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"He's in a spot o' bother, isn't he, little 'un?"

"Very much so, Master, very much a spot of bother."

"Quite the pickle, wouldn't ye say?"

"A particularly large gherkin, Master, a prize-winning dill."

"Kosher, d' ye think?"

"It would not be my place to say, Master, religious orders being what they are..."

I let my nimble Dalmatian's tongue fly with a particularly juicy raspberry, much to the duo's uproarious delight. It was easy to imagine them in some old science fiction film, with the mad scientist and his hunchbacked assistant exchanging this dialog in some laboratory with huge dynamos, van de graaff generators, and static electricity wheels for use in the climactic creation-of-the-monster scene. However, knowing these two as I did, it would have to have been more like an opening to a strange porn film, and the climactic scene would live up to its name quite splendidly, I was sure.

"Some friends you are," I huffed softly, a slow smile taking the sting out of my comment.

"I apologize fer us both, Graham." Wyatt McNabb, a tall, solidly-built, black-furred Irish wolfhound could not keep his muzzle straight for too long, but he gave it a valiant effort. The young leopard sitting next to him, Leif Winston, nodded, his own white muzzle more composed than that of his Master. "It's simply that nothin' could really prepare us for yer story. You, of everyone we know, would be the least likely to find yerself in such a position."

It had been a full week since I had found Fletcher on that cold, rainy Thursday afternoon. With the help of my housekeeper, Mrs. Whitson, I'd been doing my best to look after the ash-gray wolf pup, and some progress had been made; he was still frightened and uncertain, but he was better able to speak, to volunteer information, to ask for things that he wanted or needed, and he was feeling more trusting toward both myself and Mrs. Whitson. He still couldn't bear to sleep alone yet, but he finally understood why I insisted that we both be clothed when we slept together. If I were honest with myself, I'd admit that spooning with the pup was a deep and abiding happiness for me, and even my matronly red panda housekeeper admitted that such cuddles didn't break any of my vows or any sense of common decency. It would be grist for the scandal mill, should the word get out, but my own conscience was clear. The best sign of her support was the morning when she first brought in two mugs of tea, giving us a smile before asking what we might want for breakfast.

What I needed, however, was help. Despite Fletcher's improvement, he still had a long way to go, and I didn't know what to do or try next. Expert guidance was indicated; at the risk of multiple entendres, Wyatt and Leif were very much experts in this particular area. They had been Master and pet for nearly a decade, and it was one of the healthiest relationships of any kind that I had ever known.

"I need help, Wyatt."

"Graham, fer what it's worth, from what ye've said, ye've already done the pup a lot of good." The black Irish, his lilting brogue dimmed down just a hair, looked at me warmly. "Ye've guessed a lot right, startin' with his diet. Whoever this so-called 'master' was, he's a right sadistic bastard, savin' yer holy ears."

"They've heard worse, I can promise you." I nodded a bit. "That was partly his story, partly first aid. He looked too thin, his fur lackluster, and his attention span and cognition seemed short and uncertain. I'm sure Mrs. Whitson will vouch that his appetite is getting better! He's also proving to be very neat in his habits, all in all. He's helping her tidy up a bit, which is how I managed to get the time to see you alone first. Fletcher will be expecting me back shortly. I told him that I needed to see a couple about some counseling."

"And it's he who'll be wantin' the counsel." Wyatt nodded, then looked to his pet, putting a comforting forepaw to the leopard's shoulder. "Leif, he'll need both of us. Speak free as ye wish, little 'un."

I'd spoken to these two, both as counselor and as friend, on many occasions. In public, Leif might be considered "quiet," but unless you already knew the couple, you wouldn't take him as subservient in any way. In private, whether alone or with friends, the couple's dynamic was more clear, yet the leopard was still not considered or treated as an inferior. In terms that the average speaker might use, Leif was "doting," "devoted," or perhaps even "smitten" with the big wolfhound. He never feared to speak, and Wyatt's comment to him was not some releasing of a command that he be silent, but rather that Leif was to take his own initiatives when desired, not waiting for his Master's lead. In truth, the leopard wasn't one to hold his tongue when in relaxed company; if a good joke were to be made, or if their guests appeared to need drinks replenished or comforts provided, Leif was always ready to ask, offer, make good their combined hospitality. Perhaps that was some "standing order" when entertaining, but I think it was more part of his taking good care of friends as well as his Master.

"How should we start?" I asked.

"We'd best meet the pup, I'd say," Wyatt grinned. "I don't suppose your dear Mrs. Whitson still makes the finest hot chocolate in the land?"

* * * * * * * * * *

We stepped into the priest's house by the front door, as would be expected when I'm having guests. The door is obviously in a location different from the kitchen door, but it also makes a different sound when opened; both serve as a signal to Mrs. Whitson, when she's there to hear it. In this case, it wasn't particularly needed, as she was in the living room, doing a bit of dusting. She smiled at my guests, having met them before. "Mr. McNabb, Mr. Winston, how nice to see you."

"Ah now, dear Mrs. Whitson." The black Irish swept in to take my housekeeper's forepaw and brush the whisper of a kiss over the back of it. "No need to stand on ceremony with us. 'Wyatt and Leif' are perfectly fine fer everyday use."

Sketching a courtesy to match the hound's chivalry, she replied, "And would my doing so end this lovely, romantic treatment?"

"Nae a bit, dear lass. Upon whom else could I bestow such care?"

"I'm sure I wouldn't know," the red panda grinned mischievously, accepting a gentle paw from the leopard. "You look well, Leif," she tried the name on her tongue.

"As do you, and thank you for saying."

All eyes turned to Fletcher as he stood cautiously in the door to my study, dust cloth in paw, a disquieted look in his eye. I padded over to him and took him into a hug, as had become my custom. He returned the hug with just a touch of fear, and I gave him a squeeze to reassure him and, moving a forepaw to his shoulder, stood next to him as I introduced the couple. "These are good friends of mine, Fletcher, and I wanted to introduce you to them." I gave another covert squeeze to his shoulder. I had the strange sensation that he was fighting some impulse, and I felt the need to keep hold of him.

"Hullo, Fletcher." Wyatt made no move toward the wolf pup, showing his understanding. I could tell from the look in his eye that, despite my having told him my guesses about the pup's age, he wasn't quite prepared for the sight of the yowen.

"Mrs. Whitson," I asked, "might we impose upon you for a round of what Wyatt has called 'the finest hot chocolate in the land'?"

"Merely obeyin' the Christian duty t' tell truth, Father Graham."

The red panda, her happily bushy tail expressing her appreciation of the compliment, snorted quietly as she smiled. "I think I could be persuaded. Four mugs on the way."

With my housekeeper about to be busy in the kitchen, at the back of the house, I guided Fletcher to sit with me on the sofa while the couple took chairs nearby. The wolf pup still huddled nervously against my side, looking at my guests with more than just a touch of fear. I thought it best to let Wyatt take the lead in the conversation.

"Well now, m'lad," he said softly. "Father Graham has told us that yer stayin' here. He's lookin' after ye, is he?"

Fletcher nodded, but he still couldn't speak.

"I've asked him to stay for as long as he wishes. And I mean that." I looked at the pup carefully, as he turned fearful eyes to me. I found words tumbling from my muzzle. "These are friends, Fletcher, and I think they can help." I looked to them to see if I'd gone too far.

Leif leaned forward a little and spoke softly, indicating Wyatt. "Fletcher, this is my Master. And I want you to know that he is good and kind, and I'm not saying that because I'm told to." Flicking a quick glance at Wyatt, and then to me, the leopard continued. "Father Graham told us a little of what you've been through, and he asked us to help him, to help you. That's what we're here for."

"We're nae here t' take ye anywhere or do anythin' to ye," the wolfhound said gently. "Graham means what he says: Yer welcome t' stay wi' him 'til ye feel ye might want somethin' else."

"Good to me," Fletcher said, leaning still closer against me.

"I've nae the slightest doubt about it." Wyatt smiled. "That's why he called us. We're nae like th' Master an' slave yer've experienced. I'm nae lookin' fer another slave mesel'." He tousled the leopard's headfur, grinning. "This un's a pawful in his own right!"

Leif laughed, nudging his Master gently. The love between them was obvious to anyone, and if my guess was correct, it startled Fletcher beyond imagining.

"We may not be typical," the leopard said to the young wolf. "But neither was the furson who called himself your Master. Fletcher, when you were introduced to us, you seemed frightened. I'm going to make a guess: Did you think that you were supposed to kneel to us?"

Fletcher ducked his head, made himself small. "It kneels when... when Master..."

Amazingly, even to myself, I had the patience to wait. For the past several days, the yowen had begun to use "I" and "me," and now had reverted back to his old pattern of using the neutral third pronoun to refer to himself. He was having to face a new situation, and he took refuge in an old pattern of behavior in order to find something familiar. The three of us waited, and at length, he turned to look at me, a little afraid, a little ashamed.

"Yes," he finally whispered. "Master only introduced it... only showed... me... to those he wanted to lend... me to, to play with."

"And you were told to be submissive, to obey them, correct?"

"Yes."

The leopard smiled softly, his eyes still showing pain. "There's no need to submit to either of us. Wyatt and I want to be your first new friends."

Fletcher physically jerked in my gentle embrace. He looked from one to the other of my guests, back and forth. It was less fear than disbelief. "Used...?" he managed.

"Aye, lad," the black Irish nodded. "My slave just spoke m' name. He's allowed, especially in company, but more'n that, he does it t' remind me that he's nae a bit less than me. He's nae a play-toy, Fletcher. He's a gift."

"Don't... don't understand..."

"It's what we're here t' explain."

At that moment, Mrs. Whitson called down the hallway, "Ready for hot chocolate, everyone?" In only a moment, she appeared with the tray, steaming mugs in evidence. She caught my eye, and I saw the faintest of winks from her as she set down the tray. Bless her, O Lord, for her consummate care and discretion. She had met my guests on several occasions; she knew about their relationship, and she guessed the reason for their visit. She also knew that the discussion might be hindered by her presence. As I've said before, she takes excellent care of me.

"Father, if you could do without me for a short time, I can get the shopping in."

"I'm sure we can fend for ourselves, Mrs. Whitson, and thank you for what I'm tempted to call your finest home brew."

"Hear, hear!" Wyatt crowed, standing. "And Father, knowing ye've got an extra muzzle to feed, might I offer a wee bit o' assistance t' th' cause?" He brought forth a few bills from his wallet and passed them to her.

"That's most generous--"

The shriek from Fletcher's throat shocked us all, and I found myself being pummeled by wildly flailing limbs. "LIAR!" he screamed. "LIAR, LIAR, LIAR...!"

Leif grappled with the pup, restrained him. Suddenly, the little wolf's face registered shock and horror that was terrible to behold. He crumpled to the floor, taking the leopard with him, and he curled himself into the smallest shape possible, whimpering, crying, saying, "Forgiveness, O Master, forgiveness, it won't do it again, it won't, it won't ever..."

Wyatt padded quickly to Mrs. Whitson, who had both forepaws to her muzzle, trying not to scream. The wolfhound put his arms around her and held her tightly, whispering something that I couldn't hear clearly above the sound of Fletcher's sobbing. Leif was trying to calm the little wolf, holding him, speaking softly to him. All I could do was to sit, dumbstruck, waiting for some portion of my brain to begin working again. It seemed to take a very long time indeed. Wyatt guided my housekeeper back to the kitchen, and Leif never stopped holding and consoling the wolf pup for a moment.

At length, Fletcher slowly raised his head and managed to look at me. Tears creased the fur of his cheeks, and his jaw trembled as he worked up courage to speak. "Sorry," he croaked. After another long pause, he managed, "I'm... sorry."

I took the chance of reaching out my forepaw to him, and he managed to take it and squeeze it. I nodded, and he shifted gently out of Leif's embrace and came back to sit with me on the sofa. I pulled him to me softly, petting his headfur, trying to keep the tears out of my voice. "It's all right, Fletcher. Just hold me. It's all right."

He threw his arms around me and hiccupped some fresh tears against my chest. I pressed him close to me, silently asking for some sort of guidance, some sort of help, from somewhere, anywhere. My eyes cut back over Fletcher's shoulder as I saw Wyatt re-enter the room. His eyes held mine as Leif rose and went to hold his Master closely. They moved back to the chairs and sat to wait in silence.

The wolf's sobs abated slowly, and I held him until he shifted in my arms and managed simply to sit next to me again. He looked to our guests and managed to utter a quiet "Sorry."

"Fletcher," Leif ventured, "I think I know what happened. Did you think that Graham was selling you to us to play with?"

Ice shot through my veins, partly indignation, but mostly the addition of one more horror to the terrifying list of abuse that the little wolf had suffered. The yowen nodded slowly, then looked back at me. "Wouldn't do that," he whispered. "You're not Master. And not... my Master. Even if you were my Master, you wouldn't..."

"No, Fletcher." I squeezed him tightly. "Never. I never would, not for any reason." I looked to my guests, and Wyatt nodded.

"Like as not, Father Graham, there's more'n a few thoughts and words passin' through yer mind that aren't exactly sanctioned by yer callin'," the wolfhound offered quietly. "I'll wait 'til we're a safe distance down th' road afore I vent 'em meself."

"I think the Lord would let me off the hook for a brief transgression of spirit, in this case. I'm not sure what Mrs. Whitson would think."

"Ye could ask her yerself. She apologized fer her outburst after, but she definitely had a few choice words t' say after me explanation." He looked again to Fletcher, his ears back. "Fletcher, m'lad, I apologize fer scarin' ye like that. I dinna think, ye see."

The yowen seemed confused. "You're... Masters don't need to apologize."

"I'm a flesh-and-blood fur who makes mistakes, like ever'one else. I dinna mean t' hurt ye. I dinna mean t' hurt anyone."

"Not even me." Leif smiled softly. "When he apologizes, I accept it, just as he accepts my apologies to him. We make mistakes. We apologize. We go on. That's how we handle our bad choices."

"False choices," said Fletcher. I remembered that first night, and the look in his eyes when he worked to understand the idea of asking for help with making choices.Choose you, he had said. I felt my ears twitch, and the wolf rubbed his cheek against my shoulder. "Still learning." He swallowed, looked again at Leif. "I'm... still learning."

The leopard smiled. "We'll help all we can." He paused, then asked, "Fletcher, could I see your room?"

He blinked, a little confused. "My...?"

"It's part of what we'd like to help you realize, Fletcher. You're not a thing. You're not a toy. You are Fletcher, a rather handsome young gray wolf who is his own furson."

"I belong to..." He stopped, gave me an embarrassed look. "No. Father Graham is not my Master. Unless he wanted..."

I swallowed a little, not sure how to respond to this. Wyatt stepped in to save me.

"I canna speak fer him," the wolfhound allowed, "but I think he'd be lucky t' have yer. That, o' course, depends upon yer choosin' him, and him choosin' you."

"Choose...?"

"Fletcher," Leif began, "let me tell you about how Wyatt and I met. I wasn't actively seeking a Master, and he wasn't actively seeking a slave, or even a pet. We'd been invited to a party by friends-of-friends, and we got to talking." The leopard looked at his lover and smiled. "I was flattered that he wanted to talk to me, because he was far and away the best looking male at the gathering."

"Ah, get on w' yer blarney!" Wyatt chuckled, the sense of a blush rising beneath the black fur on his cheeks. "I thought the same o' you, ye wee kitten ye."

"So we got to talking, and more or less monopolized each other for most of the night. We exchanged cell numbers, met for a few dinners, and he took me to the theater once as well. We began to value one another. That was the start of it."

The yowen seemed to be struggling to understand. "You did not submit...?"

"We hadna even talked much about the naughty bits a' that point," Wyatt grinned. "We were datin' right enou', but we wer'n sure just what we might o' wanted from each other. We found out later tha' we were both of us wonderin' what we were lookin' for."

"Were you..." Fletcher paused again. "Still not used to asking." He cleared his throat and tried again. "Were you a Master before?" To Leif: "Were you a slave?"

"Not even a little bit." The leopard grinned so much that his whiskers seemed to defy gravity. "I didn't think I could be submissive to anyone. And truth told... Fletcher, I don't mean for this comment to hurt you, but I'd read some stories online that scared me. I didn't know what it really meant to submit to a Master, and from what I read, I didn't want to find out."

"How did you choose?"

"By learning." Leif reached over the arm of his chair to take his Master's forepaw into his own. "We talked first, became lovers, then began learning more about each other. We made mistakes for a while, until we found friends to guide us, and even attended workshops for Masters and slaves."

"Would ye have credited it, Graham?" The black Irish chuckled as he gazed at me. "There's actual_classes_ in this sort o' thing. 'Course, there are a few that go beyond just talkin', because ye canna just talk about how t' use a flail. But ye see, little 'un," Wyatt turned to Fletcher, "it's abou' bein'_responsible,_on both sides. If me wee pet here is curious about tryin' summat, it's up t' me t' learn how t' do it right, an' up t' him t' tell me if'n it's what he thought it would be. We both hafta learn, t' discover wha' works and wha' don'. I wouldna want t' hurt th' lad; I don' wanta cause pain to him. Even usin' a flail's nay abou' pain, by itself. It's about_sensation,_and I dinna wanta inflict anythin' on Leif, anythin' t'all, that he doesna want."

"Why?" the wolf asked simply.

"Because," the wolfhound explained with great tenderness, "tha' would be nowt but cruelty. Not what I'm about, an' I wouldna care t' have someone in m' life who wanted t' be treated cruelly. Doesna sit well wi' me."

"But a slave is property."

"Not since the Thirteenth Amendment," I mumbled.

"Right ye are, an' there's more than that," Wyatt continued. "E'en if a Master is such a dam' fool as t' treat another livin' fur as a toy, as a plaything, how in th' name o' anythin' ye care t' think as holy can ye play wi' summat ye break?"

"Fletcher," Leif said softly. "Part of what we learned from each other is that we really don't like labels much. From friends and workshops, we learned words to help us understand things, but only to describe; we never let the words define ourselves to us. My submission to Wyatt is better described by the word 'pet', and my devotion to him is considered 'submissive' in the sense that I want him to take the lead, and that I want to take care of him, and that's why I gave myself to him."

"The greatest gift ever," the wolfhound said softly, gazing with deep, abiding love at the leopard. "An' I'd be the worst fool ever if'n I disrespected that gift. D'ye ken what I'm sayin'? Leif is a_furson,_a beautiful leopard wi' a huge heart an' an even bigger soul. An' his mind...! Ah, that's somethin' t' fall in love wi', milad. I'll ne'er take fer granted the gift that he is. An' in order t' give somethin', ye've got t' have it first, don' ye? Tha's why he's nae a toy or a thing, Fletcher; he calls me 'Master', and he's m' pet, but above all else, he's th' one I love more'n anythin' in this world."

I could see the young wolf turning the idea over in his mind in the silence that followed. It didn't fit with his experience at all, perhaps not even what he'd read about online, if he had read such things at all. In our week together, he hadn't been able to tell me much about what he'd been through; my main concern had been to help him get more healthy first, and then to see what I could do to get him back to something resembling normalcy. I wanted to push forward, to find out all that had happened to him, so that he could start moving past it all, but again, I felt that it still wasn't time for all that. Not yet. We all waited quietly, patiently, until he looked at me and spoke softly.

"Am I... lovable?"

I think all three of us might have had our hearts broken in that moment. My impulse was to race ahead, to pull the little wolf into my arms, hold him, kiss him, tell him just how lovable he really was. I caught some look, some little set of posture from Wyatt, and I held back. Only later did I realize that, in this moment, even the best intentions of love would be a trap for the pup. He would misunderstand the commitment, the emotion, and backing down from either would feel like a betrayal to him.

The black Irish leaned forward. "I see a yowen worthy o' the most wonderful love in th' world. An' ye'll find someone, I have nae doubt of it. And for now, ye've got us t' be yer friends, t' look out fer ye, t' help ye get ready fer tha' love. Will ye let us help?"

Slowly, with a smile, the little wolf nodded.

"That's wonderful," Leif affirmed with a smile of his own. "Now... let's start with your room."

The concepts of "mine" were almost lost on the little wolf. Plainly, he had to have grown up somewhere, at least to his early adolescence, before he became some sadist's toy; there had to have been memories of his puphood, of a life prior to his years of torture. Perhaps those memories would resurface one day, but as he was now, all of that had been beaten out of him. He'd had nothing that he could call his own, not even himself; he was "it," an object, a barely-thinking thing that had almost lost language along with everything else. He would have to learn everything, almost from scratch. The only difference between him and an infant was that he'd had perhaps a dozen or more years of learning that, with luck and effort, could be recalled and used once again.

Language can hold so many traps. Was the room his, literally? Did he own it? Could he take it with him, if he wanted to leave? What about the pillows, the blankets, the desk, the books... His life of pain had been so literal; he wasn't even sure that he had a self, much less a valuable one. With Leif and Wyatt's help, we got Fletcher to understand that the room was his to use, and that he could close the door to be alone, if he wished. He could say who could or could not enter, and when. He was welcome to use the things in the room, and he understood the idea of taking care of things himself, of making the bed, doing laundry, and so forth, not because he was told to but because it was part of caring for himself. His wardrobe was still small; I had raided the clothing donated to the church for the homeless, which he certainly qualified for. Even so, he came to understand that those things_were_his, that I gave them to him, and that if he wished to take them with him sometime in the future, he could do so... if he didn't outgrow them first.

Other things were made clear: His toothbrush, his furbrush, the use of towels, soaps, conditioners, and so on. As the gentle instruction went on, I was reminded of the various sayings about things, about possessions, not defining who we are. Here was a young wolf who, until he came here, had literally nothing, not a single possession save the red cloth collar that had been ripped off of his neck. When we have nothing, we begin to lose our Self, and we go from having nothing to being nothing. I didn't know if I could take care of Fletcher as he needed to be looked after, but I promised myself that, to the best of my ability, I would not let him lose his Self ever again.

"Wyatt," Leif asked his Master softly, "may I have a little time alone with Fletcher?" He turned back to the wolf. "If it's okay with you, Fletcher. I have some ideas that I think I might be able to explain further about my own experiences."

I looked into the yowen's eyes. "How do you feel about that?"

He swallowed, then nodded a little. "You won't be far?"

"I'll take Wyatt into the living room. Leif, would it be all right to leave the door to this room open?"

"Of course," the leopard nodded.

I looked to Fletcher. After a moment, he too nodded his agreement. I smiled and took the wolfhound with me to the living room.

Usually, I wait for my guest to be seated before I set myself down; in this instance, I all but fell onto the couch, heaving a huge sigh. I put my forepaws to my face and tried to regain myself. I felt Wyatt sit next to me, and he put a forepaw to my shoulder. It was only then that I realized that I was shaking a little.

"Y' know," the wolfhound said softly, "hot chocolate is good e'en after it's gone cold."

I managed a snort over that one. After all the fuss and kerfuffle, I'd forgotten that the mugs were still there on the table. "That's what microwaves are for."

"Maybe no' ri' now," Wyatt suggested. "We'd have t' pass by th' yowen's door, and it might look as though we were checkin' up on 'em."

"Point taken."

"How're ye feelin', Graham?"

I let my arms fall to my sides. "Tired, after all that. Very glad I called you two in to help me. I think the pup will be all right, eventually."

"No, lad." The forepaw on my shoulder squeezed gently. "I'm askin' ye... how are ye feelin'?"

Confused, I turned to him, my eyebrows asking the question.

"Ye've told me abou' Merrill. He was long ago now, and ye've not had much help fer it in all these years." He paused again before asking. "How are ye feelin'?"

My first impulse was to scream bloody murder at Wyatt for daring to question my motives in helping Fletcher. As I reminded myself on that day last week, although first impulses should be listened to, they shouldn't necessarily be acted upon. The wolfhound apparently read that thought in my eyes, because he released my shoulder slowly and waited. My mind returned to itself soon enough, and I realized that he wasn't questioning my motives at all, but he was questioning my heart. He was right, and I'd even admitted as much to myself not long ago. I could still say with confidence that I'd not behaved improperly, not broken any vows, not misled Fletcher in any way. Even so, he'd been with me almost every moment of the last week, and he'd slept with me every night -- just slept, but still. It had been both a comfort and a trial, as so many things involving the heart can be.

"You're a wise dog, Wyatt," I offered softly.

"Good enou' judge o' character to find Leif and befriend you." He smiled softly at me. "C of E dinna have confession, Father, but mebbe ye need t' talk a bit? Looks t' be a good time fer it."

Slowly, I nodded. "Yes. I think it's a very good time for it."

...to be continued