Grandpa Checks In

Time seems to stretch on forever. There’s nothing to do in your small prison. You can barely even sit up, and even then you’re slightly hunched. You strum the wires of the cage, creating your best semblance of music. And occasionally, you try your luck at the seemingly immovable latch on your cage to no avail.

You try to sleep, but it seems to evade you. Maybe a mix of discomfort and having just woken up not long ago. You had spent the night in the crate, trying your best to find a comfortable way to sleep. You roll over a few times, how did you even fall asleep last night? Basically **** into the fetal position, it might have taken you longer to fall asleep last night, if you hadn’t been exhausted from walking on all 4’s for the whole day.

Your knees are scraped up from the walk with Sofia. The knee pads look embarrassing but they might be a necessary evil. Not that you can even ask for them, but they seemed pretty common at the park.

A sound from the front of the house draws your attention. Are they back? You have no clue what time it is, but it feels too soon for the work or school day to be over.

“There you are,” Grandpa Jack says as he comes into your line of sight.

You don’t see the remote, so you try your luck again, “Please, stop this. I just want to go home.”

“Ah aren’t you excited to see me,” he coos over you, obviously not understanding your plea for help. “Well let’s get you out of there, I’ve never liked these cages. Back in my day, dogs weren’t locked up like this.” He opens your crate and gestures for you to follow him.

“You want a treat?” he asks.

“Yes,” you say, knowing he won’t understand you. But the cracker this morning was nice, any break from your new bland diet is welcome. Even something as simple as a graham cracker.

Jack laughs, “Oooh, excited are we? Let’s see.” He digs through the pantry. “Here we go,” he says, showing you a jar of peanut butter. “Zipper loved this, I’m sure you do too.” He’s right, a spoon of peanut butter was your go to movie snack before you woke up in this backwards world.

He sets the jar down on the table by Robert’s chair. “But first we have to make sure these fit,” he says grabbing a bag off the couch. He pulls out a pair of the shin guards and mittens that you’ve seen on some of the other dogs… no, other humans, you correct yourself from thinking of them as dogs, from thinking of yourself in that way.

“Come on boy, give me your paw,” he holds out his hand. You glance at the jar on the table, is it worth it? Is it worth demeaning yourself in this manner? Then you see it, of course it’s by Robert’s chair, the shock remote. Your hand reaches to the collar around your neck, the memory of the painful shocks send chills down your spine.

Robert had even shocked you this morning, your pre-coffee drowsiness had caused you to be sluggish. Although you guess now, all the time is pre-coffee since you don’t think the Millers are going to give you coffee any time soon.

You give Jack your hand. He slips the black sack over your hand. It’s small forcing you to curl your fingers to fit, but he cinches it around your wrist. He repeats the process with your other hand. “That’s a good boy,” he smiles, ruffling your hair, his hand slips down the side of your face. Your skin crawls as the older man caresses your cheek. “Now for the pads.”

“Perfect,” he says, patting your ass. “Try them out.” They’re like knee high socks, a layer of padding runs along your shin, keeping your ankle straight. You stretch a leg back, you still have full motion with your knee, but when you attempt to bend the ankle the padding is stiff. It digs into your foot, it hurts but you might be able to stand if you really needed too. Not that the Millers will let you.

Jack starts unscrewing the peanut butter jar. “There’s a good boy. Come,” he says. Your stomach sinks, he’s calling you over like a dog. Which doesn’t surprise you, but it still stings. You consider defying the order, but the threat of shocks and the promise of anything that isn’t bland paste convince you otherwise. Begrudgingly you crawl towards the older man.

“Sit,” he says when you get close. You swallow your pride thinking about the big spoonful of peanut butter. Then your stomach sinks again as he dips his fingers into the jar. Instead of a glob of the tasty treat, he offers you his two fingers covered in a thin layer of peanut butter.

“Come on, boy. Come get your treat,” he says with a big grin on his face. Waving his coated fingers in your face. Out of instinct, you shy away, but Jack manages to grab your collar with his clean hand. “You’ll like it, I promise,” he says, his dirty fingers now pressed against your lips. “You’ve been such a good boy, you deserve a treat.”