Her voice is a little different than usual. Dug's ears twitch curiously and he cocks his head to one side, watching her before he answers "Yes. I am tired." It's been a long day, after all.
He pads across the remaining distance between them quietly for once, not bounding or leaping. When he reaches the edge of the bed he hesitates briefly. When he is sad at home, he thinks, usually he goes out to chase squirrels in the trees. Here he usually gets some food from someone, or finds someone to play with him, or pet him. That always helps. But he can't pet Kate and he's not exactly sure what she likes to play, so that's not going to work. But there's something else. He's always, always happy when he has his Octoplushie. It squeaks, and sometimes it moves, and people can toss it or he can kick it along the floor or just settle down and chew it. It's perfect. And it's in his jaws right now.
Rearing up, Dug plops his front paws onto the bed and leans his head down, dropping the battered, dirty, somewhat slimy Octoplushie into Kate's lap. Then he stays there, his front half standing up on the bed so he's about at head-height, watching her with bright brown eyes, tongue hanging out in a quiet doggy grin.
There's one more thing that always makes him feel better. Even when the worst things happen -- when the bird gets away, or when the bar comes falling in around his ears -- there's always something even better than toys.
"You are my master," he says, and offers her a quick lick to the cheek.
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He pads across the remaining distance between them quietly for once, not bounding or leaping. When he reaches the edge of the bed he hesitates briefly. When he is sad at home, he thinks, usually he goes out to chase squirrels in the trees. Here he usually gets some food from someone, or finds someone to play with him, or pet him. That always helps. But he can't pet Kate and he's not exactly sure what she likes to play, so that's not going to work. But there's something else. He's always, always happy when he has his Octoplushie. It squeaks, and sometimes it moves, and people can toss it or he can kick it along the floor or just settle down and chew it. It's perfect. And it's in his jaws right now.
Rearing up, Dug plops his front paws onto the bed and leans his head down, dropping the battered, dirty, somewhat slimy Octoplushie into Kate's lap. Then he stays there, his front half standing up on the bed so he's about at head-height, watching her with bright brown eyes, tongue hanging out in a quiet doggy grin.
There's one more thing that always makes him feel better. Even when the worst things happen -- when the bird gets away, or when the bar comes falling in around his ears -- there's always something even better than toys.
"You are my master," he says, and offers her a quick lick to the cheek.
"And I love you."