For the Love of Pete

These thoughts gave Rick pause, so that when he returned to the apartment, it was with Pete in tow.

They stopped at the park so that Pete could relieve himself before they tried to sneak back into the apartment house. And Pete was as good as gold as the two crept into the foyer and slid down along the side of the staircase to the door to Rick's apartment. Pete didn't bark or even whine and he lifted his paws and set them down so intentionally and delicately as they moved that Rick had to stifle at laugh of his own at the image of the two of them sneaking past Calvin's door.

They could hear the TV going full blast inside Calvin's apartment. The Redskins and Cowboys going at each other on the football field, and they could hear the clicking of barbells as well—Calvin working his body as he watched the television. They paused just inside the door to the street and Pete looked at Calvin's door and then up into his new master's face, and Rick swore that the Sheltie winked at him.

Once in the apartment, Pete sat beside the dining table and followed Rick's movements with his eyes. They were sad eyes, and each time Rick looked at him, he saw his father—and thought of the trust he was placing in his son's hands.

As Rick settled on the sofa and turned his own TV set to the football game and stared, unseeing at the teams chasing each other up and down the field, his mind was racing. He couldn't afford to move. He'd just bought a car above his pay bracket and he'd have to sacrifice the deposit on the apartment if he left. Chances were slim he could even find another apartment at this price within walking distance of the office, and he couldn't afford to pay movers anyway. Regardless, Rick's mind was working over the list of his friends who were strong enough to lift an end of the sofa he was sitting on and dumb enough to agree to help him move.

Pete was whining now, but softly. Rick looked over at him, in fear that he was building up to another session of howling that would bring Calvin's heavy fist apounding at the apartment door. But Rick saw that Pete was asleep now, his muzzle buried down in his splayed front legs, and Rick couldn't bring himself to try to nudge him into silence. He had lost his master, and he seemed to realize that fully now. He was probably feeling more lost and unsure of what to do now than Rick was.

Rick felt the first warnings of a migraine coming on. He was thinking too hard, he knew—and with too little prospect of finding a way out of this maze. Rick couldn't keep Pete here—at least he couldn't without giving Calvin what he wanted from him. And the very thought of that sent shudders through Rick's body and his temple started to throb. But Rick knew now that he couldn't just toss Pete away either. This would be his ultimate failure as a son. It was one thing for his father to miss the mark continually all these years. It was yet another for his son to do the same—to perpetuate those mistakes down through the generations. Rick had declared long ago that he wouldn't go down the same path as his father had in messed-up relationships.

And there was no question now that Rick had a relationship with Pete. He hadn't had one before he had left for his dad's funeral, but he couldn't deny that he had one now after the man and dog had visited the grave together.

Rick felt the silky softness of hair brush against his hand—and that wet nose again. Pete was no longer asleep. He was in front of Rick now as he sat on the sofa, nudging him and laying his muzzle in Rick's lap. Rick didn't know if it was to assure and comfort him or to seek assurance himself. And he didn't care which it was. Rick's head was clearing and his mind was telling him just to let the decisions slide until tomorrow. The day had already been rough and momentous enough.

Rick flicked off the TV set and rose and padded into the kitchen. Pete followed along beside him and sat in the doorway as Rick filled his food and water bowls and signaled where he was to sleep—on a blanket Rick folded up and laid on the floor under the kitchen window, beside the refrigerator.

Pete watched Rick move from refrigerator to bowl and sink to bowl and to the kitchen window, and when Rick patted the blanket, Pete rose right up and walked over to the blanket and hunched down on it with a huffing sound that Rick took for acceptance and contentment.

Rick switched off the lights in the kitchen and living room and went into the bedroom and beyond to the bathroom, where he showered. He closed the door between his bedroom and the living room, listening for the click that didn't come, the mechanism of the doorknob having become unaligned because of the warping of the door, and climbed into bed and was fast asleep much more quickly than he thought would happen on a day like today.

The next morning Rick awoke with the sensation of being weighted down, to find Pete laying beside him in the bed, his muzzle resting on Rick's side and a foreleg stretched over his hip. Pete was snoring, but quietly. Rick lay there for almost an hour, not daring to move, not wanting to disturb his new companion's sleep—strangely content and whole.

Pete was Rick's dog now. If he had to go, Rick would go too.

* * * *

"I told you about that dog. You were going to get rid of it. You know what the lease says. And you knew it before the dog showed up."

"Oh come on, Calvin. He's been here for nearly two weeks and you didn't even know he was still here. He's a good dog, and he's quiet. He isn't a yap yap dog like the one the guy in 3B has. And you let him stay."

It had been a mistake to say that. And Rick knew it was as soon as the words had come out of his mouth. Pete indeed had been a good dog, smart enough to know that his existence here hinged on that. And Rick knew it had been hard for him. He was a free-range dog; he'd never had to be cooped up in an apartment like it was with Rick. But he had been quiet and the two had avoided Calvin for two weeks. Rick had known it was just skirting along the inevitable, though. The one thing the dog and his new master had to do was to get Pete out and to the park a couple of times a day. it wasn't just so he could relieve himself. Pete was an active dog; he had to run free at least a couple of times a day to keep his muscle tone up.

The man and his dog had actually been lucky to be able to spin it out this long before Calvin caught them either coming or going.

Rick knew what Calvin was after, how he would use this for leverage. And Rick had played right into his hands by mentioning the dog in 3B again.

"You know why I let the guy in 3B have his dog," Calvin said. He was wearing a grin on his face. Knowing that Rick had trapped myself. "And the same deal is available to you. You know what I want."

"You can't just play favorites like that, Calvin. I could call the owner of the building and tell him you've let the other dog be here. You might lose your job and your apartment."

"Why, yes you could, Rick. That wouldn't keep you from being tossed out on your kiester, of course—the lease you signed is clear on dogs—but it would give me a good laugh. Bet you don't know that the building is owned by my brother-in-law. He'd overlook anything I was doing as long as I didn't move back in with my sister and him."

The two men stood there, in a standoff, Pete looking up from one to the other, wagging his tail. Trusting in his new master. Rick could see it in his eyes. The nearly two weeks hadn't made any of it easier for Rick. With each passing day, he had grown to love Pete more. Rick hadn't realized how solitary his life had been. Once again he had to wonder if his father had been more attuned to his son's life and loneliness and monotonous routine than even Rick was. With each passing day, Rick increasingly saw Pete as a gift and a life saver.

Calvin broke the silence. "You know what you can do to keep this dog here, Rick. Think about it. But not too long. Tomorrow I call a moving company and as soon as they can book it, they'll be here moving your things out onto the street. Then I won't care where you and your pooch go."

He gave Rick a meaningful look and turned and walked to his doorway. He turned again and said, "I think I'll leave this door open for a while and go back to my bedroom and take a little nap." He winked at Rick then and disappeared into his apartment.

Rick felt himself trembling all over, and he fumbled with his keys and then couldn't quite get the door key into the lock. Pete nuzzled his nose into Rick's hand, and he finally was able to insert the key and turn the lock.

Rick went straight to the kitchen and poured himself a slug of Scotch. He chugged that and went back into the living room and collapsed on the sofa. Pete was right there at Rick's knee, raising his paw to his master's leg and looking up at him with those trusting eyes of his.

Rick sat there for perhaps a half hour, Pete in continuous attendance, and then Rick sighed, stood up and crossed to the door. He locked Pete in and crossed the landing. Calvin's door was still open. Rick walked in and slowly crossed his living space, zigzagging around the exercise equipment that helped keep Calvin so pumped up.

The bedroom door was open too, and when Rick entered, he saw Calvin standing at the window, wearing nothing but a big grin. He gestured toward the bed.

"I changed the sheets just for you," he said.

Rick saw that Calvin was holding two pairs of handcuffs at his side, and he started to back out of the door. But Calvin was quick. Rick turned and was moving fast, but Calvin was faster. He landed on Rick's back and brought him to the floor. Rick continued to try to pull himself along the nubby carpet toward the door, but Calvin was bigger and stronger—much stronger.

"So, you don't want to do it on the bed," he was muttering as he was tearing Rick's shirt, popping buttons with a ripping sound. "We can do it on floor just as well. Or are you having second thoughts? Already starting to pack for that move? Found another place that will take that mutt of yours?"

Rick moaned in defeat. "No, please. I'll do it. Just don't—"

But Calvin wasn't listening to him now. He'd won—and the both knew he had. He dragged Rick up from the floor like he was a sack of potatoes, but rather than hauling him back into the bedroom, he carried him over to the area he'd marked off as his exercise area and dropped him down on his back on a weight bench where he had a heavy barbell suspended on a rack. Rick made an effort to struggle up to a sitting position, but Calvin backhanded him across the face sharply, and said, "Stay. Either say you're moving or lay back and take me. I don't like a tease."

Stunned by the unexpected blow, Rick laid back on the bench while Calvin handcuffed his wrists to the suspended barbell at each side and stripped his trousers off.

There was initial pain, Calvin not giving Rick nearly enough time to adjust to him, but once Calvin's cock was buried deep inside him and Calvin was lost in the rhythm of the fuck, think only of his pleasure and release, Calvin was much like any other man Rick had been with. It wasn't like Rick hadn't been with men before. And now that Rick had crossed that barrier with Calvin, knowing that this would now become a routine for them, Rick just gritted his teeth, hooked his legs on Calvin's hips, and pushed his mind into an alternate universe—one where he and his dog, Pete, were rambling in a lush parkland.

Later, in the night, Rick heard Pete nudging at his bedroom door until it opened on the misaligned latch. Rick heard the Sheltie padding across the floor and felt the weight of him jumping up on the bed—momentarily disturbing his master with the image of Calvin's weight descending on him in the bed across the landing earlier that day—and Rick lifted his hand and let it fall on Pete's silky neck as the dog nuzzled into Rick's body with a sigh.

There was a full moon out, and Rick had left the curtains open, not wanting to be in complete darkness on this, his first time of giving in to Calvin's blackmail. So, he was able to see the look in Pete's eyes as he lowered his head on his master's belly. It was such a look of trust and contentment that a tear came to Rick's eyes and he realized that it was a fair enough bargain, not too much of a price to pay, to have Pete with him.

* * * *

If Mike's golden retriever hadn't had the infected paw and been kept for two days at the vets he never would have met Rick. More precisely, though, if Mike hadn't been the kind of person he was, their paths would never have crossed.

Mike was just sort of kicking around that day, with little to do, and he decided to go down to the vets and visit Rusty on a whim. Perhaps it was the hangdog look on the face of his other golden retriever, Nail, missing his mate and not knowing why she wasn't there that made Mike feel guilty. He had no engagements that day and had planned to just lay around and sun himself on the lawn and maybe take in a movie later. And here, one of his beloved goldens was locked up in a cage and probably panicked at the thought she'd been abandoned—when she was in pain. For all Mike knew, Rusty could think she'd done something wrong, something to displease him, and was being doubly punished.

So, Mike mentally kicked himself in the butt and pulled his body out of the chaise lounge out on the back lawn, dressed, and headed out to the edge of town where his vet had his office and kennel.

As Mike pulled into the parking lot, which was nearly deserted on a Saturday afternoon, he noticed a car parked over in the corner, near the low-lying branches of a tree, about as far away from the entrance to the vets as it could get.

Parking closer to the entrance, he stepped out of his car and looked over at the other one again. Someone was in the car, in its driver's seat, but hunched over. It was a man, and he seemed to be quaking.

Maybe he's having a seizure, Mike thought. Maybe I should go over and see if he's OK.

This is the sort of person Mike was, and so this is how he first met Rick.

"You OK, guy?" he said when he'd arrived at the car. It was a little Italian sports job and he had to lower his head to peer into the driver's compartment. He could see some sort of rug or fur coat wadded up on the passenger seat when he scanned the compartment. Mike was the cautious type. Finding a man in a car out hiding in a corner of the lot like this raised some "take care" instincts in Mike. He wouldn't have known that was what he was doing when he first peered in the car if he'd been challenged on the issue, but truth be unfurled, he was scanning for some sort of weapon—something the man acting strangely could use on himself or someone else.

The man looked up, a dazed look on his face. Seemingly surprised to see another man staring in at him through the window glass but also numb and slow to react. Mike thought he looked nice and sane enough—in fact he was very good looking and not yet into his thirties. Blond and clean cut, someone who took good care of himself.

But tears were streaming down his face. It didn't take a genius to know that he was in considerable distress. Mike looked him over real well—at least the part of him that he could see from outside of the car, looking for some sign that he was wounded, but not finding anything.

The man was giving him a slightly quizzical look, but he reacted in no other way.

"I said, are you OK, guy? Can I help you . . . do you need . . . could you just roll down your window, please?"

The man just stared at him for the longest moment, not comprehending, but then it dawned on him that Mike was trying to communicate something to him and was being impeded by the rolled-up window. He leaned over and pressed a button, and the window smoothly retracted down into the door panel.

"What . . .?"

"I asked if you were OK. You seem to be in distress."

"What . . . oh, yes I'm OK. I'll be able to do it . . . soon . . . in a few minutes. Am I . . .?" The man didn't complete the sentence; he just sort of wound down.

"Do what in a few minutes? I don't understand. Is something wrong?"

"No," the man responded, but it wasn't a convincing no; it was a quite possibly yes no.

"Are you alone? Is there someone I can call? Have you been out here for a long time? Are you here to see the vet? Are you on medication? Or is there some medication you should be taking and didn't?"

The man just let the questions pile up, and a confused, and now quite concerned, Mike nonsensically kept adding one query on top of the other, hoping that something would ring a bell with the man, that some question would be one he'd answer and this perplexing—and distressing—mystery could start to unravel.

"Are you here to see the vet?" Mike repeated, having felt that this question had affected the man more than any of the others did.

"Just a few minutes . . . a few more minutes more. Then we'll go in. I think he's asleep, and he isn't whining now. I don't want . . . to disturb him."

"Him? Him who?" Mike asked. But then his eyes picked up the movement in the passenger seat. The rug or whatever it was there was moving. And focusing closer now, Mike could see that it was breathing—if only in belabored fits and starts.

"Is that your dog?" he asked, his voice going soft how, his mind racing ahead, assessing all of the options, close to the answer. An answer he didn't want to be the answer. He didn't know this guy and he didn't know this dog, but Mike worked closely with dogs—and he worshipped the two he had.

Oh, God, he thought silently, don't let this be that.

"I was supposed to bring him in on Thursday," the man now said in a low, pained voice. "But I couldn't. I just couldn't. Pete seemed to be getting better. Whenever I checked him out he seemed to be getting better. But this morning I realized that he was only trying to seem to be getting better—for me. I can't . . . I know he's in pain. They told me the pain would only get worse. They told me it was for the best . . . for Pete."

"I'm so sorry," Mike murmured. "I know how hard it is. I've had to . . ." The words caught in his throat. It didn't mean anything to this guy that Mike had had to do it too. Those weren't this guy's dogs. It wasn't Mike facing this now.

"I've had him for three years. Got him when my dad died. Dad asked me to take care of him. But I think it was him who was taking care of me. Gave me a life. Made me think of someone else but me."

The guy who hadn't been able to talk before was now gushing it out. The fur ball moved, whined, and a muzzle unfolded and moved over to the guy's lap. Mike could see the eyes now. The dog was looking up into the face of his master now. Trust in those eyes, but also sadness and pain. Mike could see that the dog was trembling. He could tell that the dog was in pain. Tears were still rolling down the guy's cheeks, but Mike could feel his own eyes going misty too. The man snuffled and so did Mike. The dog gave a pitiful little whine, but his gaze up into his master's face was unflagging.

"Sorry, I'm running on," the man said. "Thanks for checking, but we'll do this . . . just a few more minutes."

"How long have you been out here?" Mike knew he should just turn and leave—leave the two alone for whatever last moments they had. But his feet were lead; they wouldn't carry him away from the car.

"Is it still morning?" the man asked.

"No it's getting pretty late into the afternoon." Mike had his answer and he knew now that he couldn't leave. That the man couldn't do it. And he equally knew that it was the right thing to do—for the dog's sake.

"I can walk you in . . . if you're ready," he said.

"A betrayal. I promised my dad I'd take care of Pete."

"Not a betrayal," Mike murmured. "Don't think of it that way. A last kindness." And then to take an edge off that, "How old is Pete?"