promises: food appeared reliably, fresh water was always full, and space was respected. Kaja blossomed under the stability. Her coat regained a healthy sheen, her movements lost their skittish edge, replaced by a joyful curiosity. She chased butterflies in the clover, learned the satisfying crunch of fresh carrots Sarah tossed her way, and tentatively nuzzled the warm flanks of the tolerant cows. Whiskey remained her shadow, ever watchful, but his vigilance softened. He observed Sarah mend fences, soothe a colicky horse, and gently handle newborn lambs. He saw the other farm dogs ; a grizzled collie and a lazy shepherd who live without fear, their bellies full, their sleep deep and undisturbed. The constant hum of threat that had defined his existence began to fade, replaced by the rhythmic, predictable sounds of farm life: the clang of the milking pail, the distant lowing of cattle, Sarah’s quiet humming as she worked.

One crisp autumn morning, Sarah sat on the sun-warmed steps of the farmhouse porch, shelling peas into a bowl. Kaja lay sprawled nearby, gnawing contentedly on a beef knuckle. Whiskey sat a few paces away, alert but relaxed, soaking in the weak sun. Sarah didn't look directly at him, didn't beckon. She simply tossed a single, plump pea pod towards him. It landed softly in the dust midway between them. Whiskey stared at it, then at Sarah’s hands, busy with the bowl. He glanced at Kaja, absorbed in her bone. Slowly, deliberately, he rose. He padded forward, each step measured. He stopped beside the pod, sniffed it cautiously; the sweet, green scent unfamiliar. Then, with a movement so swift it was almost shy, he bent his head, picked up the pod gently in his teeth, and carried it back to his spot. He didn't eat it immediately. He laid it down beside his paw and looked at Sarah. She met his gaze, a small, quiet smile touching her lips, and gave a single, slow nod. He lowered his head and crunched the pod, the sound sharp in the still air. It was acceptance, fragile and profound, offered and received without a word spoken. The city’s harsh song was finally, truly, drowned out by the peace of Bluebell.

2886 words

[hypersomnia.]

Entry Form

Entry for Contest 11!
Username: hypersomnia.
Kennel Page: Firefly Creek Kennels
Collie Entering: Moonshiners Delight // Cricket
Entry: A
Cricket rolled over in his bed. It was a hard night. A storm had been billowing, and despite the fire and his blankets, he was freezing, and couldn't get comfortable. The wind whistled and howled outside, like he was being hunted by a larger, more dangerous dog, whose barks and growls could be heard by anyone in the area. He rested his head on his paws and stared up to where his owner was sleeping, his eyes pleading for his owner to hear his silent wishes. He missed before he was grown and he was allowed to sleep in the bed, and more than anything, he was feeling a little scared - he wouldn’t mind curling up next to him, like they did when they were sitting on the couch. He couldn’t remember how long he stared.

He was awoken by the creaking sound of the floorboards, the tell-tale indicator of the human leaving his den. His eyes shot open, and his ears pricked up, and as he raised his head, he could feel his fur plastered awkwardly to his face. He eased himself into a very big stretch, legs extended behind him, head high, and trotted out of the den behind his owner. The air was still cold, though it was less biting now. His owner was looking out the window and grumbling to himself. He watched as he walked over to the door, pushed against it, and seemed to get very upset. Cricket remembered his crate, from when he was smaller. He hated the feeling of being trapped, at first. Maybe his owner was being trained in the same way.

His owner grabbed a long, metal pole, and poked at the fire with it. It was rather unimpressive, with a few embers sparking up, and loose ash falling to the bottom. Nevertheless, Cricket curled up as close as he could, aching for the warmth. He felt very relieved when his owner brought his bed in for him, and very disappointed when the window was opened. A sharp chill enveloped him, and he pulled his tail in closer, watching his owner climb out of the cabin. “Ha!” he thought. “If only my crate had windows. Or maybe it did, and I’d never thought of it.”

After his owner had made his master escape, he heard some scraping from the other side of the door, and his owner had unlocked it from the other side. Large piles of snow sat on either side, so tall that he could not see above them. His owner trekked in, boots hitting heavily against the floors, and leaving a trail of wet slop - Cricket remarked that he was gross now, like a snail, and made a mental note to try to avoid getting his paws wet in the brownish liquid. In his hands, and tucked under his arms, were large pieces of firewood, which he stacked beside the now-extinguished fireplace. He went out to get more, opening the large plastic chest which protected the wood from the elements, and began to bundle some sticks together. These went into the fireplace, along with some of the fur that the clothes shed when they got washed. In a few moments, the fire was roaring again, and Cricket was very thankful to finally be able to relax. Even better, he heard the “tsk tsk” of his owner, his signal to come to the food bowl. He glanced up, eyes bright and tail wagging, waiting for the release command. After it was given, he nearly suffocated himself trying to finish his food as fast as possible. It was a little game he liked to play with himself.

After breakfast, he whined at the door, stretching again. He flinched at the feeling of the wind, and tried to make his bathroom break as short as possible, though it was very hard to find a good spot underneath all of the snow. By the time he got inside, his legs were wet up to the armpits, and his paws hurt. As much as he’d love to get some exercise, he’d have to spend some time drying off. He made a silent decision to lie on the hardwood instead of his bed, to keep his bed dry for later. For a while, he listened to the sounds of his owner going about his daily routine. He had a very heavy step, and it was hard to ignore. Cricket enjoyed this. He liked being able to locate his owner at all times, even when the smoke of the fire was interfering with his ability to scent. Once his owner settled down on the couch near him, he heard the familiar drone of the picture box, which made it easy to doze off. He’d rather sleep all day than be wet and cold and conscious of it.

What felt like a few moments later, his owner stepped out again. This wasn’t unusual. He was always leaving for something or another. Thankfully, his fur was dry now, and he relished in the comfort of his bed instead of the hardness of the floor that had a tendency to hurt his spine. Very quickly after, he was snoozing again. It wasn’t until the fire went out that he awoke with a start. Why hadn’t his owner been tending it? And more importantly, where WAS his owner? His heavy footsteps were absent, leaving a very uncomfortable silence in their place. He took in some air - his scent was stale. It didn’t seem he had come back from his excursion, and he had never been gone this long before. This was disappointing, and very worrying. Cricket walked over to the door, staring at the spherical, shining object that was the key to getting it open, and tried to conjure memories of his owner’s usage of it. Perhaps he could gain entry to the outside world by copying him.

Leaping into the air with his jaw agape, he snapped his teeth shut, and landed back to the ground. He had missed! Trying again and again, he began to give up. Finally, he managed to clip the tool, but his teeth couldn’t get a good grip on it, at all. He wondered about the window he had seen his owner leave out of earlier, when HE couldn’t use the door. Bingo.

He was very ashamed as he jumped onto the kitchen chair. His owner would scold him. But these were extenuating circumstances. With his two front paws on the kitchen table, he hoisted himself up, and now he was able to get a clear view of the window and sill. With a glance at the window, he realized - with a large amount of relief and delight - that it wasn’t closed all the way. He imagined his owner pulling it down after coming back inside, hands frozen and fingers burning from the chilly air. It was very possible he did it by accident. And maybe this mistake would allow Cricket to save his life.

Shoving his muzzle into the small crack, he used it as a leverage point, tilting his head upwards and making the window open further. Once it was wide enough to stick his head out, he gazed out into the yard. It was surrounded by woodland that was so familiar, yet untouched by his paws. He could make out the small clearing that he and his owner had occupied on many occasions, though the layer of snow made it impossible to see the path they often traveled on. He looked down. Based on the large snow piles next to the door, piles left by his owner after presumably digging, there must be at least a tail-length of snow at the bottom. It was now or never - he could still smell his owner’s path, though his footsteps were long covered up by now.

He jumped, the sharp wind felt like a slap to the face. He was glad his assumption was correct - the fall was very safe, and aside from the undesirable conditions, he felt just fine. He curved his ears, listening in every direction. Maybe his owner was already on his way back, and just hadn’t gotten there yet? He listened hopefully for the sounds of snow being compressed, or branches being pushed out of the way. His heart sank again as he realized he would need to go searching after all. Maybe it was a good thing, he tried to convince himself. At least there were no other animals lurking nearby. Him and his owner once ran into something he called an ‘elk,’ and the sheer size of it was enough to tuck his tail between his legs and cower behind the human he loved so much.

He set off into the direction he could smell the scent the strongest - a few paces through the clearing, up the path just a bit, and then a seemingly 90 degree angle turn to the right. He grimaced at the smell of something else, something stinky. He was so focused on following the trace of a scent, that he walked directly into a tree. It made the sharpness of the cold a little less bothersome.

He was deep in the forest now. There was no path, and he was second guessing whether or not he had been following a scent trail at all. He had to meticulously comb himself through the environment, and more than once, branches or thorns had gotten stuck on his fur. If he was having such a hard time, surely there’s no way his owner could be beyond this point. It was time to turn around.

He pivoted, searching for the scent trail. He was right – there was no trail here. He questioned if the scent had gotten stuck in his nose from the snow, or maybe had been covered up by the snow entirely. One thing was certain - his owner was not in the area. He began to trace his steps the best he could. He tried not to panic, though he was now panting and frequently yawning. He was afraid. The snow was starting to pick back up, and he had been out so long that it was surely the darkest part of night.

He was hurting. His feet stung, his muscles ached, his eyes were tired. He could barely feel his ears or his tail. There’s no way he wasn’t close to home now, he thought, as he had been thinking for the last hour. Even his frantic thoughts had calmed to a buzzing, monotone speech, similar to the sounds on the picture box he so adored. He dug a shelter, or at least a semblance of a bed, into the snow under the largest tree he could see in his vicinity. Continuing to search would only put him in danger, and if he’s in danger, there’s nobody that can save his owner. Tucking his nose under his tail, he drifted off faster than expected.

Cricket awoke with a jolt, and panic struck his heart immediately. He had to, at the very least, get home. His aching and stiff joints warmed up as he forced them into movement. When the cabin was in sight, he bolted towards it. “Please let my owner be here. Please.”

He did his best, loudest whine. No answer. He pawed at the door. No answer. He stood up on his hindlegs, and barked. Nothing. At all. He noticed with a pang that the window was still open, the way he’d left it. If he could get back inside, he’d at least revel in the comfort of what he had known as safety for his whole life. He was utterly defeated. And with no scent trail left to follow, no footsteps, anything - he remembered something he had heard on the picture box once. It was a long picture, that his owner had played on multiple occasions. “If you are lost, just stay where you are.” And he did.

It had been a few days. He was thankful for the snow providing him water when it melted, and for making small animals very obvious as they ran across the carpeted path. They were his only source of food, though it took a very empty stomach before he resorted to hunting. His owner had always scolded him when he ran after prey, though there was no need to abstain anymore, he supposed.

Crack.

He heard the distinct noise of a tree branch breaking. He heard the crunch of the snow. These weren’t the steps of an animal, like the ones he had been hunting - these were heavy steps. Steps like his owner’s. His hair stood up as a chill traveled down his entire body. He stood up so fast, his legs almost failed him. His body shook, his tail smacked against either side of him as he wiggled, and ran submissively up the path. He heard several gasps of surprise, as he watched several people walk into view. They were all wearing blue, and carrying strange flashlights similar to his owner’s, but not a single one of them was him. He could hope that maybe they were here to bring him back!

He melted into their coos and gentle pets. It had been so long since he had seen a human. It had been so long since he was warm. It had been so long since he could feel comfortable and safe. And as much as he wanted these people to be his owner, it was admittedly extremely nice to be loved on again. The strange people put him in the back of a car. He had done this before. He never liked it, and what came out of it was always either amazing or horrible. This car was weird - it had a crate blocking the way up to the front part of the car, where he usually would sit with his owner. The air was so warm and nice. He had his first good sleep since the one where his owner had went missing. He dreamt about seeing him again.

[2,353 words] his owner went missing but wasnt sure how to explain that in the plot without adding a lot more text haha

[ChristainAnimalLover]

Entry Form

Entry for Contest 11!
Username: ChristainAnimalLover
Kennel Page: 𝒮𝓉𝒶𝓇𝒷𝑜𝓊𝓃𝒹 ( CS* | TH )
Collie Entering: Squirrel (TH), Moose (TH) & Lev (TH)
Entry: Option A | picks up where Lev's entry ends
2,087/2,000+

-----The Road So Far [ hosted on Ellipsus ]

* CS thread is sorely out-of-date