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Alphabet of Whump: H is for Home
A recently discarded, desperate pet approaches a house he hopes might hold kind people.
(or, Charlie finds a home)
CWs: BBU, pet whump, zip ties, restrained, mention of possible amputation (non-medical), starvation, implied non-con, self-dehumanisation, crawling
The pet crouches in the mouth of the alleyway, watching the house opposite.
Not– not directly opposite. But nearly. Shiny bronze numbers on a polished wooden door. Neat brickwork. Big front garden filled with native plants. Polished swirly fence and gate. Sparkling tiled path.
The pet has been watching this house for a while now, and he has learned three things.
1) He has never heard shouting. Not at anyone, not even the woman who works there. The man sometimes speaks sternly into his phone but nobody ever shouts or screams or yells.
2) Everything is neat. But he doesn't think it's a show house where only perfect people live (he's nowhere near a perfect pet (a perfect pet wouldn't think) (a perfect pet wouldn't be thrown away)).
3) The man has a dog. A puppy. He walks it, and the woman walks it, and sometimes the pet can see around the side to watch the puppy being played with. He got close, once, and the puppy sensed him but didn't attack. It doesn't have any scars that he can see. Maybe, if they're kind to that puppy, they'll be kind to this one too.
The pet's stomach cramps, hard enough to force him to double over, feeling nauseous. Even if they're not kind, it'll be better than starving.
Maybe.
Probably.
He's good at begging.
It'll be better than being found here. Then he'll be hurt, and hurt again, and sent back to the people who took his name and threw him away. And then they'll chop his forearm off to get rid of the barcode and leave him to bleed out.
He doesn't want to die yet. He wants to be loved useful again first.
(Pets don't have wants. Bad mutt.)
He stands. The puppy will be let out into the garden at some point, and that's his best option for getting in. Pleading his case.
He hopes he's made a good choice. He's not known for it.
(He shouldn't be making decisions at all.)
It still feels profoundly wrong to walk instead of crawl, something in his body twitches and burns and aches with punishment, but he's learned that he has to, especially when crossing the road. People look at him with disgust if he doesn't.
His knees threaten to give out, but he keeps walking. It's the longest he's walked without stopping. Maybe not ever, though. He still has longings for a hike with the good kind of ache.
(Pets shouldn't long for anything that isn't their owners.)
(Bad mutt.)
The pet pushes the latch of the side gate up with his bound hands and shuts it again once he's on the other side. It's very fiddly.
There. There's the garden, in all its green glory. He settles in the bushes to wait for the puppy to emerge, half lying down, leaning on his elbows.
It's not long before the back door opens. Or maybe it is, maybe he's retreated again like he's prone to when he's not required to be an active participant in being used.
(He's not supposed to do that. Bad mutt.)
The dog comes charging into the garden. It's round, with stubby legs and a too-long tail that it hits itself in the face with. The pet loves it.
(Pets don't have likes. Bad mutt.)
He shakes himself out of his head and starts pushing himself towards the open back door, towards where he needs to wait until whoever let the dog out returns. He doesn't want to miss his chance.
He's walked too much today. It's tricky to crawl with his hands tied in front of him, but he manages it, pulling himself along. He settles into a kneeling position just behind the door.
Footsteps approach. A woman sticks her head out of the door and calls, "Mathonwy! Here, boy!"
The pet pushes himself the last few inches he needs to go to make it to within her sight. She looks... friendly, he hopes. Not too polished.
(He's allowed to hope.)
She sees him and freezes.
"Well, you're not Mathonwy."
The pet looks up at her with his best puppy dog eyes, hands resting on his legs. He yips pathetically.
Most people don't like dogs that talk.
"No, you don't have to– you can talk. Can– can you talk?"
"Yes, miss," he whispers hoarsely. It's been a while, and his mouth is so dry.
She smiles, though it looks a little forced. The pet hears thundering behind him and Mathonwy barrels into his side. He falls and the puppy starts licking his face.
"Oh, for– Mathonwy, come!" Mathonwy lets him go reluctantly and returns to the woman for ear scratches. "Sorry about that. Young staffie cross, and we're still training him. This is Mathonwy, and I'm Mandy. Are you okay?"
The pet nods and sits back up. He's always okay, although no-one's ever asked him before. "Right. Well. I assume you wouldn't be here if you had anywhere else to go, so come inside. No– you can walk, you don't need to– I mean, whatever makes you feel comfortable I guess. What do I call you?"
The pet heaves himself up against the doorframe. His name was Fido, but that was taken when he was thrown away. He's not their dog anymore either, not if he's not there. He can still be a puppy, he was sometimes that for clients and nobody's said he can't be, but he doesn't even have the ears for it. And it might get confusing. He's not a mutt, he's not being bad, he's sure he's not. Is he? That's not a status he can give himself, only a person can decide that. All he can remember otherwise is his designation.
"I– this puppy is– I– my designation is 726E, miss."
Maybe he is a mutt. That was a mess, and not even a cute one, which clients sometimes excuse because puppies make messes.
"Okay, well, that isn't much of a name. No offence."
How could the pet take any offence? He's not supposed to feel anything.
And yet, he knows that isn't true.
(Just another reason to add to the list of why he's so unwanted.)
Miss pulls a chair out from the table and swivels it around, patting the dark wood. "Sit down here, hun. We'll cut those zip ties and your collar too, and then I think you could do with a bath and some food. What do you think?"
Baths are icy with soap that stings, and he hasn't been able to keep any food down for a while (it's part of the reason he was thrown away and what if she discovers and does it too?). Not having a collar means he's unwanted or about to be used so heavily, so violently, that it might be damaged or stained. But there's only one possible answer.
"Yes, miss."
Miss brings over a pair of scissors as he manoeuvres himself into the chair, crouching down (which is wrong, wrong, wrong) and taking his hands. With a couple of cuts, none of which break his skin, the cable ties are on the floor.
Cutting the collar is much less pleasant. It's thick, heavy leather, and stuck to his skin in places. He can't stop himself from crying out, especially when she starts dabbing at the edges with a wet sponge to loosen it.
"I'm sorry, hun. Nearly done now."
Miss' touch is quick and efficient, no lingering or stroking that's always a prelude to something awful that he was trained to do, and he finds himself leaning into it. He has no ears to scratch behind but this is almost as good.
"Oh, hun." She sets the scissors down and drops the sections of collar onto the floor (his neck feels so much lighter, and so wrong), gathering him into her arms. He stiffens, startled, and then realises this is just gentle. It's not sexual or painful part of his function, it just is, and he leans his head on her shoulder, giving up on stopping the tears escaping.
Dogs don't cry, they can't, but nobody's ever managed to train it out of him.
