His Dog, Warming Their Hearts

Whimpering. High-pitched, timid, and pitiful.

For a moment, Undertaker wondered if one of his guests was still here. It wasn't like him to forget, but maybe one of the coffins was still filled, its inhabitant clawing at the lid to get out, for just one last taste of life. That would make for an interesting tale, he smirked to himself: one of the dead, not yet at the funeral, trying to escape its eternal rest.

Despite the presiding theme of the shop, the noise was made by something alive.

Shivering in one of the empty, open coffins against the wall was an animal. A very small animal, that is. Its black fur was matted and dirty, the look in its brown eyes shivering more than the rest of it, but defiant still.

A puppy.

"Now what would a thing like you doing here in my parlor?" Undertaker asked, crouching down beside it, offering a long-nailed finger for it to sniff.

The puppy did so, cautiously as it could, though fear still gleamed in its eyes—the black robes, unnaturally long, grey hair, which more often than not covered his eyes, and the stitch-like scars weaving their way across his skin, not to mention the usually twisted smiles on his face, were enough to make anyone a little uneasy. The animal, however, seemed to come to the same conclusion that most people did; Undertaker was an odd fellow, but wouldn't go so far as cruel.

"If it's a nice funeral you're looking for," amusement lined his words as he circled his finger in the air to reference the shop, "you've come to the right place." He sat down beside it. "That one there," he knocked on the puppy's current sanctuary, making it shy away, "is made from a very rare wood. I'd need a first-rate laugh for it. Though, I do admit," he gave that signature, high-pitched laugh, more like a twitch at the corner of his mouth, "it might be a bit large for you."

The puppy only shivered, neither caring, nor understanding his sense of humor. Though few could tell when he was joking, and most found their faces in a constant awkward grimace around him.

Undertaker sat up and frowned, his too-green gaze flicking to the door to his shop, which was open, just enough to let the cold—(not that one can feel the cold when they've been dead for centuries)—and apparently other things, in.

"Must've been me last customer," he reasoned softly, "Fellow lost his son. And so close to Christmas too. A shame, really." He shook his head. "Told me he was a nice boy." He smirked. "They all say that, though. 'Nice' doesn't last forever, you know."

Undertaker paused, looked at the pitiful creature, putting a robe sleeve to his chin, "If you've not come for business," he returned to the subject, "you'd best be on your way. I'm not particularly fond of tending the living, ya see." He held up a finger. "Too much on the upkeep."

He stood back up and strode over the door, holding it open. A gust of wind tossed his hair. The animal wouldn't budge.

"Well, if you'd rather have a bit of fun," his grin became more maniacal, and he held his nails in front of his face, "that can be arranged."

The puppy seemed to get the idea, and gave a yelp, pattering over to hide on the other side of the coffin.

"That's what I thought." He inclined his head to the door.

Still, it wouldn't oblige.

Undertaker sighed, putting his hand on his forehead. "You are a stubborn fellow aren't you?"

Despite it not leaving, he headed into the back of his shop, where all things deemed not-fit-for-the-eyes-of-the-living occurred. He left the door to outside open a crack, hoping it would get out with nothing else getting in in the meantime.