The Life and Times of Peter the Dog
Life on the streets was all about cunning and skill. You had to be fast, you had to be daring, and most of all, you had to stay unattached because getting attached was a heartache you didn’t want to deal with. Peter had learned that when he first came to the city four years ago. He remembered his life before vaguely. He was born on a farm and learned how to walk with his sister in tow, their mother watching closely as they ventured into the world. He would run, play, jump, get dirty...and then it all changed one day. People came to visit, and they were fun to play with, but they always left again. Then there were the Joneses. They didn’t play, they didn’t touch him, they just took him to the city like he was a piece of luggage, even when he cried for Angelique and his mother. It got worse when he met their pup. Joey wasn’t interested in him, and when he was, he would hurt Peter whenever he tried to come near; sometimes bribing him with treats so he wouldn’t be suspicious before the pain came. But despite it all, Peter loved him. This was his family, this was his home. Or it was until Mr. Jones left him in an alley on the way to work one morning. Peter was terrified, only wanting to go home. He couldn’t make it back, getting hopelessly lost in the attempt, and whining himself out before curling up under boxes for his first night in the cold of New York City.
That was the last time Peter trusted anyone Human.
Oh, he likes most humans well enough, just not enough to actually think one would ever give him a home. Not that he needs one – he has this whole city figured out.
His day always starts the same. After detangling himself from the pack – others who were abandoned like he was – he’d make his way out of the park to where the human pups always wait for the big thing that takes them away all day. Joey’d used to wait for one and Peter hated that rumbly wagon. This one he doesn’t mind because these aren’t his humans, even if he likes them well enough. They all have something in their bags to share and Peter often eats like a king before the big thing honks and they all leave. He always brings something back for the pack, making sure they’re all up and awake for the day. You only find food if you look for it, so there’s no point in waiting for it to come to you.
He plays with the pack most of the day, chasing them around and keeping them away from the humans with dogs on leashes, clipped to their collars. He knows that word well. A collar means you belong to a human. He’d had to claw his own collar off only months after he’d been abandoned because it was strangling his growing neck. He’d pulled them off other pups before they could go through that pain. Every time he does, he yearns for things to have been different with Joey. He could have been a good dog.
He always goes by the big Italian guy’s restaurant before it gets dark out. If he catches him in the back alley, he can often walk off with a meatball or two and a scratch to the back of the ears. He always smells like food, and it makes Peter’s ribs ache for how hungry he can be sometimes, but he knows better than to overstay his welcome. The big guy’s nice, but he’s not about to give Peter a bowl and somewhere warm to sleep. So he wanders, mooching off the people he thinks smell friendly, but never the ones who beg themselves. They’re generous, but they look hungrier than he is and even if they’re humans, he can never reason to himself that it’s a good idea to take food from their mouths. If he’s lucky, the pack’s settled in for the night before he makes it back to the den to sleep huddled against them to keep away the cold.
Only one night, he doesn’t make it back.
He knows what The Pound is. He’s heard talk on the streets about dogs getting picked up and locked away there. Some get taken by humans, others...well, cats are the only ones with nine lives, after all. So it’s the general rule of paw to avoid them at all costs. Peter’s dodged the net more times than he can count, sometimes making a game of it when he’s bored. So naturally, the guy snags him when he’s weary from a day of walking, trying to find something to eat because the human pups and the rumbly thing aren’t where they usually are and haven’t been for days. The weather is hot, he knows they don’t leave home when this happens, but he’d hoped they’d be there anyways only to be disappointed. You can’t trust humans, after all.
The first thing they do is feed him. Irony at its best. Peter doesn’t trust the food, doesn’t want to eat it, but he’s hungry. Eventually he eats the mushy slop, not liking it at all, but he’s eaten worse, so he can’t complain. There’s a blanket to sleep on and the place is warm at night, but he’s still in a cage. It rattles and clanks when they open it, causing him to back into the corner and growl every time in warning. He’d let the girl – there’s a few people who mill around routinely – get close once and he’d ended up with something clamping his jaws shut and a chain around his neck pulling him into the backroom so she could scrub him down with awful smelling foam and water. He’d learned not to let them get close after that.
He almost feels like a puppy again when people come to see him. Human pups stand at the door, fingers through the links of his prison, eyeing him. He doesn’t want a human pup. He can’t go through that again. So he turns his back to them, pretending to sleep until they lose interest and walk away. It happens a lot and Peter is beginning to wonder if he hasn’t made a mistake. It’s either go with a human or don’t go at all. He’s never considered the big fire hydrant in the sky and the idea makes him shake.
So when the man comes, he doesn’t turn his back. He stares him down, judging him. He’s older, probably old enough for pups of his own, but he doesn’t smell like he has them. He stands patiently, looking Peter over until he wants to snap at the man and go back to sulking. He finally opens the cage, stepping into Peter’s territory. He wants to growl, bite, snap at the intruder, but he stays where he is and watches as the man sits down and leans against the wall of his prison. Peter doesn’t know what to do with this. The man doesn’t seem to want to touch him or take his blanket. He just sits and talks. Peter doesn’t understand the words, but he finds the voice isn’t so bad. The man sits and talks for a while before doing something interesting. He reaches into his pocket and the mouth watering smell of bacon assaults Peter’s nose. He licks his chops, watching the man as he slowly pulls a strip out and takes a bite.
Yeah, typical human. Eat in front of the dog who’s living on slop and...wait. The man’s holding the rest out to him, making soft noises of encouragement. Peter’s wary, but he’s no match for the bacon. He takes it gently, backing into the corner to eat it, watching this stranger. Maybe he’s not so bad.
The bacon man – Don as the people call him – comes back every day. With bacon. Peter can’t figure out the angle. He’s not being nice to a stray, he’s not trying to pet his ears or hurt him or even bust him out. He just sits, talks, and feeds Peter bacon like it’s going out of style. Peter hates to admit that he waits for his friend (?) every day, tail wagging traitorously when Don comes. When Don misses a day, Peter mopes, refusing to eat, thinking the one human he was warming up to was done with him. So when Don comes back, Peter does something he swore he would never do again and shows some affection for the guy, nudging his leg in greeting and avidly wagging his tail like all the other dogs do when they leave with people. Peter still wasn’t sure about this, but he thought that if he had to leave with anyone, he’d like it to be this man. Don only laughs and rubs his ears, telling him he’s a good boy.
He’d been waiting his whole life to hear those words.
Don means them, though. The soft leather collar around his neck tells him so, and so does the new place he calls home from that night forward. It’s got lots of things he can’t chew, and he has to go on his leash if he wants to see the outside world, but it’s warm, there’s always food, and he’s got something called a couch that’s pretty soft. What’s more is that Don’s never hurt him, never tricked him, never abandoned him, and Peter finally understands that he’s home.
It wasn’t how he expected things to turn out, but this was better than anything he could have ever hoped for.
OOC: Yeah, this came to me at 3 am. Don't judge, haha.
