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Fletcher and I took our evening calmative in the kitchen, to sit at the table and talk about "small stuff," as he called it. Showing excellent discretion, Mrs. Whitson made sure that we had exactly two fine snickerdoodle cookies each to go with our cocoa, then left us to ourselves after providing a hug to each of us. The morning would have pancakes for Fletcher and toast for me, since it's traditional for a priest to fast or to eat very little before performing a Eucharistic mass. The idea, presumably, is that the food of God should be consecrated on an empty stomach. It has, on more than one occasion, elicited belly burbles that caused ripples of laughter from the faithful. Some wag is bound to ask, "Did an angel speak?" Our housekeeper had promised to keep some batter aside and provide a more substantial brunch, especially as I was to be presiding over a funeral service later.

I let Fletcher lead the way for our talk. Some of it consisted of describing a vacation that he had been on when a fairly small pup. It was at a little seaside town, with remarkably little-visited beaches. He talked of finding sand dollars, seeing starfish, almost stepping on a jellyfish that he hadn't noticed at first, playing in the shallow waves that lapped upon the shore. He remembered seeing a few yowens his own age, but he didn't get to play with them much. He remembered how the wind seemed constant there, and that it made his fur smell like the ocean. It was a memory of openness and freedom that helped him a lot during Othertime. It had begun to fade, but being able to remember his dam had helped him bring it back quite vividly.

He would pause often, his eyes shifting back and forth in tiny, quick movements, as if he were scanning the pages of a book. "A lot coming back," he said. "Mrs. Falk. First teacher. First grade. She was, like, Mrs. Whitson's age." His ears splayed a little. "Don't tell her I said that! I only mean she was older than my dam, and I don't have much memory of my granddam. Mrs. Falk, she was a doe, and she was... well, kinda plumpish, and I remember how she hugged us all. I don't think she ever shouted at us. She'd call out to us, if we were being loud, or across the playground, but I don't ever remember her yelling at us. She was never mad at us. Not one of us wanted to disappoint her."

"She sounds wonderful," I said.

"Do you remember your first teacher?"

I thought about it. "I don't think so," I said. I smiled. "I hope that doesn't mean I'm starting to lose my memories."

The young wolf shook his head, not smiling. "Just me getting so much back. Like what you said before, about memories rushing in. A lot is coming back. Like, really a lot."

The moment stretched again. I let it, for as long as I could. His eyes kept shifting, sorting through things. This pause was longer than the others, much longer, and I finally broke it. "Fletcher, are you okay?"

He drained his mug, set it on the table, then took my forepaw into his own. The gesture was so adult that it surprised me a little; had he seen it from someone else? Did he know how it would look to me, or was he just delaying what he had to say? Which idea, I wondered, concerned me more? He focused his eyes on mine and said softly, "My birthday is in November." His lower lip trembled a little as tears threatened to overflow onto his cheeks. "November 7th, Graham. My birthday is November 7th."

"Tell me," I whispered.

Many long seconds passed, and in a voice I could barely hear, he murmured, "Fifteen."

"You're fifteen years old?"

Another wait. "Will be."

Ten thousand reactions flew through me in an instant, and although I felt my breath catch in my throat, even that lasted only a second, perhaps two. I did the math, realizing that Fletcher had been sold to his captor when the pup was a mere eleven years old. I did the rest of the math, and I terrified myself. What came out of my maw surprised me.

"I love you, Fletcher."

He continued to look at me, unblinking eyes brimming with tears, his body beginning to tremble.

"That will never change, my angel."

I took the chance, letting my muzzle soften into a smile, and I leaned forward to hug him. He all but leapt into my embrace, wrapping his arms around me so tightly that I wondered if he might break me. I held him no less tightly, hoping that I wouldn't break him either. Part of my brain was trying to do that "adulting" thing, the questions, the problems, the terrors real or imagined, everything to do with thoughts and words. My heart pushed it all aside, because this moment was not made for words. Neither this precious young wolf nor I was stupid; as he'd said just yesterday, we still had a lot of talking to do, now more than ever. Two things made me shut up: My Zen teacher pushed me squarely into this moment and no other, and a wise old angeline quietly shushed my brain to make room in my heart for the angels who lived there.

* * * * * * * * * *

Retiring to our bed not long after, we lay together, still dressed, holding each other and saying little for what felt like an hour. When we did begin to talk, a great many things tried to come out all at once, and it was difficult to focus on any one topic. Everything seemed to have an exception, or a reason, or a trap, or a confusion, and the only thing that allowed either of us to feel that we would find the answers was our mutual chagrin at "the whole adulting thing." Poor Fletcher felt overwhelmed by this strange concept, wondering how "you adults" actually managed to do anything at all, with the rules and restrictions and fears surrounding every aspect of our lives.

"The first thing you learn about being an adult," I told him softly, "is that we're all faking it, one way or another. The only thing that you don't fake, if you're really going to be able to survive this crazy grown-up world, is your feelings. You have to look at them and discover what they are, so that you'll know what it is that you really want in your life. You may have to hide your feelings sometimes, and you may have to rein them in sometimes... and worst of all, sometimes you have to fake expressing them a little, 'just to get along'." I grimaced, hating the taste of the truth in my maw. "But in private, to yourself, and to those you trust, you don't fake what you feel. And that's why we're going to find a way to get through all this, Fletcher... because I love you, and that's no fake."

He squeezed me, a sad smile on his face. "I know it's not," he told me softly. "No matter what else is going on, I know that you love me, and I love you. And that's why I don't want anything bad to happen to you, and there's all these rules, all this..." He swallowed. "How could I forget how old I am?"

I kissed his forehead softly. "You could ask me why I thought you might be sixteen. You're a big yowen, especially once we got you fed properly. And your mind... my sweet young wolf, do you have the faintest idea how smart you are? More than that, your spirit is older than your years. What some would call 'maturity,' perhaps; I think of it as how much your soul shows through. Maybe that was part of what called me to be a priest -- that feeling of wanting to let souls be free..." I managed a smile when he nosed at me; it was his gentle teasing that I was rambling. "I only mean that it's easy for me to think that you're older than fourteen."

"Would it make a difference if I were fifteen now, and sixteen in November?"

"Not according to the rules. The same rules that made what happen to you wrong in the eyes of the law. The same rules that were supposed to be protecting you." I shook my head, kissed his muzzle gently. "I'm sorry, Fletcher. I just mean... I guess I just mean that it's part of what I said about faking things. It's not right. And right here, right now, with just the two of us as the entire world, the only rule that matters is love. I want to hold on to that, now and always."

"We make this world, in this room." He nodded, trying to convince himself. "We are the rules here, and out there... out there, we..."

I felt my heart thudding heavily in my chest, wondering if this is what it felt like just before a heart attack or some catastrophic failure of the body. I begged God to forgive me for wanting to leave this world, now, and for Fletcher to go with me, to go where the only judgment would be made out of love. I would accept that judgment, because I was sure that it would be fair. The problem is that mere mortals are too afraid of love to let it be their guiding law.

"I feel older." His silence went on for a time, and I worried about where his thoughts might be. I nosed him back, and when he looked at me, I suddenly knew part of why he had seemed older. He must have known my thoughts. "Yes," he whispered, "I was back there. I'm okay... I mean, I don't feel afraid of it like I was. I don't like it, and it hurts, but I'm not afraid." He pressed his head against my chest. "Not with you here."

Tenderly, I pet his headfur and fought back tears. "I think that's another reason why you seem older, love. You had your puphood taken away by force." He hiccoughed a sob, and I held him close, rocked him with me. "Now, on top of everything else, you get to figure out how to be an adult in some ways and a pup in others. It's not right, Fletcher, and it's not fair. But there's something that will help, and it's called family. Me, Mrs. Whitson, Leif, Wyatt, even Thad Whitlock is on your side. All but one of them know our private selves, and we aren't saying anything to anyone." I kissed him atop his head. "I won't even try to call it easy, my angel... but I, for one, am going to do all I can to make it work out right."

He shifted against me, as if binding us together. I wasn't sure, at that point, if we'd fall asleep; we were still dressed, and although we usually put on shorts and t-shirts to be more comfortable, at least Mrs. Whitson's bringing tea in the morning wasn't an issue. There was no sense that we would have sex, but I found myself realizing that we were making love in a far deeper way. That was when I found myself able to engage in a profound act of prayer, and I spoke my evening office, silently, more certain than ever that I was heard.

* * * * * * * * * *

I had disturbing dreams that night. They weren't nightmares in the sense of running from the bogeyman, or desperately trying to escape some horror. I didn't wake up screaming; instead, I kept on sleeping, occasionally certain that I was dreaming but not able to do anything about it. I was set a task, which kept changing, and which was quite literally impossible to complete. I was barred from accomplishing anything, whether because I was forbidden by rules, blocked by individuals, or simply unable to get from one place to another to acquire what was needed to make good my commitment. I had the sensation of waking once or twice in the night, although I wondered if it were still part of the dream, since I had no sense of Fletcher's being beside me. It would have been the first time that we had not been spooning, or as close as made no odds, and that realization was almost enough to bring me to full waking, until some furson unknown came to me to remind me that I was about to lose something of consequence if I didn't get my job done, and right-bloody-now.

I remember trying to work out how I was supposed to shift an automobile away from its parking place with my bare paws (for reasons that could only make sense in dream logic or a government bureaucracy) when I heard my name being called. On the third or fourth try, I felt movement against me and above me, someone turning in my arms, a forepaw to my shoulder, and my eyes finally opened to find Mrs. Whitson's concerned face looking at me, next to Fletcher's looking no less concerned. It was only then that I felt my body shudder once, a sudden intake of breath that startled the two of them. A few more seconds passed before I felt that I could risk speech.

"Dream," I managed. Even as I said it, another idea flashed into my head -- ideas told to me by a Catholic priest in another city who had his own issues of confidentiality, but in a way totally different from my own.

"Bad?" Fletcher asked.

"More like hard to shake." The words felt slurred in my maw, as if I were drunk, sluggish. I managed to raise up on one elbow, and Fletcher leaned over to kiss me briefly. Our housekeeper didn't bat an eye, bless her, and her look had softened to simple concern rather than outright panic. "Like fighting to wake up."

"I hope this tea will be a good start," the matronly firefox said softly.

"Mrs. Whitson," my young wolf asked, "I really want those pancakes, but I thought it might be easier if we had them together. Save having to get the griddle hot twice, right? Let me get a shower, and I'll help you with some toast for us. A good breakfast after the service." He reached a tender paw to my shoulder, a soft smile on his muzzle. "My sire needs to be a Father all day today."

"I think that's lovely of you, Fletcher." Our housekeeper smiled and nodded at me, then quietly left us. Fletcher gathered up what he needed for his shower and, out of sight of witnesses, he cupped my cheek with his forepaw and gave me a warm, deep kiss that helped bring me back to myself almost too well. He made sure I was sitting up, so that I wouldn't fall back asleep, and dashed off to the bathroom. Even after the panicky revelations of last night, the wolf was taking care of me. I took a few sips of hot tea and mulled things over.

Father Liam Monyihan was happy in his service to the Church of Rome, and he had a brogue no less tamed than Wyatt's. In some ways, they even thought alike, which made the priest something of a rebel. His dark secret, which was in truth not really a secret at all, was his involvement with an international organization that studied psychic phenomena. It was also linked with a group that studied intense dream states, a place appropriately called The Morpheus Institute. Between Monyihan and the institute's founder, Dr. Bradford, I had once found myself in an astonishing debate over what dreams really were, how they worked, what they meant. The simple truth is that no one really knows, but what has been researched brought up a disturbing series of ideas. In relation to my experience this morning, I was inclined to wonder if the theory that they were discussing were correct: A dream is what the brain is able to process after the soul has come back from wandering out of the body for a time. The sensation I'd had was of having my soul slammed back into my own body, with the accompanying sudden inhalation of breath, tensing of muscles, something like recovering from being nearly drowned...

As I sat waiting for my turn in the shower, the thought that came to my mind was,Where had I been?

Fletcher returned quickly, urging me to get going. I brought up a smile and kiss for him, and the day started to feel more normal. I supposed that, at one point, creating that sense of normalcy was supposed to be more my job, being the "adult" and all. The wolf truly had an old soul, perhaps older than mine, and I felt I'd be wise to listen to it.

Showered, dressed, fed a few slices of cinnamon apple-buttered toast and stoutly-steeped Earl Gray, I regained the few minutes lost when trying to wake up earlier. My foster pup helped me into proper garb for the Saturday morning "get it over with" mass -- a Eucharistic service favored by those who weren't sure they'd be able to get up early enough the next day. All went well and, as I've noted before, it wasn't so much that I "plowed through on automatic" as it was that I was aware of being more connected to myself than to my flock, at least at the start. I kept the homily short, talking very briefly about grief, as there was to be a funeral service later in the day, and none of us needed to be reminded that there was death in the house. As I consecrated the Host, however, I reaffirmed that Life, too, was in God's house, and I felt Spirit move through me as I fed my flock. Fletcher was right: I needed to be a Father all day today.

Carefully changing in the vestry, as well as tucking a napkin under my muzzle at the table, I happily indulged in buckwheat flapjacks with Fletcher. As if sensing a need for normalcy, Mrs. Whitson guided our conversation to light topics and how to order the rest of the day. A very light lunch -- more like a snack, and rightly so -- would be ready to nibble on about an hour before the afternoon service; I'd have plenty of time to dress in a simple surplice and meet mourners as they arrived.

At the service, my brief homily spoke of affirming life and celebrating she who had left us, just for a time. I told of Elizabeth's last communion and, as I expected, most of those present thought it a beautiful gesture. Thomas, my deacon, did his best not to appear dismayed, and had he been able to control his ears and tail better, he might have made it. Samantha spoke of her mother, as did a few other members of the family, and a delightful tale about surprises in school lunches helped to lighten hearts and bless the angeline's memory. As recessional music played, all filed outside to assemble in the motorcade. I previously had explained to Fletcher that I was to say a few final words at the graveside, and that I would return as soon as was decent to do so. I could see that he wanted to know what "decent" meant in this context, and we decided together that Mrs. Whitson could explain during my absence.

The angeline had been popular for countless reasons, with many friends locally as well as those who had traveled some distance to pay their respects. In lieu of flowers, Elizabeth had requested donations to a national campaign aimed at helping yowens who -- orphaned, runaways, or otherwise -- were on their own. I wondered how many or how few might have known part of the reason for that, but I chalked it up to the idea that she had always been an advocate for the young. Some of the mourners had been kind enough to make a small offering to St. Christopher's, and I made certain that it all went into the special pocket of my cassock. I'd had it added after hearing the story (partly apocryphal) of how English barristers had a fold in their judicial robes for clients to pay fees discreetly. It allowed me to keep an honest accounting of the cash donations without mixing it in with whatever few dollars might be my own.

Samantha herself gave me a ride back to the rectory, and by that time, I was more than ready to get out of my various vestments. She spoke to me gently, with gratitude and appreciation for my efforts over the past few days. "I hope you won't take this the wrong way, Father. I just wonder sometimes who consoles the counselors."

I smiled a little, even as I tried to ignore the little knot of fear curled delicately in my stomach. "Mrs. Whitson makes wonderful comfort food, and I have a few dear friends who kindly lend me an ear or two sometimes."

"Other priests?"

"Blissfully pagan." The smile increased a bit. "They are good furs, quite intelligent; Leif is almost empathic, and Wyatt is happily outspoken. They've helped me to sort out many an issue in my time."

"And you're taking care of a yowen now, aren't you? Are you two getting along well?"

I forced my ears and tail to remain still and made the smile stay on my muzzle. "Fletcher is a wonderful pup, and very bright. Helps both me and Mrs. Whitson, and I have to keep up with my own education to answer his questions. He helps me with my vestments before service."

"Will he assist with mass?"

"That will be his choice, if he decides to join the flock."

The angeline frowned. "I thought you would...?"

I vouchsafed a few comments about my attitude toward introducing yowens to religion, a very slightly practiced "elevator speech" on the subject. Samantha nodded her understanding and managed a smile of her own.

"You're a rebel, Father Graham."

"Perhaps... but I will not give up the location of our base."

That got the laugh that I was hoping for, for both our sakes. She pulled into the driveway of the vicarage and set the brake. Turning to me, still smiling, she asked quietly, "Is it permissible to give a vicar a chaste kiss to his cheek?"

I pretended to give it serious consideration for a moment. "Your lovely dam gave me a kiss to the right cheek, so it only seems fair to turn to you the other one."

Leaning over to help her reach me, I smiled and was very slightly surprised that the kiss lingered just a bit. I turned back to her and took her forepaws in mine, looking into her eyes. "You know that you can call, if you need me. It's what vicars are for."

"Thank you, Father Graham. I'll try not to abuse the privilege."

"Not possible."

I took my leave, waiting for her to leave the grounds safely, waving her on her way. "You did good, Elizabeth," I whispered. I felt a warmth in my heart, as if an angel let me know her gratitude.

Entering through the front door, I sighed with the relief of coming home. "Thank you, Holy Father," I said softly, kissing my closed forepaw and pressing it to my chest. I could have changed in the vestry, but these accoutrements were ready for washing anyway; best to change in the comfort of my own room.

"Welcome, Father." Mrs. Whitson came from the kitchen to see me, her face bearing a look of soft concern. "You've had a long day; I'm sure you're tired. Can I fix a cup of tea for you?"

"I'll welcome getting changed," I admitted. I swallowed and asked, "How's Fletcher?"

"He's fine," she assured me, her black eyes focusing on me gently. "I think he went to shoot hoops. He'll be very happy to see you, I'm sure."

"Yes. Thank you, Mrs. Whitson. I should..."

"It changes nothing, Father," the firefox said softly. She padded close to me, to speak quietly. "What Fletcher is cannot be measured by a number. And if you want to get legal, I suspect that the act is done. I stand by all I've said, just as I stand by you both. I see how much you love him, and how much he loves you." She shook her head. "I'm not trying to make excuses for anything. I'm telling you that I'm here for both of you. He's frightened of what it might mean, and the one thing I know is that he'll need you now more than ever."

Pulling me into a hug, she whispered in my ear, "One day at a time, Father. One paw in front of the other. I'm with you, and so are Leif and Wyatt. Talk with them. Be with Fletcher. We'll find the way. I know it."

I raised my arms to hug her back, warmly and properly. I put the smile on my muzzle to make sure that it was in my voice. "Preaching to the converted, my most wonderful friend?"

"Sharing my faith in God with one of His best representatives." She raised herself up to kiss my forehead, then smiled at me. "I still haven't seen the slightest evidence of anything beyond a fine male caring properly for his soon-to-be adopted pup."

"Thank you, Mrs. Whitson." I cleared my throat, a little embarrassed. "I'll go get cleaned up and into something a bit less formal... if you'll pardon the allusion."

"Still got your humor." The firefox grinned at me, chuckling. "Give yourself some time to relax, Father. It's been a rough couple of days."

I made no argument to that comment.

* * * * * * * * * *

My fine and loyal housekeeper always kept Saturday night dinners simple, so that we could splurge on Sunday night. A ziti bake with mild Italian sausage hit the spots (as a Dalmatian, I have to make that joke about any proper repast; it's in the contract for my breed), and there was some left over for a quick lunch during the week, if we felt like being lazy. When she took her leave, she gave both me and Fletcher a hug, admonishing us not to stay up too late. I had the impression that Fletcher might turn from ash gray to bright red, from tip to toe, and our housekeeper probably made the correct choice by simply leaving instead of trying to apologize. The wolf and I were on our own, and for the first time, the quiet between us was unnerving.

I finally broke the ice. "I'm guessing that you and Mrs. Whitson talked a bit this afternoon."

Fletcher's ears splayed. "Trust her," he managed, gulping. "Scared, but trust... I trust her."

You must really be scared, I thought, realizing how he's shortened his sentences again. "Do you want to tell me what she said?"

His tail curled around his hindpaws, and he seemed to force his ears forward again. After taking a deep breath, he let it out slowly, saying, "She knows. Or at least..." He paused, considering. "No. She knows. Is that bad?"

"Did she say it was bad?"

"No. She... she thanked me, Graham. She said she was proud of me, of us, and she said again that she couldn't tell what she didn't see. I'm sure she knows, but she's okay. She said that she loves me, and that she knows how much I love you. She wasn't angry at all that I'm fourteen. I mean..." He shook his head. "Graham, it's all the rules and stuff, and I know it's breaking them, we're breaking them, and really badly because I'm even younger than we thought, and it makes me scared, but she... Mrs. Whitson, she hugged me, told me not to be scared... I was afraid somehow that we'd be in trouble, but she..."

He stopped, not crying but shaking and looking anywhere but at me. I slipped out of my chair and sat on the floor near him, looking up at him. "Fletcher... she talked to me too, when I came in this afternoon. She understands." I managed a small smile. "Maybe she understands even better than we do. She doesn't want us to hurt. She can see how much we love each other, and I think she understands that you're... oh, you're gonna hate this phrase... Mrs. Whitson understands that you're more grown-up than other pups your same age."

The wolf stopped, looking at me finally. After a moment, he laughed a little. "Yeah. Always did hate that phrase."

"I could substitute something for it, but it's likely to be a whole lot of words, and I know how you hate it when I ramble."

We smiled at each other, a little sadly, but sweetly too. I was able to see him regaining himself, and he nodded his consent, ready to listen. I hoped that I wasn't about to screw it up. I cast up a request for help and began.

"Fletcher, I don't think anyone knows what 'being grown-up' means. I think part of it is just having lived long enough to experience things, learn things, and -- we hope -- figuring out what does and doesn't work for us in our lives. You've lived something more than fourteen years, in terms of time passing... but what you've gone through more in those years than many of us do in twice that time." I reached up toward him, and he gave me his forepaw to hold as I continued looking into his eyes. "You still have much to learn, and that's no shame; no one, if he's smart, ever gives up learning. But there are other things that you've experienced... been forced to experience... that you're still figuring out. Remember how we started learning, together, about how your body is changing, how it actually works?"

He nodded, and I continued. "You were frightened about things that had happened to you, and how your body reacted to them. Now, you know better. You've learned. We learned, together. We took what you had been forced to do, and we learned, we understood, and we gave you back control over your own body. That is a very big part of being 'grown-up.' And then, after a time, we talked, and we made choices, together. Talking, choosing... that, too, is part of being 'grown-up.' That's what led us to learn how much we love each other, and that's how you became my lover... how I became your lover."

I smiled softly at him. "We can't change what we did together, and even if we could change it, I wouldn't want to. I don't want to go backward, Fletcher. I want to go forward, with you, always. And to do that, I want what's best for us both, always. So I want always to be asking what your wishes are, always to be listening to what you tell me, and always to love you, in every way, with all my heart."

The wolf paused a few moments before he spoke. "No one's going to think I'm 'grown up' for a while, are they?"

"Some will, because of your intelligence, your spirit, your way of interacting with others."

"But no one will think I'm 'grown up for real' until that date on the calendar."

I nodded slowly. "That's what the rules say."

He paused again. "You want me, Graham." It wasn't a question; it was a certainty. "And I want you. And to the rest of the world, you're to be my sire, and I'm the pup that you rescued and adopted." His muzzle warmed with a smile. "Maybe that's all that they need to know."

Sliding off his chair to his knees, Fletcher leaned over and drew me into his arms, holding me tenderly. His muzzle to my ear, he said softly, "In our world, maybe we're all we need to know."

Embracing him warmly, I felt myself on the verge of happy tears. Doubts, fears, a thousand worries, all raced through my mind. It was easy to imagine the form of an angeline rising up in my heart and banishing them all under threat of a wolverine's spiritual claws. In some ways, Fletcher was more "adult" than I was, because he wrung every bit of tenderness out of that moment and held it close for us both.

And then, he whispered something else to me, something audacious, something extremely "grown-up," and my heart soared, and the angeline spirit within punched the air.

* * * * * * * * * *

"If I speak in the tongues of men or of angels," I read slowly, with a full heart, "but do not have love, I am only a resounding gong or a clanging cymbal. If I have the gift of prophecy and can fathom all mysteries and all knowledge, and if I have a faith that can move mountains, but do not have love, I am nothing. If I give all I possess to the poor and give over my body to hardship that I may boast, but do not have love, I gain nothing. Love is patient, love is kind. It does not envy, it does not boast, it is not proud. It does not dishonor others, it is not self-seeking, it is not easily angered, it keeps no record of wrongs. Love does not delight in evil but rejoices with the truth. It always protects, always trusts, always hopes, always perseveres. Love never fails."

I closed the book before me, letting the rest of First Corinthians rest quietly to itself. "Here endeth the Lesson."

The Sunday morning service was well-attended. The cynic in me wanted to associate it with the sense of loss from the day before, as if any fur who would fear dying would show up in order to help cement his place in Heaven. The cynical Dalmatian pup in me was, as he had been in the past, shown to a quiet seat in the corner and admonished to stay quiet for the rest of the day. It was with a smile on my muzzle that I looked out upon those of my flock who had gathered, and I noted a great many familiar faces one by one.

"After such words, one hardly needs a homily. I wanted to use those verses today for many reasons. As you all know, a beloved parishioner passed several days ago, and I want to reaffirm my love for her, and all of you who loved her as well. It's also good to have a Lesson that speaks so strongly to the idea of love. Sometimes, Lessons seem to be more admonishment and fierce consequence, as if we had to learn under the threat of punishment instead of through the healing power of love. It's also a good time to remember just how strong love really is, and that love is always a sign of faith. The amazing Leo Buscaglia once said, 'It is the weak who are cruel; the strong can afford to be gentle'."

I paused, smiling as I saw quite a few of those in the pews reach over to take another's forepaw in their own or wrapping an arm around someone sitting next to them. Examples of all combinations showed themselves, even in the form of a few high-school age males grinning and giving each other a gentle "bro-punch" to affirm a friendship that couldn't quite use "the L word." I felt sure that they'd learn, in later life, that it wasn't "gay" to express love for each other.

"There's one very special reason why I wanted to talk about love today. You all know that I applied to be a foster sire for the young wolf, Fletcher. That process has been cemented pretty well, I'm glad to say. Even more, I and my friends, along with Fletcher's_pro bono_ attorney in this matter, have been able to discover his identity, find necessary records... and most important of all, help Fletcher break through his traumatic amnesia. He is well on his way to being healthy and whole, and I'm very proud to say that he wants me to continue the process... not being a foster sire but his adoptive sire. I have accepted gladly, and now that we have the information we've needed, we'll be filing the proper papers tomorrow."

The announcement garnered a lot of positive murmurs and some gentle applause, as I'd hoped. I waited until it had abated a bit, then continued. "He's still shy, as you might guess, but he asked something of me last night and, after some talk, we agreed that it was a good idea. My parishioners, my friends, please allow me to present to you the young wolf I hope the courts will give me the honor of being a sire to. Please welcome Fletcher."

From behind the curtains, Fletcher moved toward my place in the pulpit. I could see he was still shaking a little, but he looked fine in the best clothes that Mrs. Whitson and I could find. His ears splayed and his tail hung a little low, simply from embarrassment as my entire congregation rose to its hindpaws to cheer and applaud him. He walked to me, and we hugged warmly before turning back to see an entire church filled with the most welcoming furs he had ever seen. After a full minute, the flock began to quiet itself again and regain their seats. I patted his shoulder gently, and he took a step forward. His first attempt to speak ended in a kind of squeak, and he lowered his muzzle, still grinning, ears and tail twitching, as a gently sympathetic laugh rippled through the crowd. He took a breath and tried again.

"Hi," he managed, and again the gentle laughter greeted him. "I know a lot of you have wondered if I was real." Another round of laughter. "I didn't mean to take so long. I've been... learning how not to be afraid."

A great many faces changed enough for me to know that they remembered what I'd told them those weeks ago. Several leaned forward, softly encouraging.

"Graham..." He looked up at me, his eyes telling me of the love he felt for me, in every way. He turned back to his audience. "He has been helping me learn. My birth sire..." He swallowed once. "What Graham said about love is true, that it doesn't dishonor. My dam died several years ago, and I don't think she would have wanted me to hate my sire. What I want to say is that Graham has been helping me to learn more than my birth sire ever did, and he cares about me in every way. Graham doesn't just talk about love; he means it."

I kept my muzzle, ears, and tail still, realizing that any words from the wolf's muzzle could easily have two meanings.

"A lot of bad things happened to me, and that's what made me scared. We don't have to talk about that, because I'm better now. Better than ever. I'm in a safe place, with Mrs. Whitson, and my new friends Leif and Wyatt, and Xavier..." He pointed, grinning, toward the back where the lobo waved at him. "...and Will and Carter, and they're teaching me how to shoot hoops. And how to have friends again." He stepped back and hugged me for a second time, then turned once more to the flock. "And I have a sire now who loves me and wants me. That feels wonderful. I hope you think so too."

He moved quickly back to the vestry as the congregation once more gained its hindpaws to thank the young wolf with their applause, their cheers. I saw so many of them hugging, kissing, holding, sharing, reaffirming each other, as mates, family, friends, any way and every way. And so it was that my congregation made a joyful noise unto the Lord, and we blessed each other with love.