“Darling,” Hades says one evening as the two of them are curled up on the couch, “I love you, but we can’t live like this.”
“Hmm?” Persephone glances up from her Macbook. At her feet, Perennial Granata Aster Cerebus the Munificent rolls onto his stomach, unheeding or uncaring of Hades’ feet in his quest to tear their new rug into shreds. Hades shudders to imagine the state of their house if Persephone insisted on a hellhound with three heads instead of one. “Like what, hon?”
“This,” Hades says, looking pointedly at the ninety pounds of dog currently crushing her feet. “No, stop,” she says, struggling to tug a tassel out of Cerebus’s mouth. “You have plenty of toys. Stop picking on the rug just because it’s new and expensive.”
Persephone reaches down to scratch their hellhound’s ears, who finally lets go of the rug to cover her hand in slobber. “Cerie’s a puppy, sweetheart. It’s not his fault he’s a little rambunctious, not when he’s still a baby. Aren’t you, my sweetheart, my littlest baby bitty boy?”
“He’s half the size of our couch, Persephone.”
“And? He’s a growing boy, and if you say it’s because I’m spoiling him, let me remind you that the vet said he was perfectly within his weight limit.”
“Which, my dearest poppy, is exactly why we need to sign him up for classes now, so that he can learn how to behave while he’s still young. All puppies need to go to daycare, Persephone.” And then, drawing out her final argument, the arrow she knows will go straight to Persephone’s heart: “It’ll be a good chance for him to make friends. Puppies need to socialize, Perse, and how’s Cerberus ever going to become well-adjusted and self-actualizing if he never gets to play with other dogs?”
“You’re a dirty cheater,” Persephone says, immediately seeing through Hades. “But all right, you probably have a point. It would be nice for Cerberus to spend more time with other dogs. Poor baby,” she says, squishing his face between her hands, “such a sweet puppy, you just want more friends to play with, don’t you?”
Cerberus wags his tail so fast and furiously it leaves dents in the sofa.
Silently, Hades offers a prayer for the other dogs at the daycare.
Like many of the great upheavals in Hades’s life, Cerberus had been Persephone’s idea.
Hades, by nature, is not an animal person. It’s hard to be one, really, when animals cringe from your presence and plants wither at your fingertips. She doesn’t blame them, of course—it’s just the way things go, when you happen to be your pantheon’s prime avatar of the afterlife. (Technically, death went to Thanatos, but as he himself admits, it’s a fine point for mortals to know the difference. “No one is making Disney movies about me,” he’d told her once over craft cocktails in SoHo.
“Lucky you,” Hades said, downing her mint-and-elderberry julep.)
Cerberus, though, was purebred hellhound, which meant that he took to Hades like a Labrador Retriever to a muddy puddle, drooling all over her black slacks and patent leather shoes from the moment Persephone brought him home. Even at ten weeks, he’d been a big puppy, with all the characteristic physical traits of a hellhound: lush double-coat for frozen-over hells, high energy and equally high prey drive for chasing damned souls. Luckily, his adherence to breed standard stopped short of his personality, which was more suited to a giant marshmallow than a fiend of hell. Cerberus liked fetch and belly rubs and the disgusting pig ear chews Persephone swore were a better alternative to rawhide. Cerberus let toddlers tug on his ears with impunity and tripped over his too-big puppy paws and had once gotten so spooked by the Roomba that he had knocked over a fern and two bookshelves before cowering inside their bedroom closet.
Cerberus also has a bite strong enough to shatter steel beams and a bark that, even when it’s aimed at the vacuum cleaner, tends to strike fear in the hearts of men. Growing puppy or not, there are some things sweetness can’t paper over. Used to being feared and unwelcome, Hades doesn’t mind the whispers and nervous looks she gets while walking Cerberus, but she refuses to let some asshole ruin Persephone’s day with their breed prejudice.
If they’re going to raise this dog, they’re going to do it right.
Happy Tails Doggy Daycare is a cheerful building—fresh white trim, apple red awnings, and large windows through which passersby can see an assortment of dogs of all sizes playing, napping, and marking their territory on fake grass. A cardboard cut-out of a cartoon puppy stands by the front door, tongue out as it promises visitors Happy Tails, Happy Dogs—That’s Our Promise!
Hades stands in front of the front door, hands gripping her messenger bag as she braces herself to enter. On their website, Happy Tails noted that all new clients must pass a trial period, a precaution to make sure that the dogs they take in will get along with their existing clients. Persephone pointed out this requirement as a positive, taking it as a sign that the daycare cared more about their dogs’ welfare than making a buck, but Hades was less optimistic. Even if he’s generally friendly, Cerberus is big, with teeth and a bark to match.
Cautiously, Hades peers through the window. In the middle of the room, a Husky and a chocolate Lab are playing a ferocious game of tug-of-war, the rope fraying at the ends; at the bottom of a plastic slide, two terriers have fallen asleep, wiry grey fur blending together to make one two-headed creature; and there, in the corner, is a dog in the exact shape and size of Cerberus. Except—that can’t be Cerberus who’s lying there so peacefully with a Kong between his paws, who hadn’t jumped over the fence or started barking the minute Hades walked in through the door. For one horrible moment, Hades is certain Happy Tails has kidnapped her dog and replaced him with a doppelganger.
“Oh, he was great,” the receptionist says, shuffling through files for Cerberus’s doggy daycare report card. “Got a little too excited sometimes during playtime—seems to have no idea how big he is, which is one of the problems we get with bigger dog breeds, but a sweetheart nonetheless. And Pele here was great at keeping him in line—she comes in with one of the staff members, you know, and is very much the head dog around here.”
Pele, a little dachshund with gray around her muzzle, deigns to lift her head from her pillow to regard Hades with sleep-bleary eyes. Hades, who is no stranger to sweet small creatures holding power disproportionate to their frame, offers her hand for Pele to sniff, which the dachshund does with steady gravity of a monarch before gracing Hades’ knuckles with a small, cold lick.
“Aw, she likes you!” The receptionist is a short, fresh-faced young woman, maybe twenty or twenty-one at most. Sarah, the nametag on her shirt reads, with a little smiley face drawn at the end. “Let me just process today’s payment, and then you two can be on your way. Should we be expecting you guys tomorrow, or would you rather come on a more day-to-day basis?”
“Tomorrow should work, I think.” Hades hands over her credit card. “I assume that means he passed the trial period?”
“Oh, with flying colors! He’s a very good dog—very sweet, and I’m sure the other puppies would miss him if he left. If you’re interested, we can also enroll him in our Puppy Kindergarten course, though that would require you or your wife to be available at least once a week for classes. Our trainers do great work, but we also don’t want the puppies to associate commands with just them and not you.”
“I’ll ask my wife about it,” Hades promises.
“Of course! Talk it over, no need to rush.” Sarah hands back the credit card, then goes to fetch Cerberus. Hades takes the leash from her gingerly, still unconvinced that the dog Sarah is returning is the same rowdy puppy she dropped off this morning.
It’s only on the walk back home, when Cerberus attempts to scarf down a pigeon carcass, that Hades is reassured.
“You know,” Persephone says one evening at Puppy Kindergarten, “this is kind of nostalgic, isn’t it?”
“Hm?” Hades asks, straining to hold onto Cerberus’s leash. They’re practicing leave it today, which means a full body workout as Hades tries to keep Cerberus from leaping at toys, treats, and the other dogs. Across the room, Loki the Husky is loudly complaining about the injustice of being kept away from his favorite stuffed lamb. “Sorry, did you say something?”
“Here, let me.” Persephone takes the leash from Hades, their fingers brushing briefly. Persephone’s hands are smaller than Hades’, fingers short and freckled instead of long and smooth, but she holds their puppy with the ease of a deity used to long hours of digging and hauling bags of topsoil. “I was just saying, there’s something familiar about this—weekend classes, arranging playdates, picking Cerie up from daycare each day. It’s like being parents again, almost.”
Persephone smiles. Under the warm lamplight, her hair glints gold and red, the colors of hearth and harvest and warmth. For all the godblood in her veins, Persephone had lived with humans as a child, lived and loved with other humans in a way that was rare among Olympians. Demeter is a goddess, but one of earth, and so her children are of the earth as well: Dionysus, with his terrible jokes and love of all mortal pleasures; Plutus, with his taste for gold embroidery and nineteenth century fob watches; Philomelus, whose blackberry jam had won four state awards and was working on a fifth; and of course, her. Persephone, shining sweet and warm as the sun after a long winter.
Hades is from an older generation of gods. Nine months in her mother’s womb and years more in her father’s stomach, her memories of youth are sharp and blood-soaked, a spear in her hand almost immediately after springing back into life. For the children of Chronos, so intent on preserving his own life that he would eat his sons and daughters still red from the womb, there had been no time for such things as innocence or childhood.
Hades is not her father—had worked hard to shed the cruelty of her upbringing—but there are still things she regrets not saying, not doing. Her children have long since grown into fine, sensible adults, but Hades still wonders sometimes if she could have been a warmer, better parent. Spent more time playing with Zagreus and Melinoë instead of lecturing them, letting her children enjoy their youth instead of focusing on preparing them for the cruelties of adulthood.
“Yeah,” Hades says, taking Persephone’s free hand and squeezing it. “I suppose it is.”
With a victorious scream, Loki slips out of his harness and begins running laps around the room.
Of all the changes that come with being a waning deity, the one Hades appreciates the most is the free time. In the old days, when smoke from burnt offerings carried across the city, Hades had hardly a moment of peace. There were prayers to listen to, oracles to strike with divine insight, the endless petty disputes between Zeus and Hestia she invariably got caught up in. In her realm, Hades sat from dawn to dusk at her throne, hearing the pleas of sad-eyed musicians and ushering fallen heroes into the land of the dead.
She had not resented the work—she could not, not when it was a part of her—but when the offerings and prayers began to dwindle, she could not pretend there was a part of her that did not feel relief. Perhaps if she had been Aphrodite or Zeus, used to adoration from worshipers, she might have mourned the fall from power—but Hades was not, and so she did not. Modernity might have brought about a loss of believers, but modernity was also pistachio lattes and warm showers whenever she wanted, no long ritual of hauling and heating up buckets of water for a lukewarm bath. On weekdays, Hades heads down to her office downtown, where she files hospital paperwork and answers calls about life insurance for a few hours each day—they don’t need the money, but it’s good to keep busy. That is what Persephone says at least, and her wife has rarely steered them wrong.
But just because Jesus and modern medicine have taken most of Hades’s jobs does not mean there is no work for her to do.
Hades is waiting for Cerberus to finish inspecting a fire hydrant, when she feels it: the inexorable Pull of a soul in need of her guidance. One moment, they’re two blocks from home; the next, Hades and Cerberus are landing in a hospital room.
“Wow,” the girl says from her bed, eyes enormous. In the window behind her, the city stretches out before them, a grid of distant light and tall buildings cutting through the night sky. “Your dog is big.”
“Cerberus, sit.” In what must qualify as a minor miracle, Cerberus does, though he whines as he stares at the child, eyes filled with the naked longing to knock her off her feet with affection. “He is a big dog.” Hades takes a step towards the child. “Very stubborn, too. Do you like dogs?”
The girl nods. Clad in cat-themed pajamas and surrounded by a vanguard of unicorn plushies, she can’t be more than nine or ten. Though her head is shaved and her face gaunt, her eyes are bright with that clear light particular to children. Not for the first time, Hades wishes that her pantheon could be a little less popular among comic artists and movie directors, and that more American children would grow up dreaming of Anubis and Yama instead of her. “Can I pet him?”
“Of course.”
Whatever disease it was that left the girl bedbound, it has no power over her now as she stands up, stepping lightly towards a hellhound vibrating with excitement. Even standing, she is so small—Cerberus’s head is easily twice the size of hers. And yet there is no fear as she approaches, no apprehension about how easily Cerberus could crush her skull between his jaws. This is what always gets Hades about children: the pure clean openness of them, that willingness to trust in a world that will only work to hurt them.
Cerberus’s tail is a painful blur as it whips against Hades’s ankles and he all but covers the girl’s face in drool the moment she’s in licking distance, but he sits still as she pets him, never barking or attempting to jump on her.
Hades lets them enjoy each others’ company for a few moments before she kneels down.
“Hello there.” Hades has never been particularly good with children, but the girl appears unbothered by her awkwardness. “I’m sorry to interrupt, but I’m afraid we’re not just stopping by for a visit.”
“I know,” the girl says, hands still buried in Cerberus’s thick fur. “That’s okay, though. Most people don’t come just to visit. It’s okay if you’re here for something else.” She turns, and though her eyes are still bright, there is a clear understanding in them. “Everyone’s been waiting for this to happen for a while now.”
“Then you know what I’m here for, don’t you?
The girl bites her lip, averts her gaze briefly before nodding. “Will it be scary?”
“Probably,” Hades says, never one to sugarcoat matters for her clients. “But I’ll be there with you for most of it, and so will Cerberus, and at the end of it, you won’t hurt anymore.”
After a long deliberation, the girl takes Hades’s hand. Her hand is so small, and cold even to Hades’s underworld chilled fingers. Where she’s going, the cold will have no power to hurt her.
It’s early afternoon when they arrive at the dog park, the sun up but not yet scorching. Loki’s owners, a young couple with the frazzled air of first-time parents, are already there, setting up snacks and drinks on a picnic table. A puppy graduation party, they’d called it, which Hades thinks is a little over-the-top, but Persephone had already bought a dog-sized graduation cap and promised to bring pupcakes before Hades could protest. If nothing else, the way Cerberus and the other dogs paw at their graduation caps tells Hades she was right on that.
Still, it’s a clear, bright day, with just enough of a breeze to take off the noon heat, and Loki’s parents have put together a good array of refreshments for the dogs and their human caretakers alike. Cerberus, while still excited, manages not to jump on any children or pee on anyone’s shoes. He does hump Loki, but in a friendly manner, and he’s exceptionally gentle with the smaller dogs. Watching Cerberus as he lies down and lets a terrier mix pounce on his giant snout, Hades can’t help feeling a swell of parental pride. Two months ago, Cerberus would have knocked over every dog in the park in his eagerness to play, but here he is—not perfect by any means, but sitting, staying.
Persephone is in the middle of talking to Loki’s mom and Hades is getting herself another seltzer water when a frantic, high-pitched barking breaks the air. By itself, the barking isn’t abnormal—though their group has claimed a corner for their party, the park is open to all. A few dogs have already wandered over to exchange rear sniffs and tail wags, usually to be called back when they try to terrorize a squirrel or hump a stranger’s leg.
The little Chihuahua bounding towards them, however, has its yellow fur standing up and its teeth bared. Though it’s wearing a collar and a pink sweater, no leash is in sight and the closer it gets, the less friendly it appears.
With a growl, the Chihuahua sinks its teeth into Cerberus’ fur.
For a moment, Cerberus stares at the other dog with the expression of an elephant studying the mouse that had dared to charge it. Cerberus glances at the gathered humans as if expecting some kind of advice, but they all stare back, equally bemused.
Finally, he reaches out a paw, and, with the delicacy of a store clerk brushing dust off an expensive outfit, pushes the other dog off. The Chihuahua tumbles backward, but it immediately bounces back up, yipping wildly away.
“Oh my God!” When Hades turns towards the source of the screaming, she finds a blonde woman in pink leggings running towards them. “Lucy! Help! Help! That dog is attacking my baby!”
“Cerberus, heel,” Persephone says, and he happily trots back to her. “I’m sorry about that,” she says, turning to the woman as she scoops up her dog and deposits it in her handbag. “Cerbie means well, but he can be a little overenthusiastic sometimes. We’re still working on restraints.”
“Well, that’s obvious,” the woman snaps, holding her handbag close to her chest as she glares at Persephone. “You need to get your dog muzzled—someone is going to get hurt someday, if you don’t keep better control of it. You’re lucky I don’t call animal control. Mutts like that are nothing but trouble—I can’t understand anyone who’d willingly choose to live with such a dangerous animal.”
Hades steps forward, all the forces of the underworld at her fingertips as she prepares to defend her wife.
“Excuse me,” Persephone says, still smiling. “I’m sorry, I didn’t quite catch that—what did you just say about my dog?”
As the woman opens her mouth to reply, Hades catches the look in Persephone’s eyes. Wordlessly, she takes Cerberus’s leash, then stands back to watch her wife work.
People look at Persephone, her silk scarves and soft colors and the flowers she wore in her hair, and they see someone kind, someone soft, and in their mortal ignorance think those qualities weakness.
Hades, goddess of the underworld, old as oceans and human folly, has never understood that. Spring is new life, yes, tentative buds and soft grass poking its heads above ground, but spring is also a storm lying in wait, monsoon rains biding their time behind a facade of soft daisies and buttery sunshine.
“Well,” Hades says to Cerberus as she watches her wife descend with the force of a spring hurricane, “I guess we didn’t need a guard dog after all.”
Cerberus barks, tail thwacking against Hades’ shins with such force she almost falls over.
Cynthia Zhang lives in Los Angeles, where there are many good dogs. Her novel, After the Dragons, was shortlisted for the 2022 Ursula K. LeGuin Award in Fiction. Their work has appeared in Pseudopod, Kaleidotrope, On Spec, and other venues. She can be found at czwrites on Bluesky or cz_writes on Twitter.
Translunar Travelers Lounge 
Oh, this was so lovely.
LikeLike