In a neighborhood that, to the untrained eye, seemed peaceful and average, white fences, trimmed hedges, mailboxes that hadn’t been chewed this week, there raged a glorious storm of canine chaos. That storm had a name. Well, actually, it had two names.
Athena and Obito.
On paper, they were Siberian Husky and Alaskan Malamute siblings. In reality, they were a dramatic power couple with more flair than a Broadway cast on Red Bull. Athena, the elder at a year and a half, was elegance personified, if elegance regularly tried to eat couch cushions and re-landscape gardens with her face. She had a coat like a snow-dusted thundercloud and eyes that demanded a film crew: one pale, icy blue like the gaze of a winter goddess, and the other a warm chestnut that said, “Yes, I chewed that, and no, I have no regrets.”
She was known in the house as Princess, Miss Pants, Her Royal Furiness, and occasionally, "ATHENA NO." She led the pack with a tender heart, a relentless will, and the vibe of someone who once ran an underground mafia of chew toys.
Then came Obito. Nine months old, already the size of a small horse, still learning what his own legs were for. With a black face and eyebrows that always looked like he just heard gossip, Obito was part walking meme, part lovebug, part fur-covered wrecking ball. His paws were the size of dinner plates. His toe beans were so cute they had their own social media fanbase. His love language was moist, unsolicited kisses and surprise body slams of affection.
Together, they were unstoppable. Mostly because they didn’t know what the word “stop” meant.
Their adventures began with their now-famous magic act: Invisible Obito. Athena, inspired by a YouTube video of a magician and some vague idea of Houdini she picked up from TV, believed herself to be a sorceress. She would dramatically toss a blanket over Obito, declare "ABRACADOBITO!" with all the flair of a Vegas performer, and expect him to disappear.
Obito, instead, would immediately begin wriggling under the blanket like a possessed croissant, eventually crashing into furniture, walls, and once, an entire potted plant. He thought it was a game. Athena thought it was theater. The neighbors thought it was an exorcism.
One night, the spectacle escalated. They added glow sticks to their collars. Athena found a witch hat. Obito wore a flashlight duct-taped to his head and became the world’s first dog-lantern. They slipped into the night for what would become known as “The Night of Many Screams.”
First stop: Mr. Applebaum.
Retired, cranky, allergic to nonsense. Perfect.
Athena arranged a scene of terror: Obito (in blanket) rolling on the lawn, flashlight flickering, Athena howling like a ghost with a vocal coach. Mr. Applebaum, who just wanted to water his begonias, got blasted with his own garden hose mid-scream and retreated indoors yelling, “THEY’VE COME BACK!”
A good start.
Next? Mrs. Dobbins.
Eighty-two years old with a garden gnome collection she dusted daily. Athena, knowing dramatic visuals were key, re-arranged the gnomes into a perfect circle. At its center: Obito, glowing and covered in a sheet, performing what could only be described as "haunted jazzercise." When Mrs. Dobbins peeked out her window and saw the scene, she screamed, dropped her knitting, and called her niece to see if a Lutheran priest could handle minor possessions.
The success was intoxicating.
Onward, to the Miller household, home of the four most condescending cats in the Western Hemisphere. Every day, these fluffy overlords sat in the window like judgmental librarians, glaring at the dogs with silent disdain.
Athena could no longer tolerate their sass.
She and Obito crept into their backyard. Obito, now smelling suspiciously of vanilla air freshener, pressed his massive face against the glass door. The cats blinked. Obito blinked. Athena howled.
Then Obito, excited by his own reflection, leapt up, forgot he had legs, and body-slammed the door like a ghost-themed freight train. The cats scattered like confetti in a tornado. One launched into a plant. One disappeared entirely. Mr. Miller hasn’t opened his blinds since.
They were riding high on spooky success until they came to their final victim: Timmy.
Seven years old, full of confidence, and always yelling things like, “My cat can do calculus!” and “Dogs drool!” Athena marked him as a high-priority target. They waited until dusk.
In a maneuver that would make SEAL Team 6 proud, Athena triggered the backyard motion sensor lights. Obito, now double-blanketed and headlamp fully charged, lurched into the sandbox like a deranged mummy. Athena, standing tall on the picnic table, pointed a stick at the sky and bellowed, “FEAR US, TINY HUMAN!”
Timmy opened the door, dropped his chicken nugget, screamed like a fire alarm, and ran straight back into the house.
Athena ate the nugget.
By the time they got home, Athena’s witch hat was crooked, Obito had dirt in places no dog should have dirt, and the flashlight was flickering like a horror movie finale. They collapsed into their blanket throne, satisfied.
The next morning, neighborhood group chats were ablaze:
"Did anyone else hear Latin chanting and ghost howling last night?"
"Someone moved my gnomes. Again."
"My cat won’t come out from under the sink."
"Whatever it was, it smelled like Febreze and fear."
Obito snored through it all, legs twitching with dream-zoomies. Athena lay awake, one eye open, plotting her next grand performance. Perhaps a séance. Maybe a haunted puppet show. Definitely more snacks.
Because in a world full of boring pets, Athena and Obito weren’t just dogs.
They were legends.


©️LaineyGreen - Intwined.blog

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