14. Chapter Fourteen

Sylas

Cally and I had been at odds since we met. It was unavoidable from the moment her dog tried to attack me and I threatened to kick him. Then I threw her battery over the fence, frisked her, and put her on house arrest.

Now that the lanyard is around my neck with her blessing, everything has changed. It’s as though we’re two different people. Even Tater has calmed down and is circling near my chair, preparing to lie down near me.

“Will you teach me how to cook?” I ask. She looks at ease in the kitchen, somewhere I’ve never felt comfortable.

“Dinner’s almost ready. Tomorrow I’ll teach you if you’d like. You can make yourself useful now by…” She grabs a flat box from a cupboard and frisbees it to me. “Break these bacon strips into doggie-sized pieces and give him one bite at a time. Only if he’s a good boy.”

“Define ‘good boy’.”

“This means s.i.t.” She demonstrates the matching hand signal. “Tell him the word along with the visual cue. Give him a bite only when he responds quickly and perfectly. I’m a stickler for accuracy because he’s always pushing the limits. Aren’t you, big boy?”

She says that last part with a sing-song voice that makes my already rock-hard erection sit up and take notice.

“This,” another hand signal, “means l.i.e d.o.w.n. And this means please.” At first, I was confused, wondering why an owner would use the word ‘please’ to her dog. Instead, when her hands move together at chest height in a floppy motion, I realize it’s a way for the dog to solicit a treat. “Don’t overdo that one because he turns into quite the beggar when you give him free rein.”

I’m glad she gave me something to do because if left to my own devices, I’d just watch her move around the tiny kitchen. That would lead to pictures in my head of dozens of ways to mount her, which would not be good for our budding relationship. We’ve barely established a truce.

“Tell him he’s the goodest boy,” Cally instructs as she puts the finishing touches on dinner. “He’s a chow hound and loves the food, but he still needs to hear your praise.”

“You’re a good boy.”

“Okay. You don’t have to use baby talk. ‘Goodest boy’ was a stretch, but you have to say it with feeling. Let him know you think he’s the smartest dog on the planet, because he is.”

The spot behind my belly button tightens for a moment. For a quarter of a century, the scientists who bred and raised me beat all emotion out of me—except aggression. Express affection? That’s going to be tough.

It strikes me that this is a wonderful opportunity. I can learn this new behavior with training wheels. Somewhere in the years I was being socialized underground in Area 51, I decided my fondest wish was to have a relationship with a woman.

In order to do that, I need to be able to show her my emotions. Lucky me, I get to practice with Tater, who I’m pretty sure will be what’s considered a warm audience.

“Good boy.” I try, but even to my own ears, I sound like a bad imitation of a robot. “Who’s a good boy?” Ah, that’s better. The question at the end makes me sound humanoid at least.

I slide off the chair and put him through his paces as we circle the room. With each iteration, I imbue my praise with more inflection. By the time Cally is plating our food, I’m comfortable leaning down and crooning, “Who’s the goodest boy?” in his face. I’m not sure which of us—Tater Tot or me—has the biggest smile on our face when Cally calls me for dinner.