Rufus Redgrave

Rufus Redgrave loved porcupines, bird whistles, and watching ants crawl.

With his belly and beard to the ground, prone flush to the sun-soaked concrete, he would lie outstretched, dozy with the warmth, following their formations as they scuttled over the ground, all around and up past his nose. With olympic precision, and team tasking, their queues shuttled backwards and forth, without any consideration for the curious dog watching these drills.

Rufus looked exceedingly old for his years - all three of them. Weimaraner’s tend to look elderly from birth. He had semi translucent grey eyes, silver fur; and shook when he walked - half his ear was missing, torn on the flap by a snappy bitch with razor teeth … one sniff of her rear, and she had turned on him.

Chickens and cats frightened him terribly, as did small children when they squealed. His flanks would tremble with any high pitched noise, so much so, he would have to sit down.

The pads of his paws were sensitive to grit that would stick, and he often reminisced to himself, that the one thing he missed most about being human, was the shoes.

-Gabriel Brunsdon, AZLANDER: NEVER ENDINGS: Second Chances