I’d come down with a pneumonia, or so I was told, and I was distinctly uncomfortable lying in my Master’s bed. I had little choice though, my Master made all my decisions and I lived with them. The doctor visited me often, every two or three days for very nearly two weeks and I think he wanted to remove me to a hospital, but reluctantly agreed that I would recover well enough in my Master’s bedroom if we were careful and attentive.
I felt weak and I had fevers coming and going, violent coughing spells at night, and I was unhappy and lonely, missing my brothers terribly. Master was good company though, and he spoiled me, worrying over the weight I was losing and spoon feeding me soup and warm milk, or hot chocolate and toast occasionally.
We had little to do except sleep and talk. Master would read to me, which I enjoyed because I’d never been much of a girl for books and it was strange to find that I enjoyed the stories Master would read each afternoon. I especially found Hemingway to be stimulating for some reason, listening with rapt attention while I imagined the scenes and characters in ‘For Whom the Bell Tolls’ and while I didn’t really understand the story, I understood well enough the feelings behind it and I would cry sometimes, so that Master would put his book down and lie down beside me, holding me until I stopped.
The talks we had were simple ones really, nothing more than everyday conversations that anyone might have. He would tell me about my brothers, or about his work being a lawyer for the Indians. I would tell him how much I missed being outside and I tried to persuade him to take me for walks, but of course he wouldn’t. Master barely let me out of bed for the first week, and I really was pretty sick then anyway.
It seemed a long time before the doctor finally pronounced me healthy again, although he seemed somewhat doubtful. Not about my body, which he said was remarkable, but more over my mind, I suppose. He also found that remarkable, but not in an admirable way, not like he appreciated my body. He didn’t understand why I would want to live the way I did, nor did he appreciate my piercings, especially the ring in my pubis, although he could find no flaw with it. All my piercings had healed perfectly, the way my body was recovering quickly and almost effortlessly from the infection in my lungs and the deep cuts along my sides.
I was even regaining weight as my appetite had returned with a vengeance. I felt fat and lazy by the time the doctor paid his final visit and I was anxious to get back to my own room and exercise with my brothers. The days were growing warmer and I missed the sun and my morning baths. But my Master didn’t let me go right away, he kept me in his room even after the doctor had agreed I was fine.
“No. Lie back down, Dare,” my Master told me after he’d shown the doctor out.
I was on my feet; shrugging out of the nightgown I’d been forced to wear for the doctor’s visits. I didn’t like the way it felt, the way it seemed to cling to me. And the panties as well; they felt constricting and unwelcome. The tightness of the waistband around my body chafed my skin. Master had bought them for me soon after he’d moved me to his bedroom, but I hadn’t really understood the reason. He’d removed my collar as well and I wanted it back more than anything else. When he told me to lie down and didn’t retrieve my collar immediately, I was confused and slightly annoyed. I did as I was told though, wondering what this was about.
Master removed his clothes as well then, undressing while I watched and I thought I understood finally. He desired me, that was all, perhaps as a woman, even though it seemed to me that I was much more attractive as a dog. Still, the idea of my Master wanting me was a tonic to my nerves and I relaxed, smiling just a little as I waited for him.
He did make love to me then and it was much as I remembered it to be from my previous life. Master was quiet and gentle, touching me all over and spending his kisses on my body as if I were a real woman. He kissed my breasts, sucking and teasing my nipples while I writhed and cradled his head. It was good like that, the sucking part especially, but I missed the rough tongue of my brothers and the way their sharp teeth grazed my flesh when they kissed my breasts.
Master fingered my sex and kissed his way down there as well, using his mouth on me and it was pleasurable, but I confess I made more noises than I needed to. It was so unlike my brothers, it seemed Master’s tongue was too small for me, barely able to slip between my labia, and it was impossible for him to delve deeply between my folds the way I liked. So I pretended it was good, imagining myself with Bandy or Bush, and remembering the way they would lap at my sex until I was quivering with orgasmic pleasure.
When my Master made love to me, it was enjoyable only because I held so much devotion for him. I felt very little really, although I was tight enough for him I think, having not been fucked for several weeks. I moved with him, lifting my hips and wrapping my legs around Master’s waist, moaning and gasping at the right moments and clutching him to me when he came, wishing I might have cum as well, but I didn’t. I wanted too much to return to my room and I felt uneasy about that, guilty for being so selfish.
“You don’t have to go back…” Master said.
We were laying side by side, him on his back and me on my right side, facing him with my arm over his chest and my leg on his thighs. I could feel his sperm leaking out of me and it seemed there was very little there.
“I don’t want to go back,” I answered, wondering why I would ever want to leave him or my brothers.
“I mean to the other room.” He was looking at me. “You could stay here, in the house with me. If you want to.”
I frowned at that, unable to hide my instant frustration at misunderstanding what he’d said. And now I didn’t know exactly what he meant. Did he mean to say I could stay with him as a woman? Living in his house, wearing clothes, talking all the time, watching television, and all the things I’d never missed? Or did he mean I’d be his house pet, a dog who could lay on the furniture and sleep at the foot of his bed every night? Would he let me out every morning to run with my brothers? Or would I be trapped inside, looking out the window and barking uselessly at every car that passed by?
“What do you mean?” I asked, swallowing hard and fearing the answer.
“I … I don’t know…” Master shook his head and that too made me frown.
I didn’t need a Master who was unsure of himself, who couldn’t command me, and that was an unhappy thought. One that had never occurred to me before.
“I was married before,” he said quietly. “She … died, a long time ago. She was sick and it was … hard. I didn’t…” He was searching for words and talking more to himself than to me, I thought. ” … I was young and I had to work and seeing her like that, getting worse everyday…”
I hugged him, pressing my body to his and my face against his neck, kissing him softly.
“I couldn’t do it. Go there to the hospital every day. So I worked, I just … worked.” He was moving his hands while he talked, but not looking at me. “She was dying and I was waiting, wanting it to be over.”
“It’s okay,” I whispered, not knowing what to say, but wanting to comfort him somehow.
I thought I understood then, just a little. He’d been trying to make up for that other woman, caring for me while I’d lain there sick in his bed. He’d been almost obsessive in his attention, always with me, sleeping in the chair beside me so that whenever I opened my eyes I’d seen him. I hadn’t appreciated that sort of attention, that level of devotion. I’d just expected it, I suppose, and I imagined his dead wife had expected it as well. My Master seemed to think so and there was little I could do to comfort his guilt except listen.
He told me about her, remembering some of the details and forgetting others, so that he’d purse his lips and grow angry with himself until he recalled something else. It was good for him, I think, to say those things, to release the feelings he’d bottled up inside for nearly 20 years. They needed to come out and when he’d finished speaking, we made love again and it was better then, for both of us. And I did have a small orgasm right at the end when his sperm filled me once more.
But I couldn’t stay, not like he was thinking, and I don’t think he really wanted me to. He’d grown attached to me, as people sometimes do with pets, or anything else they’ve cared overly much for. He’d invested a lot of emotion in my recovery, transferring the unfulfilled obligation to his dead wife upon me, and it had been confusing for him, that’s all. He’d forgotten that I wasn’t her. I wasn’t his wife. I was his dog, his Dare. That was all. He could love me and care for me, and do with me as he wished, but only in that way. If he tried to change me back into a girl, we’d lose everything. I could sense it clearly and so could he, once I explained myself.
“How did you get so smart all of a sudden?” He was smiling, teasing me.
“I guess my boat fell in the water, or something,” I giggled.
“Is that right?” He stroked my hair and sighed a little.
“It’s not very deep though,” I shrugged, “I think my oar’s scraping the bottom.”
“Or more like you’ve been playing with everyone.” He made a little face, as if he could finally see the real me.
“I really am a dog, you know,” I said, running my tongue over my upper lip. “Like a wolf, I think. Wild.”
“I know,” Master nodded slightly. “The Indians think so, Whitecloud and the others.”
“Can I have my collar back?” I asked a little nervously, because I was really asking him if I could go back to the way I was before I got sick.
“Soon,” he smiled and kissed me on the lips. “I sort of like having you in my bed.”
“You’re my Master,” I smiled back. “You can have me sleep wherever you want.” I paused. “Just don’t make me wear that underwear again, okay?”
Master laughed softly. “Then don’t get sick again. I’ll build a little bathroom just for you…” he looked at me carefully, ” … but you won’t use it, will you?”
“I have to be outside,” I shrugged. “That’s the way of it.” And really there was no other explanation I could make. I’d risk getting sick again. I’d risk frostbite and rattlesnakes and poison ivy, simply because that was who I was.
“I love you, Dare,” he told me and it surprised me to hear him say that. I knew he did, it had been obvious for a long time, just as I was sure my own affection was plain as the sunrise.
A dog didn’t have to say it though, perhaps couldn’t say it, but it was absolutely necessary to show it. That was the difference between dogs and men, I thought. A man could love someone and rarely demonstrate it, feeling more deeply the need to say to say it aloud, as if that was enough. But a dog would show his love at every opportunity, expressing himself through action, rather than words. I much preferred that, but of course I understood that even my Master had limitations, being only human as he was.
“I love you too, Master,” I said softly, reluctantly acceding to the fact that he needed to hear the words repeated. I could only hope that they would be the last I’d ever speak.