Lost Dogs - prologue

(At the rate I'm going I'll have a book's worth of unfinished crap by the end of this year.)

When he saw the flames outside, heard the screams that seemed to be so close and yet so far away at the same time, he opened his front door in case the dogs wanted to leave. He wasn't entirely sure of his decision, but felt it was fair to give them fair opportunity to leave should they so desire. They pattered up to the front, ears pricked, and let out a snort or two, the beginning of a bark then seemed to think better of it and looked up at him, ears now pinned back. He thought at first that they might have been happier in the wild, but it now seemed obvious that they were as comfortable in these four walls as him. He ruffled the fur behind their ears and closed the door, walking through the silent house, his home for what seemed at this moment like forever. Every wall, cornice, picture rail and skirting as familiar to him as his own hairs, warts and wrinkles. He ran his fingers along a wooden panel, feeling the peaks where paint drops had dried decades before, then ran them into crevices where pram handles had scuffed or bicycles had chipped, now many years since. The house was dim, lit only by the glow of the growing fires outside but even in pitch darkness he could navigate his hallway and rooms with ease. The furniture never changed position - except when he felt the need to clean. He made his way to the kitchen and the dogs bobbed behind him devotedly. He reached into the dog's sack and felt for the scoop, whereby he filled both their bowls with enough dry food for a week or so, just in case something happened and he didn't get another chance. The dogs sniffed the heap of kibble on the floor, hesistated, and crunched a few pieces between then before catching up to their master at the back door. He stood looking out into his garden, the darkness of the great unknown rendered uncertain by the fire scattered across the land. He stopped his observations momentarily to ascertain whether his running commentary was natural or whether a mere calming mechanism, like repeating a song over and over in one's head in troublesome times. He felt awfully rational and composed considering the state of things outside his front door, but on reflection he didn't suppose there was a particular way of behaving when the world was ending.