It was a dream, he knew it must be a dream because the thirst he felt was bearable. He was in the orphanage; the staff and nuns bowed deeply as he entered. Someone must have spent a fortune on the building since his last visit. Walls and ceilings shone with colour, gold pillars soared heavenwards to carry a domed roof that would rival any Italian cathedral. Young children carried gold platters towards the dais where he reclined, bringing him grapes, fresh fruits and glasses of ruby-coloured wine. The dais felt uncomfortably hard under his buttocks, the thin material of his toga scarcely sufficient to cushion the cold marble, but he magnanimously refrained from complaining as he stretched out a hand towards the fruit and wine. The children came closer and another thirst made itself known, but he brushed that aside. The food and drink were beginning to intoxify him in their proximity. Although the platters were being brought closer, his hands were never quite able to grasp the drink he craved above all other appetites. He commanded them to come closer still. He could feel their bare feet treading on his legs as they approached until they were walking on his chest. They must be close enough for him to reach the platters now. Why couldn’t he touch the wine glass that hovered so close to his face?

He wasn’t sure what had woken him. The first hint of dawn cast a faint light into the cold store and he opened his eyes, struggling to unglue them from the crud that threatened to seal them shut, then wider again as he saw the dogs were close. Too close.

“Sit down, DOWN!” The voice, usually so effortlessly commanding, came as a pathetic squeak. The dogs growled, a sound from low in their bodies. Their eyes had become wild; normally submissive, they now stared at him as if he were prey. He lashed out with a foot, only to receive a bite on his calf. The dog increased the pressure, jaws forcing teeth deep into muscle as the laird started a high-pitched scream. The first flow of blood was all the encouragement the other dog required. It jumped onto the prostrate laird’s chest and pushed past his feeble attempts to ward it off with weak arms before biting him in the neck – an ancient programming taking over from the deceptively thin veneer of domestication.

The last words spoken by the laird consisted of a wet bubbling as air mixed with the sudden release of blood. Death did not come quickly, even hastened as it was by the dogs ripping chunks of flesh off his still struggling body. The animals were driven mad by thirst, drinking the salt-laden blood in desperate gulps in an attempt to satisfy that basic need. In the end, it only hastened their demise.