Darcifer’s Dispatch from the Great Beyond…

Darcifer’s Dispatch from the Great Beyond (Canine Edition)…

Woof. It’s me, Darcifer. Yep, your old black lab, the one with the ragged ear, the tail like a whip, and a nose for trouble long before it ever arrived. I’ve been keeping one watchful eye (and both twitchy ears) on Faurel Hill since your dad made his final trip over the fence, and let me tell you, things down there have gone to the dogs, and not in the good way.

I’ve sniffed out every corner of that land, buried bones where nobody dared dig, and listened in on more secrets than the old oak tree could whisper on a stormy night. And what I’m seeing from up here? It’s a circus. A right old tangle of liars, sniffers, and territory-marking charlatans.

On Dad’s Passing…

When your dad left, I expected grief. Some howls, a few tears on the porch, maybe a night or two of folk sitting by the fire telling the good stories. That’s what decent packs do when an alpha crosses over. But no, they pounced, like a pack of mangy curs fighting over the last scrap on a carcass. I was growling from the Other Side, ready to bite ankles and pee on prize possessions.

Funny, isn’t it? All those years they ignored the old man’s words. Now every two-bit cousin and back-stabbing ‘friend’ suddenly remembers what ‘he would’ve wanted.’ I know what he wanted, and it wasn’t this. He wanted peace. He wanted the land respected. He wanted you safe, standing tall, and the house kept as it was, a place for stories and storms, not lawsuits and lies.

Bully and His Big Truck…

Ah, Bully. The human equivalent of a dog that chases its own tail and calls it a victory. He’s strutting around Faurel Hill like some alpha, driving that shiny, overcompensating, fuel-guzzling tin can he calls a truck. From up here, it’s clear as a whistle, his bark’s loud, but his soul’s threadbare.

I’ve seen better men in the reflection of a puddle.

Fanny McFOX and the Scent of Denial…

Fanny… poor, dear, deluded Fanny. She always smelled of lavender soap and denial. Still does. Clinging to her Big Pharma pamphlets like they’re sacred scrolls and busy polishing her collection of passive-aggressive tea towels. If she’d spent half as much time tending to the people as she does the porcelain figurines, Faurel Hill might still feel like home.

I see her casting side-eyes at old photographs, wondering if karma might come sniffing round her door. Spoiler alert: it already has.

You, My Girl…

And you. I see you. Walking the land with your shoulders back, the weight of generations on your chest, and still finding a way to laugh when the wind howls. You’ve done better than they ever expected. Better than you realize most days.

From up here, you shine like a lighthouse in a storm of squabbling gulls. Granny Frass, Sir Percival, and I, we’re sitting front row, tails wagging and feathers ruffled, rooting for you. You kept the heart of that land beating when others tried to sell its soul for scrap.

You’ve got the scent of truth on you, girl. Never lose it.

Final Thought from the Kennel Cloud…

I’ll leave you with this: the thing about dogs is, we always know who the good ones are. We feel it. And when the time comes, when the squabbling settles and the dust clears, those left standing will be the ones who carried loyalty in their bones, love in their hearts, and mud on their boots.

And darling, you’ll be one of them.

Keep the whiskey cupboard locked, watch the fences, and remember: the dead talk to those who listen.
I’m still here. Always was. Always will be.

Good girl.

–Darcifer 🐾