Of all the familiars, Max's progress was the most spectacular, and by far the most terrifying.
His power wasn't just growing; it was refining itself, evolving from blunt, chaotic destruction into something far stranger, something Leo's exhausted mind could only label 'precision demolition'.
The true test came on Saturday, when his father, David, decided it was time to clean out the garage.
The garage was David's domain, a cluttered sanctuary of forgotten projects, old tools, and the mysterious contents of a dozen cardboard boxes. It was a place where logic and order were supposed to reign supreme.
"Leo, give me a hand with this, will you?" David called out, gesturing towards a rusty old tool chest. "Time to sort the keepers from the junk."
Leo sighed and followed him into the dusty space. Max, ever the enthusiastic helper, bounded in after them, his tail wagging so hard his entire body wiggled.
"Now, stay, Max," David said sternly, pointing a finger at the dog. "Don't… deconstruct anything."
He meant it as a joke, a reference to Alex's stories about the sixty-dollar chew toy.
Leo did not find it funny.
They started sorting. David would hold up an old, rust-covered tool and declare its fate.
"This wrench," he said, holding up a particularly corroded specimen. "Junk."
He tossed it onto a pile destined for the dump.
Max, however, seemed to interpret this as a command.
He trotted over to the junk pile, his blue eyes fixed on the wrench. He nudged it with his nose.
There was that faint, almost imperceptible shimmer in the air.
The wrench didn't explode. It didn't vanish.
It just… crumbled.
Like a sandcastle in the tide, it dissolved into a pile of fine, reddish-brown dust, leaving a perfect wrench-shaped silhouette on the concrete floor.
David stared. "Odd," he muttered, crouching down to poke at the dust. "Never seen rust act that fast. It's like it just… disintegrated."
He looked at Max, who was panting proudly, then back at the dust. "Perhaps it was a molecular fatigue, Leo, a rare alloy breakdown?"
Leo, whose heart was currently trying to beat its way out of his chest, nodded sagely. "Could be, Dad. That's some very… specific molecular fatigue."
Molecular fatigue? his inner voice shrieked. More like 'Husky-induced quantum deconstruction.' How do I explain that he can selectively disassemble a microchip but not a tennis ball? My life is a physics textbook written by a comedian.
David, now intrigued, decided to test his new, absurd theory. He picked up an old, cracked spark plug. "Alright, junk pile."
Max, ever eager to please, trotted over and nudged the spark plug.
Poof.
A tiny pile of ceramic and metal dust.
David's eyes widened. "Incredible. The resonant frequency of my voice must be triggering a catastrophic failure in objects with a certain crystalline structure!"
He was now fully in scientist mode, his skepticism replaced by a fervent, misguided pursuit of a logical explanation.
He began pointing at various small, junked items.
A box of old, rusty nails. Poof. A pile of nail-dust.
A cracked plastic handle from a screwdriver. Poof. A pile of plastic dust.
But when he pointed at a large, bulky old tire, and Max nudged it, nothing happened. The tire just wobbled.
"Fascinating!" David declared, pulling out a small notepad and a pen. "It seems to only affect objects of a certain mass and material composition. The vibrations don't propagate through the rubber."
He was developing a complex, entirely incorrect scientific theory to explain his dog's magic.
Leo just stood there, a silent, sweating accomplice to this farce. His father wasn't just being fooled; he was actively, enthusiastically fooling himself. It was a spectacle of self-delusion that was both a blessing and a curse.
Max, of course, was having the time of his life. Human points. Max makes go poof. Max is best helper! This is the best game ever!
The "cleaning" continued for another hour. By the end, the junk pile was not a pile of junk, but a collection of neat, tidy piles of elemental dust.
David was ecstatic, filling his notepad with frantic scribbles about "canine-induced acoustic disintegration" and "selective material resonance."
Max was exhausted but proud, curled up on a pile of old newspapers, dreaming of his good deeds.
And Leo… Leo was having a panic attack.
He looked at the scene of precise, impossible destruction. This wasn't just a funny quirk anymore. Max's power was growing with alarming speed and control. A dog that could turn metal to dust with a nudge of its nose was not something you could explain away with static electricity.
He quietly swept up the pile of elemental dust, his mind reeling. The tidy piles looked disturbingly like the ashes of a dozen tiny, cremated objects.
He needed to talk to someone.
Not about the magic, of course. That was impossible.
But about something, anything, normal.
Maybe a walk in the park would clear his head.