Mr. Peabody had always been of the mind that love could be expressed in ways other than the simple "I love you". It could be expressed through actions, through physical communication, and through thoughtful gifts. Even just taking the time to be there was enough to show that you cared. This firm belief, of course, only strengthened the idea that "I love you" simply didn't need to be said. Besides, "I love you" was such a… sentimental term. Not that he had anything against sentiment, mind you. But the words evoked such pure, raw emotion - emotion that, if he was to be honest, the genius was not entirely comfortable with. Such emotion had no logic to it at all; it went against all the facts and figures and fundamentals that Mr. Peabody had spent his whole life adhering to. And so, he had decided, those three words did not need to be said.
And why should they? His love for Sherman was obvious enough, he had concluded time and time again. The way he tucked the boy in at bedtime. The way he taught him all he knew. Even the way he had fought for Sherman in the first place, in court. All of those things conveyed his love quite adequately.
And on top of all that, being a dog and being a father had come together to make him fiercely protective. Sherman would not be hurt on his watch. And woe to the person who dared to lay so much as a finger on the eager little redhead.
So when Mr. Peabody had given an excited and distracted Sherman a shiny silver dog whistle, he had seen it as just another demonstration of his love. "Let that little keepsake be a reminder to you," he had said kindly, "that no matter what challenges you face, no matter how far away I might seem…" But he had been interrupted suddenly as Sherman had called out an energetic good-bye from the top of the stairs. He watched as the young boy turned and entered the school, the enormous doors swinging shut behind him. "I'm with you," he finished sadly. And he drove away, towards home, disappointed, but aware all the while of the short attention span of seven-year-olds (Seven and a half! a proud, rather Sherman-sounding voice reminded him). But even though his son had not heard his heartfelt words, he did have the whistle, and Mr. Peabody thought that that was enough.
He hadn't considered what Sherman thought.
Not until it was almost too late. Not until he was being hauled forcefully away from his frantic son, who was doing some fast talking, using these few critical moments to plead Mr. Peabody's case. Even as the boy was losing his father, he had the determination and the smarts to speak up, get everyone's attention. Not raising his voice, but improving his argument. Just as the dog had taught him. Mr. Peabody would have swelled with pride, but as it was, his full attention had been on Sherman, hanging on to his every word.
"The only mistake Mr. Peabody ever made…" he began, and his eyebrows knit together in the midst of a painful realization, "was me."
Sherman's voice had been confident, unwavering, and it cut Mr. Peabody to the core. He wasn't even sure what he had said after that - probably his son's name - but he would never, as long as he lived, forget that feeling. The crushing, heart-wrenching sorrow that had seized his whole being as he realized that his son - the boy he loved more than anything, more than life itself - felt that he was a mistake. A mistake. It killed him. The canine genius had wanted nothing more than to fix that painfully incorrect idea in Sherman's head. But as it happened, they had fixed the space-time continuum instead. But even a chaotic, dangerous night like that one would not deter Mr. Peabody. He was going to fix this.
And so, the next morning, when Sherman had started to run off toward the school, the dog had called him back.
"Sherman, wait."
"Yes, Mr. Peabody?" Sherman responded casually, expression happy and carefree. Unaware of the gravity of the situation.
"I…" Mr. Peabody began, hesitant. But Sherman's haunting words from the night before returned to him, and steeled his resolve. Here it goes. It was time. "I love you, Sherman."
And for an instant, surprise - pleasant surprise - was written all over Sherman's face. And in the next second, the surprise melted into one of Sherman's wide, wide smiles, eyebrows still raised, and his whole expression conveyed awe. Awe that his father loved him. Awe that he had finally said it. Then a familiar mischievous spark filled his eyes.
"I have a deep regard for you as well, Mr. Peabody," he quipped. An exact reversal of their usual words at bedtime. Mr. Peabody felt like laughing and crying all at once, and settled on a fond smile. His son ran towards him then, and launched himself into his father's arms. And Mr. Peabody hugged him tightly back, a great warmth spreading through his body, a rush of affection nearly bringing tears to his eyes. And in that moment, ready to burst in happiness, he knew without a doubt that he had been wrong before, about "I love you".
Sometimes it needed saying.