The Dogs of Athens by Kendare Blake

 
    In Athens, stray dogs run free. The people have neutered and spayed them, taken away their instincts to fight and breed, and turned them into polite citizens. They roam in beggar’s packs and split the take in back alleys. They pant on street corners, waiting for the walk signal to cross. They ride the metro and count the stops and nobody bats an eye.
    In the shadows of the Acropolis Museum, a young woman watches as people make their way up the hill road, tourists from every corner of the globe, most wearing wide-brimmed hats and Bermuda shorts. Sandals they bought at a shop in Plaka and paid too much money for. They are a constant stream, so many more than there used to be back when the marble wasn’t worn and pocked and sand-colored.
    Barely twenty paces up the slope, a heavyset woman of around forty calls to her companions to stop. The day is hot and yellow. Sweat stains mar the back of the woman’s red cotton sleeveless top and darken the waistband of her khaki shorts. She stretches her arm out as if expecting to find the supportive grasp of her husband, but finds nothing and leans against the stone of the wall instead. In the shadows, the young woman watches the heat press down on the would-be pilgrim’s shoulders like so many weighted blankets.
    â€œGo and help her,” the young woman says to the black dog sitting at her side, and the black dog flicks one pointed ear.
    â€œHelp her do what?” the dog asks. “You want that I should lick the sweat from between those pendulous teats?” She shakes her scruff. “I’m not about to let something that size try for a ride.”
    â€œDaphne.”
    The dog growls a growl that sounds like a grumble and trots away from the museum toward the ancient road and the distressed woman, whose husband and children stand farther up the hill, with hands on hips and impatient faces. They’ve come a long way, halfway around the world, to see the ruins and pretend to comprehend the age of the structures. To pretend to comprehend what the temples once meant. Who has time for a mother’s heatstroke or heart attack or dizzy spell? They have to get to the top, so they can snap smiling photos with their faces eclipsing the backdrop of statues and pillars. They have to get to the top, so they can come back down and eat Greek McDonald’s and swim in the hotel pool.
    The young woman sees this, and knows this, but her face betrays not one ounce of distaste. Mortals are funny things. It’s unpleasant, how the children roll their eyes. How ashamed they are of their mother’s weight. It’s unpleasant, but it isn’t damning. Not when mortals can do so much worse.
    The young woman crosses her arms, comfortable in the shade of the museum’s massive rectangle. It’s a strange design for a museum of classics. All those smooth curved statues locked up in science-fiction angles. But the people buzzing in and out of it don’t seem to mind. It’s air-conditioned, and there’s food to buy that’s wrapped in plastic. They walk past the young woman as if they can’t see her. Even though, despite her infinite years, the Goddess Artemis is still the most beautiful girl any of them will ever see.
    On the ancient road, Daphne has nearly reached her target. She weaves through the legs of other tourists tramping up the hill and slinks down low, almost so low that her belly touches the ground. Her long curved tail wags excitedly back and forth. She bobs her head and creeps forward to nuzzle the woman’s hand.
    The look on the woman’s face is sheer surprise. Daphne’s ears twitch. Her hindquarters wiggle.
    Pet her, Artemis thinks. You will feel better, I promise.
    â€œGet away, you filthy thing!”
    The woman heaves up and pushes off the wall. She knees the dog in the ribs.
    It isn’t hard enough to cause injury. A dog like Daphne, it doesn’t even hurt. But it was undoubtedly rude.
    Artemis