[NDU] When In Doubt, Be A Witch Dog, Part Two
https://sylphidine.tumblr.com/post/184423475132/ndu-when-in-doubt-be-a-witch-dog-chapter-one
“Now listen here, Pitch. Don’t you be so thick in the head!”
The theatre student couldn’t help but grin at that turn of phrase; it was one he’d thrown at Pitchiner often enough.
His grin faded as a thought flashed across his mind. Had he used that phrase in their latest fight? Could he actually have made the big lug homesick?
The thought was enough to distract him to the point that Mama Michelina had to repeat herself several times. “Pitch? Pitch, dear, are you still there?”
He shook his head to clear it and said, “Yes, I’m sorry, the connection dropped out for a minute.”
“I said, it takes two to have a quarrel, and I know my Cossimo. He can be ottuso too, especially if his pride is hurt. I am sure he was unkind to you”, her tone softening, “and that is why I called, to see if YOU are all right. Not to yell at you.”
“Now there’s a first,” Pitch couldn’t help but blurt out. “Your grandson seems to have no problem with that.”
“I know, and that is why I think you need to be his cane stregone.”
She laughed and repeated, “Cane stregone. He needs a witch dog.”
Pitch wondered what dimension he’d wandered into where the phrase “witch dog” had ever made sense, or how it could possibly relate to him. Even in his worst dreams of being stalked by smoky, oily, violent and viciously sarcastic versions of himself, every word he spoke or was spoken to him had been understandable.
He was suddenly very tired, feeling the lateness of the hour, feeling the length of the week, and, horror of horrors, feeling a tad weepy. The kindness of this confusing old woman, who by dint of her religion and her generation’s values should be denouncing him as an unnatural abomination and a menace to society, was making him become unraveled. In a moment he *would* be in tears if he didn’t turn this conversation into something he could handle.
“I’m afraid I’m not following you, Mrs. - I mean, Mama. Why do you think I’d be a good… cane stregone?”
“Let me tell you something. My Andy and I used to have a big dog that we called Stregone, a good guard dog when this neighborhood was not as good as now. Very fierce, very loyal… loving, not so much. Not until Cossimo stayed with us one summer when his parents were away.
“Oh, it didn’t happen all at once. Stregone would growl and snarl, but Cossimo would snarl back. I think one time Stregone bit Cossimo’s ear and Cossimo bit him back... They went everywhere, and it got so that my Andy would joke that they were both witch dogs. Cossimo was not easy to love that summer… all mouth and backtalk. But that dog loved him, and he loved that dog, and they made each other better.”
Mama Michelina paused and then said in a quiet voice, “Because you both scratch and bite and snarl and love all at once, Pitch…. You are good for Cossimo and he is good for you, am I right?”
After a long moment, Pitch replied, “I don’t know.” He didn’t trust himself to say more.
She sighed again. “My grandson will be heading back up to school after dinner on Sunday. Think about what I said, and be good to yourself, sweetheart.”
He managed to make inane parting noises and switched off his phone. He went into Coz’s room for the first time in days, lay down on the bed, and went almost instantly to sleep.
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Pitchiner returned to the apartment just after 10PM on Sunday night and was thankful to see all three bedroom doors shut. Purradox and Tarminator were sound asleep on either end of the faded green couch. He felt guilty for not even wanting to play with his pug, but all he wanted at the moment was to be vertical and quiet.
The first thing to catch his eye was his double bed made up with fresh clean sheets, and it looked like someone had made an attempt at honest-to-goodness crisp hospital corners. The big duvet was folded at the end of the bed.
The second thing to catch his eye was the someone who had made the attempt, asleep in Pitchiner’s chair at Pitchiner’s desk, head buried in folded arms. Drool soaked the tidy sleeve of a crisp black dress shirt, worn under a taupe satin-back vest. Grace and elegance personified. Frustrating, irritating, damnably gorgeous and distracting man.
Sometimes silent apologies were best, both given and received.
Pitch didn’t stir as Pitchiner gently lifted him up off the chair and only murmured muzzily when shifted into a bridal carry and transferred to the bed, disrupting its neatness. Pitchiner undressed himself and Pitch quickly, but could tell from the way Pitch was curled on his side that fun times were going to lose out to exhaustion.
Oh, well, there was always the morning. Pitchiner manoeuvered himself so that he was lying between Pitch’s akimbo arms and legs and chuckled at the thought that it was a rare thing for *him* to be the little spoon.
It served Pitchiner right, when he shared this thought with Pitch upon awakening, that Pitch bit him on the ear.
