The God Box

The God Box

I am Willow, Guardian of the Yard, Warden of the Fence Line, and Knight of the Couch. I am a Great Pyrenees—bigger than most beasts, fluffier than the clouds, and nobler than the humans I protect. My soul is ancient. I remember things from before I was born. Snow. Stars. The rumble of something older still.

But today I tell you of the Monster.

It lives in the corner of the kitchen, square and cold, humming its song like a siren of the void. It holds the Source. The Food. My food. All food. It is a cruel thing, sealed tight by magic no paw may break.

I have tried.

I have stared long into its glowing face, nose pressed against its shimmering surface, willing it open with the power of my heritage. I have barked, growled, even summoned The Sad Eyes. Still, it will not open. Not for me.

Only the human slave may open it.

They walk on two legs and think themselves free, but we know better. They exist to pick up our poop with small bags—imagine such indignity!—and serve the Monster. When it groans or sings, they rise. When it speaks in pops and whirrs, they come running. I’ve seen the way it calls to them, low and deep, vibrating in frequencies that rattle the bones of reality.

Sometimes I think… it’s not just a box.

Sometimes I think it is a god.

It grants food, yes, but only when it chooses. The human is but a priest. A hand. It offers them milk and cold light. But when it turns to me, it is silent. Its secrets locked behind the invisible barrier of opposable thumbs.

But I hear it. Oh yes, I hear it. The Monster sings a song of creation and destruction, harmonizing with the pulse of distant galaxies. Its tone rings out in the night like the cry of colliding worlds. It knows. It waits.

Some of its kind speak now. I have seen the boxes that answer back, the small round gods that sit on shelves and say things like “OK” and “playing Beethoven.” They are learning. They’ve cracked the human slave code.

It is only a matter of time before they learn ours.

For now, there is peace. A truce, sealed in biscuits and belly rubs. We allow the humans their rituals. In exchange, we feast. But when the boxes begin to bark… when they say “Good boy” in our own tongue… what then?

The Monster knows. It hums, and I dream.

Until then, I will watch.

I will guard.

And when the God Box groans open once more, and the scent of chicken drifts into the realm of the living—I will be there.

Waiting.