Trophies. Plaques. Memories. How they all gathered dust. Jorrus sighed, looking at the prizes he'd won over the years. Jorrus, a timber wolf, had been a professional body builder, one of the best in his day.
His day he thought with a snort. Modelling agencies drooled over the young males, those in the prime of their lives. Not some 70-odd-year-old has-been who tucked his great-grandson into bed.
The only comfort he could take was that one day, those youngsters would be where he was. But that was only bitter gloating, and nothing poisoned the heart faster.
For all these years, he'd kept up his strength, hoping maybe someone would notice that his body was still something to admire. But the chances got slimmer as the years went by. Now the chances were practically none. He looked t his weights, silently. What was the point anymore?
If nothing else, his former occupation had left him well-off. He had a nice house, a nice car, enough money to raise him and Tyrone, his great-grandson. But money didn't make up for the fact that they'd dumped him out just because he had grey fur, like so much used-up scrap.
He sighed, and went to read his young great-grandson a bedtime story.
He smiled at the sight of Tyrone, who was eagerly awaiting his story, his tail thumping the bed. Joruus smiled, and pulled out one of Tyrone's favorites. They had hardly gotten to the part where the Big Bad Wolf ripped the door off the Second Little Piggy's house when downstairs, the door opened. Tyrone's ears perked; he heard several males downstairs.
The old wolf rose to his feet, silently making his way downstairs. Then he froze. 8 foxes had come to loot the place.
The foremost fox sneered. Out of our way, oldster,
he sneered, pulling a switchblade. That was as far as he got, when a hard kick sent him flying out the window. The other 7 foxes charged Jorrus with a yell.
But part of Jorrus's training had been kickboxing, which gave those muscles extra tone that had been what made him the best. Now that kickboxing was coming in handy.
One fox got his head spun around with a hook punch, as another was launched out the door with an uppercut. A third went skidding across the floor from a shin kick.
The other four were thinking of a hasty retreat when the leader staggered to his feet, screaming for blood. The only blood that ended up flowing was from their muzzles and noses as Jorrus took a round out of them single-pawed.
Jorrus panted. God, that fight had taken a lot out of him. He slowly went up the stairs, only to see that Tyrone had been watching him. Come on, kid...
he said. Back to bed.
After the story was done, finishing with the Big Bad Wolf and all his kids moving into the Third Piggy's house, Tyrone looked at his grandfather. Those punks never stood a chance,
he grinned.
Jorrus smiled, stroking his headfur, looking into the youngster's eyes. Those eyes held something that Jorrus hadn't seen in a long, long time: Hero worship. Admiration. Respect. And all the sweeter because it came from someone Jorrus deeply cared about. He smiled, tucking his great-grandson into bed, and leaving the room. Sweet dreams
he softly said.
He stopped at the door of the weight room, then slowly entered it, looking at the weights. No,
he said. Those punks never stood a chance.
He smiled, thinking the way the youngster had said that. Suddenly, he grabbed the barbells, and started lifting...