The Cowardly Dog Ramses _best_ - Courage

He screamed. Ran in a tiny circle. Then, trembling whisker by whisker, he marched past the locusts, past the decaying god, and snatched the slab from the yard. He dragged it toward the road, nails squeaking on stone, while Ramses watched with eyes older than Egypt.

Courage’s teeth chattered, but his legs wouldn't run. His eyes climbed the towering figure that now loomed behind the stone: Ramses, king of a dynasty of dread, his gilded beard cracked, his painted eyes weeping black resin. He didn't move so much as unfold —joints creaking like a sarcophagus lid. courage the cowardly dog ramses

Courage looked at the house. Muriel was humming inside, unaware. Eustace was probably napping with his mask on. Neither of them had touched the slab. Neither of them remembered the traveling salesman who’d left it last Tuesday, carved with a curse in a language Courage could read perfectly—because fear, he’d long ago learned, is a universal translator. He screamed

“Return the slab,” they hummed, low and dry as a throatful of sand. He dragged it toward the road, nails squeaking

Because courage isn't the absence of fear. It’s being terrified of a two-ton undead pharaoh and still returning the slab.