There are some dogs which, when you meet them, remind you that, despite thousands of years of manmade… — Neil Gaiman
There are some dogs which, when you meet them, remind you that, despite thousands of years of manmade evolution, every dog is still only two meals away from being a wolf. These dogs advance deliberately, purposefully, the wilderness made flesh, their teeth yellow, their breath astink, while in the distance their owners witter, "He's an old soppy really, just poke him if he's a nuisance," and in the green of their eyes the red campfires of the Pleistocene gleam and flicker . . .
This dog would make even a dog like that slink nonchalantly behind the sofa and pretend to be extremely preoccupied with its rubber bone.
It was already growling, and the growl was a low, rumbling snarl of spring-coiled menace, the sort of growl that starts in the back of one throat and ends up in someone else's.
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"But you can't just leave it at that!" said Anathema, pushing forward. "Think of all things you could do! Good things!"
"Like what?" said Adam suspiciously.
"Well ... you could bring all the whales back, to start with."
He put his head on one side. "An' that'd stop people killing them, would it?"
She hesitated. It would have been nice to say yes.
"An' if people do start killing 'em, what would you have me do about 'em?" said Adam. "No. I reckon I'm getting the hang of this now. Once I start messing around like that, there'd be no stoppin' it. Seems to me, the only sensible thing is for people to know if they kill a whale, they've got a dead whale."
"God does not play games with His loyal servants," said the Metatron, but in a worried tone of voice.
"Whooo-eee," said Crowley. "Where have you been?"
"I don't see what's so t'riffic about creating people as people and then gettin' upset 'cos they act like people," said Adam severely. "Anyway, if you stopped tellin' people it's all sorted out after they're dead, they might try sorting it all out while they're alive.
