For the Love of Pete

But Pete was gone. The void was oppressive. Rick couldn't stay in this house.

And there was the one—the only man in more than a year—who had made such strong and deep and totally satisfying love to him. Rick had forgotten how good sex could be. But it was just the one time.

"I either need a dog or a man," he muttered to himself. And he walked into his bedroom and picked out a pair of tight jeans and his best polo shirt—the one that showed off the musculature of his chest to best advantage. He drew on his black leather boots and practiced his "come hither" smile in the mirror. That made him laugh and then frown. He hadn't thought about doing that for years.

Then he grabbed his car keys and headed for the door. Did he even remember any of the old haunts downtown, he wondered, as he walked to the car. Were any of them still there?

The car stopped sooner than he expected. He'd been daydreaming. He hadn't even driven in the direction of the downtown area. He looked out the window and saw that he was in the parking lot of a park. Several other cars were parked there. That wasn't a surprise; it was a Saturday morning.

Rick got out of the car and stretched. It was dangerous to drive this way, he thought. He'd been zoned out—hadn't even gone in the right direction. He needed fresh air to clear his brain and then he'd take off for the city again. Did he even know where he was? How to get to the city from here?

He was walking through a fringe of woods and found himself at the edge of an open field. A group of people were standing in a semicircle over to the right. They were drinking coffee and chatting.

Rick heard barking and looked out into the center of the field and saw a pack of dogs—several different breeds—running around in circles, playing with each other. While he watched, one of the dogs would break away and run back to the group of people for a reassuring pat and stroke and then scamper back to the center of the field, passing another dog going to check on its owner.

I'm at Penn Park, Rick thought. This is where Mike told me I should come. That I should get another dog and bring him to Penn Park on Saturday mornings. I'm not ready for this, he thought.

Rick turned and started back to the parking lot, which was clearly seen through the fringe of trees, but he heard a bark that arrested his movement. He turned and his heart lurched. A border collie was trotting back to the semicircle of owners. Not a Sheltie, but close enough. Close enough to grab at Rick's heart and bring a tear to his eye.

He was still telling himself he wasn't ready for this when he turned and walked toward the bleachers off to the side, by a small baseball field. He couldn't walk over to where the people were standing—he was in no condition to be chatting with people, but maybe he'd sit on the bleachers and watch the dogs play for a while. He sat on the top row, his eyes picking out and following the border collie as it returned to the playground and cavorted happily with the other dogs.

Rick's mind was wandering as he watched the swirl of dogs. They were going around and around, with a dog spinning off here and there and then racing back in. Someone had thrown a couple of lengths of knotted rope into the center of the swirl and they were playing tug-o-war with that. Pete was conjured up in Rick's mind spinning out of the melee, although he knew it really was the border collie.

The slam of a car door and a set of new barks made him look over at the parking lot. Mike was standing by the passenger door of a car and opening the back door and letting two sleek, gorgeous golden retrievers out. The dogs bounded out into the field, and Mike leaned down and spoke to the driver—his wife, Peggy, Rick saw—and then turned and walked toward the gaggle of people across the field. Peggy drove off in the car.

Rick felt that trying to sink under the bleachers. He felt so embarrassed about the visit to Mike's house. His wife must think he's a nut. And Mike hadn't called in the week since Rick was there. Rick wondered if his thank-you gifts had been seen as petty. They certainly didn't come anywhere near to compensation for what Mike had done for him.

Rick looked toward the parking lot, gauging how he could just sneak off. But Mike had seen him now and was walking toward him.

As Mike got closer, Rick heard him say "Wow" and wondered what that meant?

"Wow?" he asked.

"Oh, I'm just surprised—and pleased—to see that you finally came out. Hi, Rick. It's Rick, isn't it? Glad to see you. Aren't they the limit out there? I could watch those dogs running around happy and free like that for hours."

"Yes, quite a sight . . . Mike. Listen, Mike, about showing up at your house and the chocolates . . . I'm sorry, I . . ."

"You came to see me? And those chocolates and dog biscuits were from you?"

"Yeah, I'm sorry. Nothing would be enough as a thank-you, but a thought at least . . . and your wife must think I'm a nut. I was still in shock over Pete, I think. I know I sounded like . . ."

"My wife?" Mike said, his voice full of surprise. "I don't have a wife."

"But the woman. The woman at the door—the woman in the car you got out of."

"Peggy? You mean Peggy? She's my sister." Mike laughed. "She's been staying with me for a couple of weeks because she had to have her house fumigated. And I'm sorry about not knowing you visited—and not knowing the candy and biscuits were from you. I'm afraid last Saturday was sort of a panic day. Peggy was called away to be with a friend at the hospital, and your visit must have been swept out of her mind. And the chocolates and the biscuits? I'm afraid the ones who got to enjoy those are rambling around out there in the field. Rusty and Nail. They had them all torn apart and half eaten before I even knew they were there. I thought that maybe Peggy had brought them in the house."

"Oh, then that's OK then. Peggy's friend, she isn't . . .?"

"She's fine," Mike said. "A bouncing baby boy. Her husband is being furloughed back from Baghdad to get to see him. But thanks for asking."

Mike was smitten anew. In all of that Rick had picked out that someone was in distress and had asked about that first. Yep, doing what he had done for Rick with Pete was just what Mike could see that Rick would have done for him if the roles were reversed.

Mike looked up into Rick's eyes, and what he saw there gave him hope. And it sent a little charge of electricity through his body.

Mike climbed up on the bleacher and sat on the middle row, not too near but not too far from Rick. He resisted the urge to reach out and touch Rick's hand. Looking for some sort of sign, some assurance that he wasn't misreading what he saw in Rick's eyes.

Rick was looking out toward the field now, toward the dogs.

"You know you really should just jump back up on that wagon," Mike said.

"What? What wagon?" Rick answered. Is he telling me he wants to have me again—that it wasn't just that once?

"You know. Get another dog. I think it would be the dog who would be very lucky."

"You do?" Rick said. He looked at Mike—at the look Mike was giving him. Could it be? he wondered. Is it possible? Is he talking about more than dogs?

"Can you come next Saturday?" Mike asked. I'd really like to see you here next Saturday.

"You would. Well, maybe. Yes, I guess I could come. It's great seeing the dogs. And, yes, seeing them is telling me maybe I should do it. You don't think it would be disrespectful to Pete, though, do you? This soon?"

"No. I think Pete would be pleased. Pleased that you two did so well that you need to fill that hole again."

"Yes, I was just thinking about that earlier," Rick said. "That hole in the heart. That's what Pete left."

They both looked up, hearing the honk of a car horn in the parking lot. Peggy. Peggy Collins. Mike's sister, not his wife. That Peggy Collins.

Mike stood and climbed down from the bleacher—almost reluctantly in Rick's view. "That's Peggy. Tight schedule today and her car's in the shop. Seems like her life has been a series of glitches like this."

"But she's lucky," Rick said. "She has you."

"Yeah, well, she'd do it for me in the same circumstances," Mike said.

"Yep, a very nice man told me that once," Rick said. And then he looked away, not wanting Mike to leave, but not sure where he stood with him, not wanting to reveal his melting want just to be rebuffed. He had the strongest urge to reach out with his hand—to touch Mike's—to try to figure this out. But he resisted the urge, and since he was looking away, he didn't see that Mike, briefly, had held his hand out—wondering the same things, held back by the same fears and lack of surety.

* * * *

"Isn't he a beaut?"

Rick stood there, at the fringe of the park field, still a bit apart from the group of dog owners who had gathered to sip coffee and gossip and watch their dogs dance out in the middle of the Penn Park field on a crisp Saturday morning. He didn't know what to say. A whole range of emotions coursed through his veins.

"Looks like Pete, doesn't he?" Mike said, trying to fill in the gap of Rick's silence. He didn't know whether this was wise or whether it would do the trick—and he hadn't known for sure if he even should be doing what he did nearly nonstop between last Saturday and this. It had been far more difficult and convoluted then he thought it would be. And the circumstances might cause it to backfire. It might be just too pushy.

"Yes, yes, he does." Tears were forming in Rick's eyes. His heart was racing. And there were just too many emotions churning inside and fighting with him at the moment for him to speak.

Mike decided just not to say anything until Rick did.

"Whose . . . whose is he?" Rick asked at long length. He couldn't take his eyes off the full-grown Sheltie racing around in the field, first chasing Rusty and being chased by Nail and then the three changing direction, not caring a bit which one was the chaser and which one was the chasee—as long as they were on the move, exercising their muscles like dogs of their breeds and size must do. The Sheltie broke away from the chase and started herding some of the smaller dogs, which were bewildered by the activity but which were amenable to this new game.

Before Mike could respond, Rick laughed. "Do you see him herding?" He asked. "That's the breeding. That's what Pete did."

"Yes," Mike said. He took a swig of his coffee. He was happy and relieved. That laugh had brought them across some sort of Rubicon, he thought. This might work after all.

"Whose is he?" Rick repeated.

"Nobody's. At least not now," Mike answered. This was it, he thought. There's no pretending this isn't what it is now.

"Nobody's?" Rick asked, and he turned to look at Mike, giving him a sharp look. "What do you mean?"

"He's on furlough, you could say," Mike answered. "I do this occasionally." (The first lie he had been prompted to give.) "He's in a shelter. His owner died and the shelter is trying to rehome him. They sometimes let me bring the better-behaved ones to the park on Saturdays—to help keep them exercised and alert and happy."

"He looks so much like . . . does he have a name?" Rick was looking at the Sheltie at play again. Mike took this as a good sign. The gantlet had been dropped and Rick hadn't stormed off the field.

And this was it. Showtime.

"Yep. His name's Peteson."

"Peteson," Rick repeated the name. "Peteson. Pete's son." He turned his eyes to Mike again.

"Yes, that's right, Rick. He was sired by Pete. Your Pete. Pretty clever of his owners to play on the name, don't you think?"

Rick met Mike's playful smile with one of his own. They both knew that this was the name Mike had given him. Before he could speak, though, Mike had continued.

"Took me nearly the whole week to find him. I checked with the vet. I knew your Pete was purebred, so I hoped . . . and I was right. Your father was breeding him. I guess you didn't know that. The man who had Peteson out there was the breeder you dad went to. He kept Peteson. The man died, though and Peteson there went to the shelter. That part wasn't in my plan. I just thought I'd try to track a puppy that was down the direct line from Pete. But this is first generation. Eight years old. Not a puppy, unfortunately."

They stood there in silence for the longest moment.

"In a shelter now?" Rick murmured at length.

"Yeah, but he's purebred. The people there think he'll be able to find a home. It's a no-kill shelter. Kinda old for placement, though."

Another long pause.

"Pete was twelve when I got him," Rick said.

"Yeah. Older dogs need homes too."

Mike looked down at his side, suddenly aware that he and Rick were holding hands, not knowing who had initiated that. Not caring. Not caring one bit who had made that move.

"I know a café that welcomes dogs—if we sit outside. Not far from here," Mike said. "Would you like to go for a cup of Joe?"

"Yes, yes. I'd like that very much."

"Or would you prefer a glass of water at my house?"

"Even better."