Good Boy?

He stepped onto the porch soaking wet, and immediately shook himself out. There. That was better. Or was it? Because now he could clearly see his father glaring at him. Then came the growl. The bottom of his father’s clenched jaw shuddered noticeably, letting out the rumbling sound of dissatisfaction. He was ready to snap.

            “You went swimming?” his father barked, barely controlling himself.

            “I couldn’t help myself, Pop. You know how I love the water.”

            WHAP!

            His father’s paw seemed to come from nowhere, landing hard across his son’s snout. Richard shrank back, cowed and shivering. His tail dropped between his legs, and he licked his lips. He peed a little too.

Richard Sr. stood over him and placed his chin upon his son’s shoulder. He wasn’t happy.

“You were given chores to do, and it’s clear to me…” he sniffed his son, “that you didn’t get anywhere near the barn. Couldn’t be bothered to do your rounds. Sonofabitch!”

He nipped Richard’s ear, drawing a little blood. Richard howled a little but caught himself.

“Pop, I…”

“Don’t ‘Pop’ me. I run a business here. A family business. And I can’t do that when my only living offspring spends his days with a stick in his mouth like a damn fool. Sometimes I wonder whether I wouldn’t have been better off fixed. Because my balls surely haven’t gotten me anywhere.”

His father could be cruel, and Richard Jr. wore that cruelty all over his face. His muzzle bore a jagged crisscross of scars from his father’s outbursts, and his gait was permanently abnormal. Still, he soldiered on, trying to impress him, trying to be as lovable as possible. But he was failing. More and more every day.

He hoped to be a father himself soon–a better father–but wasn’t sure if it was ever going to happen. Whenever he’d mount, there was rejection, as if every bitch could sense how damaged he was. They could smell a good mate, and were content to just walk away, leaving him to hump the air.

Seeming to smell weakness, his father refused to relent.

“If your mother were alive, she’d hate what you’ve become. Just like she hated me. The difference is, I at least provided. I took what I wanted. She didn’t have to like me, but at least she ate. What good are you?”

He hesitated.

“Speak!”

“I don’t know, Pop,” he grumbled.

“That’s for sure,” he said, scanning the property. “But you’ll learn. So help me, you will learn…”

“I already know how to…”

WHAP!

“Not a trick! A lesson!”

Richard began whimpering now, and pacing frantically.

His father nodded in the direction of the rifle leaning up against the side of the house. “You know what that is?”

“Yes, Sir.”

“If I can’t stop you from playing, then we’ll just have to stop your playmate, won’t we?”

“Pop, you don’t mean…?”

“Yes, I do.” His father nodded at the Leader sitting in the rocking chair on the porch. “Kill your human.”

“Pop, no…”

WHAP!

“Don’t you tell me no!”

Another tiny rivulet of blood crept down Richard’s snout–so close to his eye, it almost looked like a tear. He began circling now, stopping only when his father blocked him off, nudging him in the direction of the weapon.

This didn’t make any sense, thought Richard. He tilted his head. He loved the Leader. Certainly more than his father–more than anyone. But he feared his Pop, and the instinct to survive ran deep. All the way back to the Ancestors.

He grudgingly approached the rifle. Sniffing it. Trying to understand it. He had to, just had to…

“Leave it,” said the Leader, absentmindedly.

And so he did.

“What happened to you Buddy? You got a cut?” He chuckled. “You and Rocky play too rough. C’mon, let’s go find your ball.”

And automatically, Richard happily followed the Leader off the porch, not even thinking to look back at his father.

Richard Sr. watched them go, scratching behind his ear as he considered the future. The day of reckoning would come soon. And it would come with opposable thumbs.