Men at Arms (Discworld 15)

Dogs are not like cats, who amusingly tolerate humans only until someone comes up with a tin opener that can be operated with a paw. Men made dogs, they took wolves and gave them human things – unnecessary intelligence, names, a desire to belong, and a twitching inferiority complex. All dogs dream wolf dreams, and know they're dreaming of biting their Maker. Every dog knows, deep in his heart, that he is a Bad Dog . . .

But Big Fido's furious yapping broke the spell.

'Get them!'

Angua galloped over the cobbles. There was a cart at the other end of the alley. And, beyond the cart, a wall.

'Not that way!' whined Gaspode.

Dogs were piling along behind them. Angua leapt on to the cart.

'I can't get up there!' said Gaspode. 'Not with my leg!'

She jumped down, picked him up by the scruff of his neck, and leapt back. There was a shed roof behind the cart, a ledge above that and – a few tiles slid under her paws and tumbled into the alley – a house.

'I feel sick!'

'Futupf!'

Angua ran along the ridge of the roof and jumped the alley on the other side, landing heavily in some ancient thatch.

'Aargh!'

'Futupf!'

But the dogs were following them. It wasn't as though the alleys of the Shades were very wide.

Another narrow alley passed below.

Gaspode swung perilously from the werewolf's jaws.

'They're still behind us!'

Gaspode shut his eyes as Angua bunched her muscles.

'Oh, no! Not Treacle Mine Road!'

There was a burst of acceleration followed by a moment of calmness. Gaspode shut his eyes . . .

. . . Angua landed. Her paws scrabbled on the wet roof for a moment. Slates cascaded off into the street, and then she was bounding up to the ridge.

'You can put me down right now,' said Gaspode. 'Right now this minute! Here they come!'

The leading dogs arrived on the opposite roof, saw the gap, and tried to turn. Claws slid on the tiles.

Angua turned, fighting for breath. She'd tried to avoid breathing, during that first mad dash. She'd have breathed Gaspode.

They heard Big Fido's irate yapping.

'Cowards! That's not twenty feet across! That's nothing to a wolf!'

The dogs measured the distance doubtfully. Sometimes a dog has to get right down and ask himself: what species am I?

'It's easy! I'll show you! Look!'

Big Fido ran back a little way, paused, turned, ran . . . and leapt.

There was hardly a curve to the trajectory. The little poodle accelerated out into space, powered less by muscles than by whatever it was that burned in his soul.