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Rain can be a blessing or a curse, a pleasure or a penance, usually dependent upon three things: How much of it there is, whether or not you have to venture out in it, and what sort of things happen to you while it's going on. On a day when you can lounge in your easy chair, wearing your comfy pants, soft music playing, a mug of hot tea beside you, and a cozy mystery to read, it can be pure bliss. Given all that had happened to me already that early spring day, up to and including the leaky "covering" over the downtown bus stop, I was ready (to quote the much-venerated television program of my youth) to chew neutronium.

I adjusted my hat and greatcoat, remembering to be grateful that they were doing their jobs. My clothes hadn't been soaked, and my exposed fur was still reasonably well-kept at this point. (I added my short fur to my list of blessings while I was at it; grooming was always easy for a Dalmatian.) The bus was, of course, late. I tried to remember the teachings I was given from a wise old master of Zen and simply let go of the frustration and potential for anger. It was, as he would have said, not serving me. In the West, the idea had been repackaged as "Let go and let God," which was clever as far as it went; however, when you find someone who preferred to take in the Pantheon instead, or perhaps had no particular connection to anything beyond himself, the idea found itself lacking. The whole thing, I reflected, was a lot simpler in Eastern thought. We do seem to have a penchant for making things complicated in this part of the world. I never understood why.

The sound of sloshing water from the curb alerted me to jump back a bit, saving me from perhaps twenty percent of the soaking caused by the bus' arrival. Once more, the lesson presented itself of discovering that you might not like what you've been wanting for all this time. Desire makes us regret the past and live in the future, said some philosopher in my brain, and it prevents us from appreciating the Now. I did my best not to grumble aloud as the Now soaked itself into my black slacks and my already wet hindpaws. I climbed the steps, forcing up a smile for the gruff old bulldog bus driver who barely acknowledged me. I had my wallet out and, after scanning my pass, I took a quick survey of the passengers and available seating. It was odd seeing that, although the bus was only half-full, nearly everyone was in the front half of the bus. I felt something like astonishment in the half-second it took for the driver to put the bus in motion with that combination of acceleration and sharp turning into the flow of traffic that (I'm convinced) they learn in a highly secret driving course, with the goal of making any standing passenger spin in circles down the center aisle. My experience helped, in that I had a firm grip of both poles on either side of the passage, but my wet hindpaws threatened to slip out from under me on the slick rubber matting. I managed to start my navigation toward the rear of the bus when I realized why everyone had moved to the front.

Huddled in as small a form as he could make himself, a small, young gray wolf was consumed with violent shaking. His fur was soaked and had made a small puddle on the floor below him. His forepaws, curved inward to his cream-furred chest as if in a fetal pose, clutched tightly at something red. I could sense wave upon wave of immense sorrow emanating from him; it was obvious that his quivering was made from being freezing cold and from a grief that seemed unfathomable. Equally unfathomable was why the poor pup was naked.

It's said that one's first impulse should always be listened to, although it should not necessarily be acted upon. In this case, that was superlative advice, for my first impulse was to scream hellfire and damnation at the occupants of the bus for being so arrogant and self-serving as to ignore the needs of one among them, particularly a yowen. I clamped my lips shut and hid my tongue behind my teeth for fear of biting it off. As the driver continued to do his best to throw me off my hindpaws (they must be paid a bonus for each successful attempt), I used poles and raised handrails to work my way, almost paw-over-paw, to the rear. One passenger looked up to smile at me, and I did my best not to growl at her like a feral dog. After several seconds, I managed to sit down near the pup. He didn't even acknowledge my presence. I hesitated to reach out, not out of fear for myself but out of concern that his throes might be induced by some form of autism, in which case touch is a bad choice.

"Hello," I said as softly as the whirring electric engines behind us would allow.

Little in the little wolf's demeanor changed, yet I sensed that he'd heard me.

"My name is Graham. You look cold. May I cover you with my coat?"

I wasn't sure that I could get through to him; if it were a sensory overload, he might not be able to talk or respond clearly. As I watched him, I had the impression that he was not being overwhelmed by mere sensation but by something intensely emotional. His face had lifted enough for me to see that rain wasn't all that had damped his ash-gray fur; the streaks of tears showed plainly down his muzzle from eyes still tightly closed. His trembling was terrible to behold. Unable to stop myself, I took my life in my paws, standing up on the moving civically-approved death trap and stripping off my coat quickly to put it over him before sitting close to his head and resting my forepaw gently upon it.

This, finally, got his attention. Still shaking, he looked up at me, cobalt blue eyes drowning in tears still streaming. He struggled for some moments to make his lips and tongue work, until without sound, he formed the word_why_ on his muzzle.

"Because you're cold and hurting. I can't turn away from that."

His head moved back and forth a little, his body still trembling beyond any ability of his own to control it. Those deep blue eyes never leaving mine, he made his lips form the question again,why.

"I'm going to take you to a hospital."

Like lightning, his forepaw flashed out to grip my forearm tight. He moved his head back and forth again, firmly, quickly, his lips forming_no_ out of his silent torment. I felt my eyebrows trying to knit together, confusion, concern. He closed his eyes and made a tremendous effort to control at least his head and muzzle. He finally managed to keep part of him still enough to lift his eyes back up to me and, with strength from some final place within him, he managed to croak out, "No... hospital."

"You need help," I said softly. "Did something happen to you? Were you hurt? Were you attacked? Do you have family, or..." I finally made myself shut up. The pup could only answer one question at a time, and I wasn't helping matters much. I found myself caressing his headfur gently, trying to calm him by rubbing the base of his ears, a fully canine reaction; it's a "button" for most of us, producing a means of relaxing us through some set of acupressure-activated nerve endings or something. It's also an affectionate gesture, which is something that I sensed he needed perhaps more than physical warmth.

"No... hospital," he managed again, his face beginning to look not so much calm as resigned. My greatcoat was heavy and well-lined; it would take time for him to feel truly warm, but I had been warming the interior walls of the mackintosh for a good half hour before I'd climbed aboard this ill-heated contraption. If nothing else, the mere possibility of his being warm again, soon, had helped him find a little strength.

"All right," I told him, my forepaw still to his ears. "No hospital. Do you have somewhere to go, a place to stay?"

He shook his head sadly, the resignation deepening across his brow. The young wolf seemed to age before my eyes.

"Did something happen?"

The grip on my forearm loosened a little, seeming to give up the last of his fight. He moved his other forepaw out from underneath the coat, and he placed a remnant in my lap. The flash of red that I'd seen earlier was made evident to me. With a strange lurching in my stomach, I picked it up to examine it: a red canvas collar, perhaps three centimeters in width, its clasp still whole but the fabric itself rent violently, torn through by powerful paws, or perhaps worse, by angry, dangerous teeth. I looked into the little wolf's eyes, and my blood chilled as I heard his murmured words.

"Master doesn't love his toy anymore."

* * * * * * * * * *

He sat at my kitchen table, still huddled in my greatcoat, a steaming mug of cocoa clasped in both paws. The pup looked dwarfed in it, not because I'm such a hulking brute as all that, but because I had a good 35cm of height on him. He wasn't much more than a meter and a half, even taking into account his being hunched over. More than ever, he looked like a small, half-drowned street urchin from a novel by Dickens.

It was all I could do to convince him to let me bring him back here. I have to admit that I was just as glad it was the housekeeper's day off; she's fine help and has a heart of gold, but I wasn't at all sure she'd have welcomed the story that he was telling me. Not that she'd have thrown him out, but she probably would have insisted that the yowen be taken to hospital, or to the local care offices. Without ID, he had no proof of identity, citizenship, or age, and it goes without saying that Mrs. Whitson takes very good care of me. I think my status as a bachelor, much less anything else, causes her to feel that I need keeper as much as I need a housekeeper.

Although no longer shaking, the little wolf was still shaken. You'd think I'd be more used to listening, but I have to admit that listening does require something to listen_to._ I'd managed finally to get the pup to tell me a few things, painfully getting a few words at a time. His name (prior to his slavery) was Fletcher, although I wasn't sure if that were a first or last name. He'd not had cause to use his name for some two or three years, as I understood his story. I was no prude, and the idea of being someone's sexual slave, although not my idea of a relationship I'd enjoy, was not repugnant to me on its surface. It was the rest of the story -- much of which I had to deduce from Fletcher's behavior, his appearance, and what clues I could get from his shattered storytelling -- that made me feel such revulsion.

For at least the past several years, this young wolf had quite literally given up everything in order to be with his Master. Fletcher had nothing of his own, no possessions, no clothes, not even a book or trinket. He was thinner than I'd have thought healthy, and his fur didn't have the luster it ought to have had, given his apparent age and thick coat. We hadn't gotten far enough in his tale for him to tell me many identifying factors such as his age, background, and so forth. If I was right, he was indentured (to use a polite term) when he was as young as fourteen, possibly even a little younger. This, along with my guesses about his ill treatment, made my stomach roil. The only thing that he had to show for his servitude, apart from malnutrition, physical injury, and no doubt mental trauma as well, was the red canvas collar that had been sundered as brutally as the so-called relationship itself.

I sat nearby with my mug of tea helping to warm me up as well. "Fletcher," I said softly, "I know that you may not have an answer for this yet, but I'd like for you to start thinking of what you want to do. You've said no hospital; I can only imagine that it's because you're afraid of getting police involved. You don't have to tell me anything that you don't want me to know, but I think I know what you're afraid of. You're afraid that some legal agency is going to find you. I think I know the answer to this question, but I need you to tell me the truth, so that I can hear it from you: Have you broken the law?"

He shrugged a little inside the coat.

"Let me change that question. Have you done anything like stolen from someone, hurt someone, anything like that?"

A headshake.

"What you're worried about is having been someone's sexual slave while still a minor."

Fletcher shrunk a bit further down into the coat. That was about as close to "hearing" is as I was going to get from him.

"As far as I'm concerned, that's not for us to worry about... unless you want to press charges against him."

Rapid, vigorous headshake.

"Then we won't." I paused, taking a sip of tea. "Fletcher, for right now, I want to offer you dinner and a spare room to sleep in for tonight, and then tomorrow, some breakfast and a chance to figure out what to do next."

"Can it stay here?" he asked softly. The warm cocoa seemed to have been doing him some good; his voice was still raspy, but at least he sounded better when he spoke. I had to force myself not to react to his using the neutral third person pronoun, and I wondered again, fleetingly, about what exactly had befallen him.

"Perhaps." I couldn't keep the hesitation from my voice, so I quickly added, "I won't throw you out on the street, and I won't turn you over to anyone that might hurt you, even accidentally. I don't exactly set myself up as a rescue mission, but I feel very strongly that you not be hurt any further. I'll work with you to find a way to do that. Is that close enough for now?"

Cautiously, he nodded.

"Okay then," I offered, trying not to be too chirpy in my attempt at being positive. "I think we should think about what I can provide to you for dinner. I should ask first: When did you eat last?"

His eyes moved to one side as he thought about the question. "What day...?"

Again, I worked very hard at keeping my muzzle set properly. "Today is Thursday."

"It's not fed Wednesday, Saturday. Sometimes, Master's guests sneak food. Sometimes, treats, perform well."

"Did you eat today?"

Fletcher shook his head. "Put out, morning. Still dark."

The height of the thunderstorm was sometime just before dawn. It was all I could do to keep from screaming. It wouldn't help the pup, and that had to be Job One right now. "What do you like to eat?"

"Whatever it's given."

I clearly must have had some reaction, as the yowen flinched a little. I leaned back slightly, to give the pup some room. I nodded, putting on as much of a smile as possible. "Let's not put too much on your stomach at once," I said, trying to sound like a wise physician. I rose to visit the refrigerator, and a quick glance confirmed that I had indeed kept some of those horrible-tasting "nutritional shakes" that I forced past my tonsils when they were so inflamed that I could barely swallow. Happily enough, the worst was a few weeks ago, and the antibiotics had helped to rid me of the strep quickly enough. Also happily, today's downpour wasn't likely to affect my recently-restored immune system, although I wasn't at all sure how it might have affected my young guest.

I was careful not to let my frustration and anger show through in how vigorously I shook the bottle; that would likely have frightened the pup no less than an outright rant and rave. I set the plastic container gently onto the table and worried open the cap. "This will help, I think. Sip at it, see how it sits on your belly."

The young wolf followed my instructions quite precisely, which in its way was no less disturbing than anything else. The formula wouldn't be considered tasty by anyone who had a palate that could discern between, say, chocolate and garlic. Churlish of me to think like that, but at least the drink would help supply some tiny measure of nutrition until I could try out real food on him. He still would not (or could not) provide further information about his servitude. Somewhere between proper diet and a little kind patience would, I hoped help break whatever lock was in his mind that had stolen so much of him.

* * * * * * * * * *

Fletcher may not have been able to do much for himself, in terms of his taking any initiatives, but his body had some sense of self-preservation. Before the evening was over, he had a second bottle of the "nutritional supplement," and to my eyes, he seemed at least a little more alert, more mentally present. The question was how to proceed. It took me some little time to realize that his squirming meant that he needed to use the bathroom. I led him to the necessary and had to insist that it was all right for him to relieve himself. Even then, he needed me to stand where he could see me through the open door. I had the peculiar idea that he had been watched during his toilet, for reasons I couldn't begin to guess. I am not disgusted by bodily functions, but I was again having to fight down a rage against someone who could treat a pup this way.

I wasn't operating entirely in a vacuum. I'd talked with, even counseled, some who were part of "the scene," to use the colloquial term. For the most part, I simply listened, looking only for indications of hurt that required solace, confusion that required clarity. I knew that what I was witnessing here was far more the aberration than the norm. Most of those I'd spoken with about matters such as this were in need of simpler answers to easier questions, something closer to relationship guidance than of any physical or psychological danger. What I lacked here were specifics, and I wasn't sure that I'd get them anytime soon.

The spare bedroom isn't large, but it's comfortable enough. I'd brought one of my t-shirts and a pair of shorts for him to wear; the shirt hung low and loose on him, but the shorts had enough elastic that they wouldn't just fall off of him. He seemed reluctant to take off my coat; I convinced him to change and then put the coat back over his shoulders. It didn't take me long to realize that he was used to responding only to commands. I phrased them differently, or I assumed that I did, but my requests were still viewed as orders. I asked him to sit on the bed, and I got the chair from the small desk in the room and sat nearby.

"I need for you to talk to me, Fletcher."

He looked at me for a long moment, indecisive.

"I know you've been someone's slave for a long time, and I feel that they did not want you to speak very much. You're used to speaking only to answer specific questions. Can you tell me if that's right?"

Slowly, he nodded.

"Okay," I said softly. "It may take some time for you to get used to having someone care what you think, or say, or feel. I'll help as best I can." I considered for a moment. Something I had heard about very strict Masters and the effects upon their slaves... "Fletcher, I don't want this to sound cruel. Your Master has released you, is that right?"

What he'd done was throw the yowen out like trash, but I couched it as carefully as I could. The poor pup looked like he was going to cry again, but he held on long enough to force himself to nod.

"You've not had to make choices for yourself for a long time, have you, Fletcher?"

He shook his head slowly, daring to croak out, "Master chooses."

"Master is not here to choose for you now, Fletcher." I spoke with as much tenderness as I could muster, for the pup's sake, even as I'd have liked to find out who that vile Master was. It occurred to me that some of those I'd spoken with before might know something, and heaven help me from finding out for myself. "You will need to start making choices for yourself."

He seemed to withdraw into himself again.

"I know it seems frightening. I will help you. We'll take one choice at a time. The first choice may be difficult, but I hope it won't be." I leaned forward a little, looking deeply into those cobalt-blue eyes. "I want you to choose to trust me."

He looked at me, a strangely confused look on his face.

"If you choose to trust me, I can help you with everything else. Trust me when I tell you that this is a safe place for you. Trust me that I will not throw you out. Trust me that I will work with you to learn how to make your own choices. Trust me that I will do all I can to help you. That's your first choice, Fletcher. You don't have to make it right now. I think that, right now, what you need is rest. You can sleep safely here tonight, and if you need anything during the night, come find me. I'm in the room right across the hall. I'll leave the door open. If you need me, wake me. I'm here to help."

It was clear that he wanted to believe me, but he still wasn't sure.

"You're not a prisoner here, young wolf. If you want to leave, at any time, just go out by the kitchen door, where we came in. But if you'll stay the night, you'll at least get to sleep warm and safe, and you'll have breakfast with me in the morning. Perhaps we can talk more then."

He pointed to his throat.

I reached into my pocket and took out the red collar. "I wasn't sure if you wanted it."

Taking it from me, he put it reverently on his pillow, his forepaw resting flat against it for a moment before he turned back to me. Again, he pointed to his throat. My brows furrowed as I looked at him, puzzled. Once more, he pointed to his throat, and then he pointed to me. I never think about it when I'm wearing my clerical collar.

"Yes, Fletcher. I'm a priest. Anglican, if it makes any difference."

His frown deepened, and the look of doubt returned to his muzzle. "Collar," he murmured.

"I hadn't thought of it like that. I serve voluntarily." I considered a moment, ears twitching. "Perhaps you could say that I serve a good Master, and He has never taken choice away from me. He guides me, but He does not choose for me."

"How..." he struggled, "you... choose?"

"By trying." I didn't want to make a homily out of it, but I sensed that he needed at least a little more information. "I've learned that a choice is only a choice. If it's a good choice, you'll feel better about it and about yourself; if it's a bad choice, you can choose to stop doing that and try something else." I felt a wan smile on my muzzle. "It's very hit-or-miss, but we learn something new with every choice, and that helps you make better choices in future."

He seemed to think about this for some moments before he broke out with a yawn that allowed me to see that his own tonsils were just fine, thanks. When he stopped, he looked at me with terror on his muzzle, and he scooted backward on the bed a short distance. I started to reach out for him, and he whimpered.

"Fletcher, it's okay. You're fine. It's all right." My mind tripped over something and it fell out of my muzzle. "I am not displeased."

Some little time later, I realized that it's what a Master might have said to his slave to calm him, if the slave thought that he had somehow transgressed. At the time, I only thought that the words had the right effect on him. He seemed less anxious, although he was still trembling.

"I think we both need some sleep," I said softly. "I'm going to go to bed. If you need me, just come wake me." I held his eyes with my own as I stood slowly, so as not to alarm him, and then I replaced the chair to its desk and turned back to look at him. "Think about your first choice, Fletcher. We'll talk more in the morning."

I had the passing desire to hug the pup, but that itself is an act of trust, and I wasn't at all sure he was ready for it. I paused at the door to nod to him, offer him a good night, then padded quietly to my own room. I almost closed my own door, out of habit, but I remembered what I'd told him and left it ajar. At the_prei-dieu_ in the corner, I knelt, crossing myself, gathering my thoughts and my emotions. I breathed slowly, releasing whatever anger I'd felt rising in me through the day and trying to open a good path between my heart and the Savior I had chosen to serve some years ago. Folding my paws together, I let myself feel the words of my nighttime office as I spoke them softly aloud:

O God, by whom the meek are guided in judgment, and light rises up in darkness for the godly; Grant us, in all our doubts and uncertainties, the grace to ask what You would have us do, that the Spirit of wisdom may save us from all false choices, and that in Your light we may see light, and in Your straight path may not stumble; through Jesus Christ our Lord. Amen.

I crossed myself and rested there for another moment before rising slowly and turning toward my bed. Only then did I notice Fletcher standing in the doorway, holding out my coat to me. I crossed the room to accept it from him, my eyes asking if he were sure. He nodded a little. I hung it up on the open door. "It'll be here tonight, if you still want it."

He looked to the_prei-dieu,_ then back to me. "Heard you," he whispered.

I waited.

"False... choices?" he asked.

It was my turn to nod. "We all make them."

"You... asked help."

"Yes."

"Get help?"

Answering truthfully, I said, "Sometimes."

A very long pause. "Need help."

Despite the rulebook telling me otherwise, I knew that this was not the time for religious guidance. "How may I help you, Fletcher?"

After a long moment, his eyes flicked to the bed and then back to me.

I didn't want to make too many assumptions, but the most likely suggestion was one that I didn't think that I could make happen. I felt myself fumbling for an answer when the pup surprised me by shaking his head.

"Choice," he said, quietly but clearly. "Choose you."

"Fletcher, I..." Swallowing didn't help my consternation. "I don't know if I can make that choice."

"Ask help."

It was sound advice, and it was also a question. I raced through ideas in my mind, none of them providing a clear answer. He padded softly to the bed and sat on it, still wearing the shirt and shorts I'd given him. The pup made no move to take them off.

"Choice," he said again. "Choose you. Trust you."

"I can't be your new Master."

He nodded slowly. "Alone."

I blinked. Something in me made me look more closely at his eyes. Perhaps that was my undoing, but not in the way that I had feared. I sat next to him on the bed, and he leaned against me, his forepaws resting loosely in his lap. A small whine escaped his lips, and he rubbed his cheek against my chest. I reached an arm around him and just held him. He made no other move beyond the slight trembling caused by gentle weeping. A verse came to me from the rulebook:...we know not what we should pray for as we ought, but the Spirit itself maketh intercession for us with groanings which cannot be uttered...

Grief. I had known grief as well. I recognized it now. The yowen had suffered a death -- all that he had been for these past troubled, tortuous, terrible years was gone, as was the time of innocence before it. He would have to build a new life from nothingness... or, perhaps with a little help, from the kernel of making his first decision in such a long, long time. I, too, had to make a new life when my love had been taken from me. I chose this life. I chose.

I placed a chaste kiss atop the pup's head and disentangled myself from him for just a moment. I took the folded comforter from the end of the bed and shook it out. Still dressed, I lay down and brought Fletcher into my embrace. The whimper that came from him was one of need and comfort, and he settled himself against me. I asked him to turn out the light, being sure to say "please," which I wagered he'd not heard much in recent times. Some light from down the hall spilled into the room, but I didn't think it would bother either of us. My only concern, as I settled down into sleep with the pup in my arms, was what Mrs. Whitson would do when she brought in my morning tea. That, however, was for the morning -- the future, not the Now, as my Zen guide would have reminded me. Right now, my arms, the comforter, and Spirit cradled a young wolf who had been lost and found, all in the same day.

I'd have imagined that sleeping in my collar would have been uncomfortable. It seemed to fit better than I'd thought.