Turns out, when you die, you are judged by a council of dogs. If you find yourself surprised by this, I challenge you to think of a better system.

            They sit on high, in judgment upon you, from behind an elevated white marble desk.

            You know their names at once, because they have personalized name plates in front of them — along with open notebooks and capless pens, plus a bowl of water each, and platters piled high with bacon bits and bite-size chunks of filet mignon. The dogs sit with dignity on cushioned chairs. There are seven of them: Pride, Greed, Wrath, Envy, Lust, Gluttony, and Sloth.

            Sloth and Wrath are eating, and Envy sips at her water. Gluttony, notably, is not touching his food. You later learn he is on a diet.

            When first you died and arrived in this place, you assumed that these dogs were named after the seven deadly sins. But Pride is quick to correct you.

            “The seven deadly sins are named after us,” Pride says, proudly. As if he could say it any other way.

            Pride is a purebred Great Dane, clearly, tan furred and black muzzled, nearly three feet tall at the shoulders: thirty-three inches of muscle and mass. His voice is solemn and dignified — he sounds as you might expect a Great Dane to sound, if it could speak; which Here, of course, it can. His is not an unkind voice — but even so, the edge of every word is tinged with the ghost of a bark.

            A solitary cat appears just beside the marble desk, walking on two legs and bearing a police baton. You surmise that he is the bailiff.

            The bailiff meows, and then says:

            “All rise for Chief Justice Pride, presiding Officer of Heaven in this case.”

            You’re already standing, so you don’t know what else to do to ‘rise’. Instead, you look behind yourself to see what ‘all’ the cat was talking about. You see that the viewing stands contain countless hamsters and rats and gerbils — running on wheels, sipping from water bottles, and squeaking excitedly to each other. At the bailiff-cat’s words, the rodents all stand at attention.

            Chief Justice Pride clears his throat — which, being a Great Dane, takes some time. He barks, once, twice, to call the court to order. Then he begins:

            “Defendant, whom do you claim as your Top Dog?”

            You sputter.

            “Top. . . Top Dog, Your Honor?”

            You don’t know what instinct made you call him Your Honor — maybe just years of court television — but in any case, you’re glad you did. A Great Dane Chief Justice does not seem like someone to cross.

            Chief Justice Pride gives a bark that is something like a sigh.

            “Your Top Dog is the dog in charge of your primary sin. The one that ruled your life.”

            You ponder that for a moment. You reckon that you were a pretty alright person — not much worse than anyone else, anyway — but that doesn’t mean you were perfect. Still: the prospect of identifying your single worst sin makes you feel very put on the spot.

            “Gluttony,” you say, just to say something.

            Gluttony’s the easy one to fess up — not too scandalous. Something everyone would admit to on occasion. And there’s no denying you were fatter than you would have liked.

            The Great Dane ponders that.

            “Gluttony. Justice Gluttony, do you agree?”

            Gluttony is a pug, as round as a beachball, with the friendliest face in the room. His words don’t exactly please you though.

            “Defendant has partaken in all seven of us on numerous occasions, myself included. But no, I cannot claim to be Top Dog in this case. Defendant has dieted nearly as many times as I have, and as a fellow health nut, I cannot fault them there.”

            Chief Justice Pride gives a ponderous nod, which looks quite silly coming from a Great Dane. Despite Pride’s serious demeanor, you notice that his tongue still pokes out from his muzzle when his mouth is closed.

            “Very well,” said Pride. “Let’s go down the line. Justice Greed — are you Top Dog?”

            Greed is a black poodle, whose pointed snout is framed by big, fuzzy, floppy ears. She shakes her head even before Pride finishes asking the question.

            “Not me either, I’m afraid. One night in college, the defendant ran out of dog food when the stores were closed. Rather than let his dog go hungry, he shared his Panda Express Orange Chicken. Gluttony has already been disqualified, but I think this selfless act should disqualify Greed as well.”

            You expect dissent, but there isn’t any: the other judges are nodding their doggy heads. It’s strange, to hear an entire life of actions — greedy and selfless; giving and taking and otherwise — distilled down to a single decision to share some sugary chicken with an elderly terrier-mix mutt named Max. But it is their court after all — and, you suppose, their standards.

            “Very well, very well,” says Pride.

            He picks up a pen with his paw — from this far, you can’t quite see how he manages it without opposable thumbs, but he does so — and he scribbles something into his notebook.

            “Justice Wrath?”

            Wrath is an enormous Rottweiler, who looks to be even heavier than Pride, though not quite so tall.

            “I am not Top Dog in this case,” he growls. “Defendant was angry all the time, but was usually too lazy to do anything about it.”

            “Lazy,” muses Chief Justice Pride. “Justice Sloth?”

            Sloth is a French Bulldog. True to his name, he has fallen asleep at the bench. It takes some time to wake up and bring him up to speed on events, but when that’s over, he too denies ownership of your sins.

            “There’s no denying defendant was lazy, but they worked hard enough to bring home wet food just about every day. Doesn’t sound like sloth to me.”

            “Justice Lust?” asks Pride.

            Lust is a mutt, as you might have expected — shaggy, gray, and utterly indistinguishable of feature. His voice reminds you of your mother’s father.

            “Defendant was horny enough, I’ll grant you, but they never got around to enough humping for my taste. I cannot in good conscience claim to be Top Dog.”

            That leaves only one dog-judge left, so small you’ve only barely noticed her until now: a little chihuahua, small even for her breed, sitting at the far right of the marble bench.

            Pride speaks solemnly.

            “Justice Envy,” the Great Dane says to the chihuahua. “I too am not Top Dog. Many a human is proud — most especially those with the greatest shame — but not this one. For what have they done to be proud of? Defendant has the pride of a beggar and the shame of a priest. That leaves only you.”

            Justice Envy flares her lips and flashes her pointy little teeth, in something like a smile.

            “I am Top Dog!” she squeaks. “Obviously. All their life, defendant wished to be more than what they were — smarter, or richer, or better looking. Defendant is a human, and humans are made of envy. And the worse of a person you are, the more jealous you’ll be of all the good people, for being so good. I should be Top Dog in every case. But in this case most especially.”

            Before now, Envy has been talking to the other dog-justices. But now she turns her buggy black eyes on you. Looking back at her, and thinking of her words, it dawns on you that for all that they speak your tongue, what is judging you is nothing human.

            The chihuahua speaks like something out of a nightmare long-forgotten.

            “I would find defendant guilty of crimes against all dog-kind!”

            The Great Dane in the center seat is nodding his agreement.

            “I understand,” says Pride, in a deep, reassuring voice, but you are not reassured. “Shall it be the standard Envy judgment then? All in favor?”

            All seven judges raise a paw. You hold your breath — though dead, you still have breath to hold, though for how much longer you can’t say. Life is a zero-sum game, and it’s a dog-eat-dog world out there. Are they sending you to heaven or hell?

            Time passes: a waiting period.

            Then, you are reincarnated as a teacup Pekingese.

– Alex Horn