The first whisper of it reached me over a mug of something poorly brewed and far too expensive. I dismissed it at once. A tale about royal tributes being earned by sitting? Nonsense. The kind of nonsense hoomans invent to feel clever. But the name tied to it gave me pause.
Princess Pudding.
And so I listened.
It began, as many strange things do, within the Hearth of Provisions. Master Larder stood watch over the bowls, measuring portions with the seriousness of a man who believes food obeys rules. Pudding lingered nearby, quiet for once, observing without mischief. A rare sight. Suspicious, even.
Then came the moment.
“Good girl,” said the hooman.
And just like that, a snacc was offered.
Now understand this. In Barksvale, tribute is not handed out lightly. It follows effort. Victory. A properly executed campaign against a stubborn treat. It does not… appear because one happens to be seated.
Pudding accepted it, of course. She would not insult the offering. But she did not move on. She stayed. Watching.
Later that day, she sat again. Not as a command. Not as a trick. Simply because she felt like it.
“Good girl.”
Another snacc.
That was when curiosity took hold.
By evening, she brought the matter before the King upon the Sacred Couch. Truffle listened, not with amusement, but with the careful stillness of a ruler who suspects the world has shifted slightly without asking permission.
“They reward actions,” Pudding said.
“What kind of actions?” he asked.
“I sat.”
That answer did not please him.
Tributes, as any proper citizen of Barksvale knows, follow conquest and cunning. Not… sitting. Yet the hooman had not hesitated. There had been no confusion, no error in the exchange.
Only certainty.
So the King called for proof.
The next morning, within the Hall of Feasts, the experiment was conducted with all the quiet seriousness of a royal investigation. Pudding obliged, repeating her earlier behavior while the hooman responded in kind. Sit, and praise followed. A paw raised, and another offering appeared. A turn, for flourish more than necessity, and yet another tribute was granted without delay.
There was no inconsistency. No resistance. Only eager compliance.
Pudding adjusted quickly. What began as observation became method. She refined her movements, tightened the sequence, removed hesitation. The results improved immediately. Tributes came faster. More frequently. Master Larder, for reasons best left questioned, appeared pleased with the efficiency.
The King did not share that pleasure.
He watched in silence, eyes narrowing as the pattern revealed itself fully.
“This is not random,” he said at last.
“It works,” Pudding replied, already mid-routine.
“They are encouraging behavior,” he continued. “Repeating what pleases them.”
“Yes.”
Another pause. A longer one.
Then came the thought that soured the air.
“They believe they are guiding us.”
Pudding stopped.
It is difficult to describe the offense that followed. Not loud, not dramatic. Just a stillness sharp enough to cut.
In Barksvale, there exists a quiet truth, whether spoken or not. Dogkin rule. Hoomans serve. And yet, as any seasoned observer will tell you, hoomans carry themselves with a peculiar confidence, as though they are the architects of all things.
To suggest they were shaping royal behavior?
Unacceptable.
Pudding resumed at once, but this time with purpose.
“If they follow patterns,” she said, securing yet another tribute with effortless precision, “then they can be led.”
The King considered that.
Then nodded.
By nightfall, the conclusion was clear enough for even the most distracted courtier to grasp. Hoomans respond to actions. They repeat what satisfies them. They offer rewards when they believe they have succeeded.
Which means they can be trained.
And so what began as a curiosity became a practice. Then a method. Then, in time, an art.
The Praise Ritual.
Not obedience, as the hoomans would proudly claim. No, no. Nothing so simple. It is a performance. A carefully measured exchange where just enough is given to keep the tributes flowing, while control remains firmly where it belongs.
Princess Pudding mastered it first. Naturally.
King Truffle studied it with care. Also naturally.
And across the kingdom, from the polished heights of Highhold to the restless noise below , dogkin began to experiment in their own ways, each refining the ritual to suit their temperament.
As for the hoomans…
They remain convinced they are the teachers in this arrangement.
I have seen many such arrangements in my time.
Few have favored us so completely.