I just wasn’t sure how.
He finished bathing me in silence, making sure to rinse my hair and keep the water out of my eyes. It was going to get long and unmanageable soon, but I doubted he’d be calling for someone to cut it. He’d probably just think of it as fur or whatever.
Briskly towel-drying me off instead of using the dryer like usual, he avoided looking at me. He grabbed me and lowered me down onto the mat in front of the tub.
“Tail,” he told me, handing me the plug after slicking on some lube.
I whimpered, but he didn’t relent.
Slowly, I pushed the thing inside of me, hating that he was just standing there watching — but at the same time, afraid that he was going to try to “help.”
He didn’t. Instead, he offered a hand out, and I knew what it was for. Instead of arguing, I put my hand in his, letting him wrap the mitt back in place before doing the same on the other.
His smile was soft, and he looked more pleased than I had seen him before — which did not bode well for me. If he was happy, I was slipping. But there just wasn’t a part of me that wanted to fight today. I’d fight tomorrow, but for today, I just wanted to be spoiled a little. I knew if I did what I was supposed to do, he’d continue to be a lot kinder to me.
“Good boy,” he told me.
For once, I just let it go. I didn’t ignore it, not quite, but I let it wash over me instead of arguing.
And I wondered just what it might be like to actually be his good boy. What would it mean for me? How much further would he push me? Or would things get better? They could get worse, sure, but every time I’d behaved, he’d introduced something easier or better for me too — temporary as some of those favors might have been.
“What next?” I asked, noting that I sounded wearier than I did argumentative.
“Next, I’m going to take you back to your kennel,” which didn’t sound appealing, “and go get you a good dinner.” Which did sound appealing. Some of the crap he gave me was barely edible at the best of times. “Bark once if you want me to feed you. Bark twice if you want to eat out of the bowl.”
Oh, that bastard. There he was, back with the same goddamn games. Feeding myself was preferable for the most part, except for where I got gravy or juice up my nose, but I’d already had my bath for the day. There were some things a baby wipe just couldn’t clean away enough.
I knew what the other option was, too. If I didn’t wantany courtesy at all, if I wanted to eat the usual crap, I’d stay quiet.
Tentatively, I let out a bark.
He quirked a brow. “And you’re not going to try to bite my fingers?” he asked, more than a little skeptical — not that I could particularly blame him.
I shook my head.
What was the point? It would only get me into deeper shit, and, well… The day had beengood. I didn’t know why I was obsessed with keeping it that way, but it felt like something significant. I wished I knew what it meant, but it wouldn’t come to me.
I had a feeling that was probably for the best.
“All right then,” he acknowledged. “Crawl a few steps for me, and I’ll carry you the rest of the way.”
It sounded so pleasant, so natural, that I didn’t realize what I was doing until I was already doing it. It wasn’t until my knees were off the mat and onto the concrete that I caught on.Damn it.Panic started to rise up within me as I realized what I’d done without even thinking.
He scooped me up into his arms, holding me close and shushing me. He peppered my face with kisses — my forehead, the top of my head, my cheeks, my chin, everywhere but my lips — and encouraged me in nonsensical words to calm down.
I was crying and I couldn’t make myself stop, but I didn’t fight him as he brought me back to the kennel and set me gently back in the dog bed. He even went so far as to draw the blanket over me, taking off some of the chill from the basement in the process.
“I’ll fix dinner,” he said, “and if you still want me to feed you, I will. Nice and neat. Do you like steak, Toby?”
I didn’t have the energy to argue about the fucking name, either. I nodded wearily.
“Good. Steak and vegetables. It was going to be my dinner for tonight, but I think you’ve earned it.”
Now that gave me a “what the fuck” moment. He’d give up his own dinner? Well, not that he’d give it up entirely. He’d probably just order in like the entitled, rich asshole he was. But still. He’d gotten something for himself and was willing to give it to me?
Or is this another form of psychological warfare? I couldn’t help but think.
It probably was, but how much could I actually care at this point? If it meant getting real food that I didn’t have to scramble after in a bowl, I was down with it. It was as close to a fork as I was going to get these days, and I wasn’t going to just snub it.
