"TWO DOGS"

SERIES: Legend of Galactic Heroes

FEATURES: Paul von Oberstein, Dog von Oberstein, and Raabenart

NOTE: A yarn of dog adoption, architecture, and strange fates. Inspired by an official illustration of Obs encountering his dog in front of the steps of some Reich building.

It was a chilly winter Saturday, and there were luminescent gray skies and an almost dreamlike slowness to the day. Traffic to and from all government buildings was typically light during this weekly recess, even in the Reich there being few desk warriors dedicated enough to trade a rare day at home for another day at the office.

A truly magnificent structure, the administrative headquarters of the Galactic Reich's central operational command stood as tall and proud as a model soldier, silent stoic unmovable. Constructed within the first hundred years of Goldenbaum rule, it was a monument to aged authority. After a certain time of day it would block out the sun from half of the grounds, people entering and exiting in a shaded stony darkness until the lamps blinked to life after 18:00 and enveloped the walkway in a hazy glow.

Around midday, Paul von Oberstein, the newly appointed Lohengramm Admiralty Chief of Staff, entered the grounds of the Admiralty with his usual unhurried but purposeful gait, a leather portfolio tucked neatly under one arm.

Before he was stationed at Iserlohn under Admiral Seeckt, Oberstein had visited it only a few times before during his time in the data processing division of the Reichsflotte Strategic Planning Center, to dig through musty old archives and faltering databases, countless reports and statistics, late into the night. By virtue of his silent tenacity and relentless eye for detail, he excelled at his job. Good breeding and reputation for cool-headed immaculate planning propelled him even further and he advanced quickly until he eventually received orders to assume a post as one of Seeckt's advisors.

Since that time, more than one year had passed. Never could he have imagined that he would come to serve a brilliant blond upstart—a boy, really—and rise to any sort of consequence. Now, he had his own office within the Admiralty, and his own staff. Before he could despise the high nobility from afar, but he now frequently found himself in enemy territory. Every day he passed the busts—idols—that lined the entry and pressed the weight of the Goldenbaum dynasty firmly upon the minds of the Reich's people. Never an admirer of excessive decor, Oberstein found these particularly distasteful. Knowing that the time for their removal would be soon at hand did however give him some solace.

But now was not the time for thinking so far ahead. Mentally reviewing several items of business, only as he approached the base of the steps did he become vaguely aware of curious little sounds, distant and deceptively unfamiliar like something from his boyhood. Small footsteps out of synch with his own that scratched at the pavement.

Very close to him, a dog's bark resounded in the courtyard. Oberstein stopped in his tracks, and turned half-way around. Then he looked down.

There stood a vague notion of an old Dalmatian, black liver-spotted and proud-backed under a scruffy white coat matted with various earthy debris. It must have been trailing not too far behind him for quite a while, and he wondered how he hadn't noticed it following him—perhaps he had been too deep in thought. Mentally Oberstein chastised himself before returning his thoughts to the creature.

As the High Admiral raised a thin eyebrow, it sat on its haunches, as if satisfied that it had garnered even that much attention. It sat hunched with inelegant age, but its glassy gaze held a certain rare pride and was fixed on Oberstein. He turned full around.

One of the helmeted guards, a young man with bright blue eyes, quickly descended the steps and saluted the High Admiral. Another older member of the guard rambled down just behind him.

"Pardon us, Your Excellency. We'll have it removed immediately," said the young man, saluting the high admiral, who was still looking down at the dog.

Removed—something about the word drew Oberstein's attention.

The other guard came down and began to shoo, shoo at the animal, who stubbornly sat with a disgruntled whine, but the young man stopped when he noticed that the tall admiral was looking at him.

Never having seen the Chief of Staff up close before, the soldier was taken aback by the blank gleam of the low-lidded eyes that met his own, briefly arousing an almost suspicious unease within. Not just the eyes, but the older man's whole expression. He felt somewhat relieved when the High Admiral turned to the other, blue-eyed soldier.

"Name and rank?"

The young guard clicked his heels smartly. "Haeften, sir. Fänrich."

Turning his gaze ahead to the grand double-doored entrance of the Kriegsministirium, the Chief of Staff spoke with heavy subtly, as if he were thinking aloud to himself. "Haeften. Why don't you get it something to eat?"

Despite their quietness, those words hung in the cold air like a written edict read over and over in the guards' minds. A surprised Haeften regarded the High Admiral with a questioning gaze for a moment before managing some kind of affirmative response. With that, Oberstein began to climb the steps.

Haeften and his comrade looked at each other and shrugged before following him up. After saluting and shutting the doors behind him, they looked down to watch the dog as it limped pitiably up the stone steps, panting loudly. It did not seem to be unhappy, with the expression of something like a dog's smile. They regarded it for a moment before sending a junior member of the guard to the cafeteria on the curious mission.

His portfolio a bit lighter at hand, Oberstein exited the open doors of the Kriegsministirium as daylight was fading, squinting as his cybernetic eyes adjusted to the outdoors with a faint, fleeting whirring that only he could hear.

The great stone arches of the building's facade cast looming shadows of far-reaching grandeur beyond the base of the steps, where the guard named Haeften and two others stood. The old dalmatian was also still here, lying on the pavement, and Haeften was regarding it with his hands on his hips, brow furrowed. Another guard was squatted before it, ushering something before it with encouraging sounds.

At the sound of Oberstein's footsteps, all three turned and stood to stiffly salute him. He nodded and looked to the dog, who looked back at him in the eyes momentarily before sneezing and sitting back on its haunches.

"He won't eat anything we give him, sir," reported Haeften with knitted eyebrows. "Though, we've only managed to scare up some kibble and wurst."

Yet the dog was undoubtably starving, judging by its gaunt appearance. Curious. Oberstein studied its glassy eyes. He surmised that it must have belonged to a master of some material consequence, who had allowed the animal to be as picky as it liked. Even given that, it didn't seem to be an ill-natured creature; despite its wretched condition it seemed to be quite satisfied with just the attention of the guards. The youngest of them, the one who had gone in search of food, expressed an especially boyish interest, crouching down and scratching the dog vigorously behind the ears with moon-shaped eyes. It leaned into his touch, panting appreciatively.

Haeften eyed the scene with soft features, but the corner of his mouth tuned down. "What should we do with it?"

No one seemed to have any suggestions, or at least any suggestions they wanted to voice. Haeften offered up the only alternative.

"I suppose we should call the animal control center. Though I'd hate to know what they'd do with a poor mutt like this."

There was an uncomfortable silence, sighs and low murmurs. The guard who had been giving the dog the most attention looked particularly crestfallen under his helmet.

Suddenly one after another, their heads turned. They noticed the Admiral still standing there, and were all somewhat surprised to see him observing the dog carefully. There was a time of silence, smattered with the animal's ragged breathing.

Admiral Oberstein snapped his fingers, and the dog snapped its nose to his direction. The guards looked on with many questions that would never be answered (or asked).

Without waiting the Admiral began to head home; without further prompting the dog followed him with the same appreciative panting. And so to anyone who cared to look just then, the High Admiral was also a master.

The lamps came on at that time, and the guards continued to watch the pair as they made it past the lights, walked out of the Admiralty's shadow and into the realm of the fading day. They looked at each other in turn before looking back just as the Chief of Staff lead the pitiable creature around the corner and out of view, as if it were the most ordinary thing in the world.

Oberstein lived not 15 minutes from the Admiralty, in an estate once owned by a childless count. It was a muted but nonetheless distinguished affair, and was quite large in spite of the owner's lack of family or taste for extravagance. Prince Lohengramm had bequeathed it to him in writing, perhaps as something like a gift of obligation, free of any willful sentiment. Perhaps he'd done so with a wry turn of his mouth and a quip to his secretary, but Oberstein was not ungrateful.

Daylight had all but faded, and the porch lamps glowed brightly with a hazy vigor. The admiral walked up the front steps without looking back to see if the animal was still following him. It in fact hung back a little, pausing to sniff at the ground just before the steps. The door opened and an elderly man of a proudly humble posture greeted Oberstein with a quiet bow.

"Welcome home, sir. Your dinner has already been prepared… oh?"

The Chief of Staff followed his butler's eyes, which had gone to the dog that had emerged from behind him. Raabenart raised his bushy eyebrows, but did not seem ruffled. "And what's this?"

Like an impudent guest the mangy animal ventured into the house, past the retainer, who watched it limp to the center of the room and lie down on the cool marble with a whining yawn. The butler looked to his employer for some kind of instruction.

He had served the Oberstein family in this capacity since before its current patriarch was even born, and continued to serve Paul von Oberstein, the last of the house's line, after his parents' death. As such he was accustomed to his master's laconic and often inscrutable behavior, but still found himself at a loss when it came to decoding his thoughts. Often enough, though, serving the man was much simpler than it seemed.

Oberstein stared straight ahead. "Would you mind finding it something suitable to eat, Raabenart? It seems to be a particularly picky creature," he said quietly before heading to the dining room. As an adult he had never ordered the butler.

Bowing, Raabenart complied and left for the kitchen, leaving his master to his meal and the dog to observe its new surroundings.

Less than half an hour later, Raabenart gathered the used dishes from the table as he spoke. "It's a picky old thing, indeed, sir."

The admiral replaced his napkin on the table and watched the thing in question pad into the dining room, black nose sniffing, bobbing around.

"Beef, wurst, pork—I even tried spätzel and pastries, to no avail."

Both men regarded the dog as it drew near, and sat before them by the edge of the table. Oberstein eyed the top plate in Raabenart's hands, and the butler watched as his master took it and laid it in front of the dog on the floor.

After a cursory sniff, it turned its moist black nose from the small bits of once-juicy liver that dotted the white porcelain.

"Alas," sighed Raabenart, bending down to retrieve the plate.

Continuing to observe the dog as it prodded underneath the table cloth, Oberstein thought of something. "What about chicken?" he asked quietly.

"I'm afraid we haven't any at the moment."

The Admiral looked thoughtful in his own way before standing and exiting the room. Raabenart followed, leaving the dog to plop itself down on the floor again.

In the foyer, Oberstein removed his uniform jacket and hung it near the front door. "I'll be back shortly," he said simply, straightening one of the cuffs of his white shirt before exiting again.

Raabenart bowed and the door shut. A knowing smile from 35 years of observance and elderly sentimentality graced his lips. Paul von Oberstein had never been one to leave things to other people to do if he could help it.

(For better or worse.)

Within half an hour Oberstein returned.

At the butcher's shop without the insignia on his jacket, still clad in his uniform dress shirt and slacks, he had been recognized as a soldier but of indiscernible rank. Perhaps the butcher might have observed his height and proud thin mouth and imagined him to be of lesser nobility, but his lack of airs and bare tact might have dashed those romanticized ideas quickly.

Squatting down near the kitchen, he laid out the three types of meat he'd purchased—turkey, lamb, and chicken—as well as a bit of halibut. From the doorway Raabenart looked on in riveted curiosity despite himself.

The dog brought its discerning nose to inspect each in turn, but returned the the breast of chicken every time. After a few inquiring licks, its chops mustered open a crack like a yawning wet sarcophagus to reveal those sickly yellow teeth, and Raabenart inclined his winkled brow to one side.

It chewed pitiably at the meat, slow but determined, and it was clear that it favored it. Oberstein watched for a moment.

"Raabenart," he soon called out.

The butler promptly came to his side. "Yes, sir?"

"Please see to it that its future meals are boiled."

"Yes, sir."

With that Oberstein stood, and left to his study.

Regarding the dog with a kind smile that only the comfortably elderly possess, Raabenart lead it into the kitchen, its wagging tail narrowly avoiding the door's grasp as it closed behind them.

Save for the muffled sounds of plates clinking, pens sharply scrawling, and the occasional canine whine, the mansion was silent, and moonlight filled many of its rooms.

In retrospect, Paul von Oberstein was mildly surprised at himself for how little thought he'd given to how life with such a pet would be when he'd led it home that day.

Right away there were the veterinary bills—vaccinations, medications, a small operation or two (and later there would be several more).

(Analyzing the data and its implications, as he was often wont to do, Oberstein wondered how many terminally ill Reich citizens might have benefited from the thousands of Reichmarks he'd spent on the moribund mutt.)

And even after it had come home from treatment, comical white cone and all, at least once or twice a week it would loose control of its bowels in the mansion before it could reach a more deserving patch of dirt outside.

Yet, the dog's advanced age and general unhealthiness did not prevent it from insisting on his master or the butler walking him at least once a day. Also daily and with varying degrees of amusement, Oberstein would pluck the fine white hairs from his black uniform jacket, brush them from his slacks.

And then there were the baths.

But sometimes it looked at him so appreciatively, or like it knew what he was thinking. Sometimes it would plant itself at his feet until it received the attention it desired. Sometimes it left him alone when he was very busy. Sometimes it kept him company when he was very busy. Sometimes it reminded him of the pleasanter aspects of his boyhood. Occasionally when his adjutant Anton Ferner had been particularly cheeky, Oberstein found some satisfaction in delegating to the young man the task of fetching the dog's food at odd hours of the night.

Often it gave him a certain rare pleasure to personally take care of it.

So he never once regretted it. He did not regret the rare slow walks on cool summer evenings that cleared his mind, the silently acquired familiarity with the butcher, Raabenart's quiet private conversations with the creature in the kitchen, the warm glances of neighborhood ladies.

For Paul von Oberstein was not one to pay undue attention to regrets.

But nor was he completely insensible to life outside the office.

cue author notes ~from the past~ here:

I admire Oberstein to no end. Coolest dude to have ever not lived. This started as a short(er) story in a collection of LOGH short stories, inspired by the picture of Oberstein apparently meeting the dog for the first time, but spiraled into something even more long-winded and sentimental. (How inappropriate, given the subject character!…or is it?) Anyway, another inspiration: There is a Japanese TV show, "Kekkon dekinai Otoko", that inspired some of Paul's interactions with the dog in this story. Over the course of the show, we see that taking care of a dog has made the surly, pathologically asocial main character "more human" in that he's shown to grown and be much more multidimensional than he seems. I wonder, did adopting that dog make Oberstein "more human"? Did it have no effect on him? Or was he human all along? My other inspiration at the time of writing this was Mervyn Peake's great Gormenghast trilogy. I have never read anything more lifelike, and can only aspire to be 1/1000th of the writer Mr. Peake. If there's anything good about this story, it's thanks to him. Thank you for reading.

- zosteria

September 2009 – May 15, 2012

(Yes, I came back to this recently to finish it almost 3 years after I started it. Better late than never!)

*This was posted on tumblr laster year; just thought id add it here too