The Last Morning - Dog of War

Dawn came anyway.....

Jian woke first, as he always did. He lay still for a long moment, watching the first light filter through his window, painting stripes across WiWi's sleeping form. She lay curled against his side, her breath warm against his arm, her paws twitching slightly with dreams.

Carefully, quietly, he slipped from beneath the covers. WiWi's ear flicked but she didn't wake. He padded to the kitchen, his small hands reaching for ingredients he wasn't normally allowed to use.

Mei found him there an hour later, flour dusting his pajamas, eggshells scattered across the counter, his face streaked with tears he hadn't bothered to wipe away.

"I'm making her favorite," he explained, his voice thick. "Scrambled eggs with cheese. The real kind. I've been watching Mama do it."

The kitchen was a disaster. Broken eggs littered the floor. The cheese package had been torn open with small, determined teeth. But on a small plate sat a perfect portion of scrambled eggs, golden yellow and steaming.

"You did this yourself?" Mei asked, her heart breaking anew.

Jian nodded. "I wanted it to be perfect. For her last breakfast."

Mei knelt and pulled him close. "It's perfect," she whispered. "Just like her."

Together, they cleaned the kitchen, their movements synchronized by years of shared mornings. When they were done, Mei placed the plate of eggs on the floor of Jian's bedroom.

"Don't wake her yet," Mei said. "Let her sleep as long as she can."

Jian nodded, but his eyes never left the door where WiWi still slept.

Father Chen walked through the house before sunrise, touching everything that held memories.

The spot on the rug where WiWi had learned to sit. The scratched doorframe from her early, failed attempts at jumping. The window ledge where she'd barked at passing birds. The kitchen floor where she'd waited patiently for dropped food. The hallway where she'd learned to heel. The porch where she'd met her first duck.

He memorized each place, each memory, storing them away like treasures.

In the closet, he found the development journal they'd been required to keep. He flipped through the pages—clinical observations mixed with personal notes. Measurements of growth. Assessments of temperament. Records of training progress.

On the last page, where "Final Assessment" appeared, Father Chen wrote carefully:

"TK-2847-C has exceeded all benchmarks for Logistics & Morale Division. She demonstrates exceptional problem-solving abilities, remarkable emotional intelligence, and unwavering loyalty. She has formed deep bonds with all family members but shows particular attachment to child subject Jian Chen (7). Her ability to sense emotional distress and provide comfort is extraordinary. She has mastered all required commands and developed natural herding instincts that make her excellent at keeping child subject safe during community outings. Most importantly, she is joyful. She loves the sun on her back, the smell of bread baking, the sound of her human's laughter. She is not just an excellent candidate for enhancement. She is a member of our family. She is our daughter. We will not forget her."

He closed the journal and placed it in the small bag that would accompany WiWi to the collection center. Along with their final letter.

Mei sat on the porch watching the sunrise. In her lap, she held the red collar with the silver bell that Father Chen had given WiWi two weeks prior. It gleamed in the morning light, the bell silent for now.

She remembered the day they'd received their assignment from the Central Genetic Repository—eighteen months ago, when WiWi was just a tiny puppy with too-large paws and ears that hadn't quite grown into themselves.

The distribution hall had been crowded with nervous families. The air hummed with the sounds of a hundred small dogs—yips, whines, the scratching of tiny claws on tile floors.

When they'd been called to Station C, a technician had placed three Corgi puppies in front of them. Two had immediately begun playing with each other. The third had approached Jian cautiously, sniffing his outstretched hand before licking his fingers with a tiny pink tongue.

"She likes me," Jian had whispered, tears already in his eyes.

The puppy had made a soft sound—not quite a bark, not quite a whine, but something uniquely her own.

"What was that?" Father Chen had asked.

Jian had grinned. "I think she's saying her name."

And so she'd become WiWi. Just WiWi. Not a number. Not a registry code. Not a future soldier. Just a small dog with a distinctive voice and eyes that held ancient wisdom.

Mei touched the silver bell on the collar. "We'll hear you coming home," she whispered to the dawn. "We'll always be listening."

WiWi woke naturally as the sun reached her favorite spot on Jian's bed. She stretched luxuriously, her small body arching in the morning light, before realizing Jian wasn't beside her.

She found him in the kitchen, sitting on the floor beside her food bowl. The scrambled eggs steamed gently in the morning light. The smell made her tail wag instinctively.

"Good morning, WiWi," Jian said, his voice thick but steady. "I made this myself. No help from Mama or Papa. Just me."

WiWi approached cautiously. The eggs smelled different than Mei's—slightly burnt around the edges—but the love in them was unmistakable. She ate slowly, savoring each bite, looking up at Jian between mouthfuls as if to say thank you.

When she was done, Jian took her face gently in his hands.

"I have something important to tell you," he whispered.

WiWi tilted her head, her intelligent amber eyes holding his gaze.

"I found out something last night. Something important." Jian's voice dropped to a conspiratorial whisper. "About Thway Kan. The place they're taking you."

WiWi's ears pricked forward. She didn't understand his words, but she sensed their importance.

"Before the war, it wasn't called Thway Kan. It was called Huan Mei—the Valley of Gentle Breezes. There were three rivers that came together like friends holding hands. People grew rice there. Children swam in clean water. At night, they had festivals with lanterns floating on the rivers. Like stars on the water."

Jian stroked her ears gently. "I have a plan, WiWi. When you go away, I'm going to learn everything about that place. I'll become a mapmaker when I grow up. And I'll find a way to bring back the rivers and the rice fields and the lanterns. And when I do... I'll go there and wait for you. Because you'll know to come home when you see the lanterns, right? You'll know they're for you."

WiWi licked his cheek, wishing she could understand his words, wishing she could promise to return when the lanterns floated on the rivers.

"I love you," Jian whispered. "In all the languages. Starting with Corgi."

Mei and Father Chen found them like that—boy and dog sharing a breakfast neither had much appetite for, communicating in a language older than words.

The transport vehicle arrived precisely at 0600.

It was white and clean, deceptively gentle-looking for what it carried. A single driver in a crisp uniform stepped out and approached their door with a tablet in hand.

"Registry TK-2847-C?" he asked unnecessarily. He could see the small dog sitting proudly between her family's feet.

Father Chen nodded, unable to speak.

The driver consulted his tablet. "Standard procedure requires verification of family documentation and final health assessment." He knelt and scanned WiWi's microchip, checked her teeth and coat, listened to her heart with a small stethoscope. His movements were gentle, practiced.

"Excellent physical condition," he noted. "Strong heart rate. Good muscle tone. She'll transition well."

Mei's hand flew to her mouth. Transition. Such a sterile word for what they would do to her.

"The collection protocol requires the dog to be secured in an individual transport crate," the driver continued. "I'll need you to hand her over."

Father Chen knelt and pulled WiWi into his arms. She rested her head on his shoulder, her tail sweeping the floor with familiar trust. He whispered into her fur, words meant only for her ears.

"You are not a soldier. You are not a weapon. You are not a tool. You are our daughter. You are loved. You have always been loved. And that love doesn't stay here. It goes with you. Forever."

Mei joined them, pressing her forehead against WiWi's. "Be brave, little one. But not too brave. Come home to us. Please, find a way to come home."

They all knew it was impossible. Thway Kan was a graveyard that had swallowed three million dogs in the last decade. Only seventeen had ever returned. And those seventeen had been too broken to recognize their names.

Jian emerged from the house then, dressed in his pajamas, his face swollen from crying. Clutched to his chest was a small bag.

"I have something for her," he said. "Please. Just let me give it to her."

Before anyone could react, he knelt and opened the bag. Inside were his light-up sneakers, the family photo from ten days ago, and the small wooden dog carved by his grandfather.

"These are for you," he whispered, placing them at her paws. "No matter what shoes they make you choose later, you have these. The photo so you remember us. The wooden dog so you remember who you really are. And my shoes... because when you're scared or sad, you can press them to your face and smell me and know I'm waiting for you."

The driver shifted uncomfortably. "I'm sorry," he said gently. "Regulations prohibit personal items before the Paradise procedure. Everything must be standardized."

"Please," Jian begged. "Just the photo. Please let her keep the photo."

The driver's professional mask cracked slightly. He crouched to Jian's level. "I have a son. He's eight. He has a rabbit. It's due for draft next year." He took a deep breath. "I'll make sure she gets the photo after Paradise. And the wooden dog. But the shoes... the shoes must be chosen during the official Shoe Share Event. It's part of the psychological preparation."

Jian nodded, tears streaming down his face. He hugged WiWi one last time, whispering secrets into her ear that only she could hear.

Father Chen attached the leash—a formality, as WiWi never pulled—and led her to the door. Each step felt like walking through deep water, through the thickening air of nightmares.

The driver took the leash. "Any behavioral concerns we should note?"

"She's afraid of ducks," Father Chen said, and then laughed—a horrible, mangled sound. "God help us, she's afraid of ducks, and we're sending her to war."

The driver's professional mask slipped. "I have a Beagle," he whispered. "His name is Scout. He goes next month. I'm so sorry."

WiWi was led to the transport vehicle. Inside, seventeen other dogs sat in clean kennels, each one silent, each one wearing the same expression of confused loss. A Doberman. A Border Collie. A Pitbull mix. A Pomeranian. All of them someone's daughter, someone's son, someone's heart walking on four legs.

WiWi was placed in her kennel. She turned around once, twice, three times—the ritual of nesting. Then she sat facing the window, facing the house where her family stood clustered in the doorway.

As the vehicle began to move, Jian burst from the house, running after it in his pajamas.

"WIWI!" he screamed. "WIWI, I LOVE YOU! I LOVE YOU!"

WiWi pressed her nose against the glass. Her tail wagged once—a broken, automatic response to the sound of her boy's voice.

Then the transport turned the corner, and the Chen house disappeared from view.

Jian collapsed in the street, sobbing into the pavement. Father Chen picked him up and carried him inside, and Mei closed the door on the silent house that still smelled like WiWi, still held her warmth in the cushions, still waited for her to bark at the ducks in the pond.

But WiWi was gone.