From the moment he opened his eyes each morning to the second he closed them at night, Thor was certain of one thing: this world existed to serve him. Well, him and two other very important individuals—his dad and his baby sister. Everyone else? Completely irrelevant.
Thor, a majestic golden retriever with a coat that shimmered like the sun, strutted around his home with the confidence of a king. He had rules, of course. Very strict ones. Rule number one: his dad was his number one human. No exceptions. Rule number two: his baby sister was his tiny, adorable responsibility, and no one was allowed to make her cry. Rule number three: everyone else was background noise, barely worthy of acknowledgment.
The day had a predictable rhythm. His dad woke up, and Thor was there, tail wagging, ready to ensure they started the day with belly rubs and ear scratches. If his dad so much as thought about leaving the bed without showering Thor with affection, the golden king would dramatically flop over, sighing as if the weight of the world rested upon him. It was a guilt trip that worked 100% of the time.
Then came breakfast, the highlight of the morning. His dad would prepare his food while Thor supervised, ensuring the portion size was adequate. If there was bacon involved? Well, let’s just say Thor believed in fair distribution—meaning he got at least half.
The baby human, whom they called Lily, was still small and wobbly, but Thor had decided from day one that she was under his royal protection. If she cried, he was there, nudging her gently with his nose. If she giggled, his tail wagged in sync. If anyone dared to disturb her peace—be it a vacuum cleaner, an overenthusiastic visitor, or even a stray sock—Thor would position himself between her and the so-called threat, ready to defend her honor.
His dad often laughed at how seriously he took his role. “Thor, you know she’s fine, right?” he’d say. Thor would just stare, unblinking. As if to say, “Would you leave her unguarded? I think not.”
Visitors were, unfortunately, a thing that happened sometimes. Neighbors, delivery people, random relatives—none of whom mattered to Thor. He would acknowledge their existence with a single glance, perhaps a dignified sniff, before returning to his rightful place at his dad’s feet or beside his baby sister’s crib. Occasionally, a particularly persistent guest would try to win him over with treats. It was amusing. He’d take the treat, of course—he wasn’t a fool—but it didn’t mean they’d earned his loyalty. That was reserved for Dad and Lily alone.
Afternoons were for napping, preferably stretched out in a sunbeam with one ear lazily twitching at any suspicious sounds. Evenings were for playtime, which mostly involved Lily grabbing at his fur while he patiently endured it, a saintly expression on his face. And bedtime? That was the most important time of all. Because bedtime meant snuggling close, his dad on one side, his baby sister on the other, as he drifted off knowing everything was exactly as it should be.
Thor’s world was perfect. And in his mind, everyone else was just passing through.
