Just driving away from the prison was an experience and a half. First, Neal had been afraid to get in the car. Then of course, once he was in the car, he'd stretched himself across the two front seats, ready for a nap, and hadn't moved until Peter pretended like he was going to sit on his face. Then Peter started the car and had to pry Neal's fingers off the overhead panels and calm him down. And then, of course, once they were on their way and Neal was reasonably relaxed, Peter managed to successfully distract himself by talking to Neal and telling him the story of how he and Elizabeth met, and almost got them killed.

Thankfully, Peter drove a Taurus. The car squealed to a halt mere inches from the van in front of them. A taxi honked behind them. Neal was beside himself, frantically pawing at the passenger window and meowing loudly, trying to find a way out.

"Will you relax? Hey! Uh uh! Ssst Ssst! No!" Peter did several things at once: hit his hazard lights, kept his foot on the brake, cursed under his breath, and grabbed Neal's shoulder, because Neal was trying to stand up a little. He gently shoved Neal down into the seat on his haunches. Neal sat there quivering, ready to bolt.

"Settle down. See? Look at me. My hands are on 10 and 2, and my eyes are on the road. We're okay."

It took half a minute for this to sink in. Meanwhile, the light turned green. The taxi behind them eventually honked itself out and pulled around into another lane. The driver gave Peter the one-fingered salute. Peter paid no attention; he only had eyes for the con in the passenger seat. Finally, Neal sensed everything was okay. He stopped quivering and knocked his head against the passenger window with a little huff of relief. Peter pursed his lips, knocked off the hazard lights, and carefully drove on.

"Back seat drivers," Peter mumbled to himself.

They had to stop off at Petco before heading home because Peter needed to find some food for Neal. As soon as he put the car in park he looked over at his passenger. Somewhere along the way Neal had fallen asleep with his head knocked against the window, and any lingering annoyance was pushed out by affection. Neal was breathing deeply and drooling a little on the glass. Peter woke him up by ruffling his hair.

"Hey Neal, we're here. Come on."

Neal snapped awake and looked around. He pawed at the car door but couldn't figure out how to open it, so he waited until Peter took care of that. Peter grabbed the leash and led him in through the sliding glass doors. Neal stuck close as they walked, eyes wide and darting from object to object.

The store was overly air-conditioned, with an under-odor of sawdust, and every few seconds some vague announcement about a sale on hamster cages would come over the PA. They headed for the aisles of toys and chow, passing by the magazine racks near the cashiers. The latest issue of Modern Dog was at eye level, right next to last month's Con Fancy, showing off the latest fall fashions. The store hadn't gotten this month's in yet, apparently. They turned down the main aisle and finally, after the "Bird" lane, Peter and Neal hung a left where the sign read "Felons."

"Non-Violent, Non-Violent," Peter mumbled as he searched the aisle for the appropriate food.

As the prison doctor had explained it, this was only a temporary arrangement until their new peet re-learned to metabolize and eat regular human food. Most cons completed the process in a couple of days, but some of the sicker ones could take weeks. In any case, they had to start Neal off easy. Topping out at 6 feet even and weighing in at a way-too-skinny 131 pounds, he would need a specialized kibble for a little while, to either augment his daily nutrition or replace it if he couldn't eat it.

"Ah, here we go."

Peter stopped at a towering display of Science Diet dry food. The number of choices was bewildering, and hardly any of them seemed appropriate. He grabbed a box of kibble about the size of a box of cereal and looked dubiously at the ridiculous picture. A nondescript white guy with perfect teeth, dressed in classic black and white prison stripes with a matching cap, was grinning at him and giving him a thumbs-up under the words: Convict Chow by Science Diet. All Organic, High Protein, Weight Class 2. Feeds Cons from 120 to 140 pounds. The food smelled like moldy cheese, and when Peter offered it to Neal for inspection, the convict sniffed it and snubbed it.

"Yeah, that's what I thought," he said. "I don't blame 'ya." He sighed and ran a hand through his hair as he kept scanning the choices. It was useless. This smelly stuff was the only thing appropriate for Neal and even though Peter didn't like the idea, he decided to take it. It was almost lunchtime. He felt his own stomach rumble; he'd forgotten breakfast.

Meanwhile, Neal was amusing himself by batting at a little cat toy that someone had accidentally left near the food. It was a dangly, flashy bundle of feathers and beads on the end of a metal stick. Peter watched Neal's behavior for a moment before he grabbed the toy off the shelf and dangled it in front of Neal's face. He wiggled it. Neal's eyes went wide and he went slightly nuts trying to cup his hands around the feathers and catch them. Peter smiled. Well, at least they'd found one nice thing at Petco.

"All right, you know what, Neal? Let's go exploring. We need to find out what you like to eat. I bet you're running on empty in there, huh? Come on, let's go."

They made it to the register and paid for the toy and the kibble. Heading out into the chilly bright day outside, Peter narrowed his eyes at the Whole Foods market across the street and decided that would be their next stop. Unless the kibble somehow smelled better at home, and he seriously doubted it, then their next best bet was soft food. Once inside, Peter grabbed a cart and let Neal's nose lead the way. Neal made a beeline for the fish counter at the back and pawed at the glass divider between them and the rainbow of iced fish and shrimp. The fish man smiled at him.

"Mrowr?"

Neal's gaze was a little vague, but Peter assumed he was the one being addressed. "I don't know if you can have that right now. Although if we can do something soft … hmm. It might be worth a try. Excuse me," he said to the fish man, "I'll take two of those red snapper fillets, and two tilapia ones."

"Right away, sir."

Bizarrely, Neal led them from there to the cereal aisle. He slapped his hand against a box of flavored oatmeal. Peter could smell the apples and cinnamon from a foot away. He threw that into the cart and, just for the heck of it, held up a box of Multi-Grain Cheerios. Neal tried to grab it, which he took for a good sign. He threw that in the cart too.

And then, because the fish had given him an idea, he led Neal to the canned foods aisle. Peter had been friends with a lot of Jewish kids when he was growing up in Queens, and he'd been to his friend Harvey's house for a few Passover seders. And there wasn't anything in the universe, at least in his experience, softer or saltier or fattier or gooier than the food that Harvey loved to hate: gefilte fish.

He held up a glass jar of the stuff for Neal. Grey footballs of chopped fish floated unappetizingly in a gelatinous brine. Neal sniffed it … and purred. Jackpot. Peter took a second jar and put both in the cart. This wasn't a lot of food, but it would hold them for a little while, and he was sure that Elizabeth had probably gone out and bought some baby food, too. And if for some reason Neal threw everything up, they'd figure out some other way to make this work. It would be fine.

"Okay. Now, I need to find something to eat for lunch, or I'm going to pass out. Let's go."

Once they were back out on the street, Peter started looking around for the nearest hot dog vendor. Neal had apparently understood the word "lunch" pretty well, and tried to help.

"Rowr?" he asked, gesturing down the street at a small bistro.

"I just want something simple," said Peter.

"Rowr?" Neal gestured at the next restaurant down, an Italian place.

"That's a sit-down, Neal. We don't have time."

Neal strained against the leash to get Peter moving, and led them down the block to the next restaurant, an incredibly expensive sushi bar. Neal pointed inside.

"Mrowr?" He licked his chops and made his eyes get big.

Peter crossed his arms. He knew exactly why Neal wanted in: he wanted some lunch too, and the smell of raw fish was intoxicating. But the price was ridiculous. "No."

Neal blinked, and pointed again. "Mrowr?"

"No," Peter repeated.

There was a pause. Then … Neal pointed again. "Mrowr?"

"NO. What is up with you? Do you not understand the word?" Peter sliced the air like he was declaring a baseball player safe. "No. Nada. This is called 'a refusal.' You're not getting a three-figure sushi lunch. That's insane." Peter led him away. "Come on, let's go. I'll give you some of my hot dog if you're good, but that's it. … And no sulking."

Neal sulked anyway, despite the direct order, but Peter spotted a sandwich truck down at the end of the block and in his excitement he ignored Neal completely. He was almost giddy as he paid for a big pile of deviled ham on white bread and took a bite. Even though it wasn't Elizabeth's special recipe, he declared it heavenly and offered it to Neal, who took one wary sniff and made a face like he was about to toss a hairball. (The vendor laughed.) Peter figured that maybe the ham just smelled too complicated, so he handed the vendor an extra buck for a toasted hot dog bun with nothing inside it.

"Oh! Blasphemer!" the vendor joked, but handed the bun to Peter through the window. He'd seen the leash attached to Neal, and he understood. "There ya go, little buddy. Enjoy. Have a nice day, you two."

"Thanks," Peter said. "Come on, Neal." He held out the bun for him. "Have some. I bet you're hungry."

Neal made no move to take it in his hands, but gave it his complete attention as they walked away. Peter was struggling a little. He was holding a sandwich, a paper shopping bag, a leash and a hot dog bun, and between walking and keeping an eye on Neal, he ate his deviled ham a little carelessly. Before long there was a blob of mustard on his tie and crumbs on his jacket. Neal, in contrast, gnawed his simple meal to pieces with machine-like precision. Not a single molecule of food escaped his lips and teeth. Peter decided not to comment on this. And fortunately for both of them, he polished off his sandwich before they got back to the confined space of the car.


When they arrived at the house, Peter went in the door first and dropped the shopping next to the umbrella stand. Elizabeth came over to meet him, hands clasped, looking hopeful, with Satchmo trailing behind her. She'd just gotten back from working the wedding and looked especially lovely.

"So? Do you have a present for me?" she asked. She bit her bottom lip.

"Oh, do I ever," Peter answered proudly. "Elle, meet Neal." He reached behind his back, took Neal by the hand, and brought him around in front so Elizabeth could have a look.

She was momentarily struck dumb. Her mouth hung open. Then she recovered. "Oh. Oh, my God. Oh, Peter, he's beautiful! Where did you find him?"

Peter grinned. "Rikers. Just sittin' there in a corner, waiting for me. So? I do good? Mommy like?"

"Oh." Elizabeth hurried to Peter and hugged him. She kissed him too, for good measure. "Oh, Mommy like very much. Wow." She turned back to Neal, who was trying to hide behind Peter. "I … I'm incoherent. I can't get over his hair. It's amazing! And look at that jawline! And that dancer's body! And those pretty blue eyes! This is just … wow. Oh, he's just incredible, Peter!"

Peter liked to see his wife babbling happily, mostly because she was so articulate the rest of the time. He dropped the leash and leaned over to pick up the food. "Well, I'm glad you like him. I think he likes you, too."

Elizabeth looked over to where Neal was now warily hugging the wall next to the door and looking for possible escape routes. She laughed. "I think he's a little frightened of me." She walked towards him slowly, arms out, eager to get her hands on him. "Honey, there's nothing to be afraid of. Welcome to our home. I'm Elizabeth."

She was within hugging distance when Peter closed the door. Most of the time, the door clicked shut gently if he gave it a little push and let it go, but it was a windy day. The breeze outside pulled the door shut suddenly with a loud "BANG" just as Elizabeth almost got her arms around Neal. He let out a "Rowr!" of fright and was off like a shot, leash trailing behind him, skittering into completely unfamiliar territory.

"Peter, you scared him!" Elizabeth scolded as they charged after him.

"I didn't mean it! It was the door! I guess he's not a fan of sudden noises."

They found him quickly. Neal was cowering under the dining room table and mewling. He'd folded himself down like a Sphinx again, and after vocalizing a few more times, he eyed both of them suspiciously.

"Neal, come on out," Peter commanded. "It's okay."

Neal hissed.

"Ah ah! What did I say? What did I say!" (Neal glumly hung his head.) "I told him no hissing," Peter explained to Elizabeth.

Elizabeth rolled her eyes. "Oh, yeah, that'll help him! Jeez, Peter." She got down on the floor. "Poor baby, he must be terrified. So many new things at once. Oh, come here, sweet pea, it's all right."

Neal didn't move. Peter, embarrassed at the dressing-down, figured out how to redeem himself; he left and returned with the little toy from Petco.

"How funny," Elizabeth said as he handed it to her. "That's exactly what I picked out! Well, kind of. I didn't know what he was going to be like, so I got four different toys. He's into this?"

"Makes him go crazy," Peter said with a shrug. "Go ahead, wiggle it."

Elizabeth seated herself Indian-style about four feet away from the table, and started to flap the toy at him. If Neal wanted the toy, he was going to have to come out. Neal looked back and forth between Elizabeth and the wiggling toy several times, fighting with every atom of his being not to go for the toy and make himself vulnerable. Finally his resistance crumbled and he pounced on it. He caught the feathers and stiffened, waiting for something terrible to happen, but to his relief the woman wasn't attacking him. She was petting him right between his shoulders.

"There we go," she said softly. "You are so pretty, yes you are."

Peter was relieved and sat down in the nearest chair. Satchmo, meanwhile, had hung back a ways from this little scene, not so much threatened by the new arrival as totally baffled. His nose said "human," but the new pet's whacked-out behavior said "cat." He couldn't reconcile the two. He was curious enough to have a look though, and possibly a lick, so he padded over.

Elizabeth spotted him and smiled. "Oh, someone wants to say hi!" she said to Neal, who she'd somehow gotten half in her arms and half in her lap. "Hey, Satchmo, come here, babe." She held out a hand to her dog. "This is Neal. He's the newbie."

Satchmo trotted over to properly introduce himself; he put a paw on Neal's leg and started sniffing him. Neal froze and blinked. Satchmo licked Neal's face. Neal laid a hand on Satchmo's nose and sniffed him in return. They blinked at each other in mutual understanding, and Satchmo clambered off and went over to get an ear-scratch from Peter.


A few hours later, Peter and Elizabeth were enjoying spaghetti with homemade meatballs. Satchmo was noisily wolfing down his kibble, snarfing it like he hadn't seen food in days (patently untrue). Next to him, crouched on all fours, Neal was delicately eroding a bowl of Cheerios and gefilte fish. He stopped every so often to lick his lips clean and shoot Satchmo what could have been a glance of concern; the dog was eating awfully fast.

Satchmo finished his chow, guzzled some water, and then started eyeing Neal's food. Curious to see what would happen, he tried to nose his way into the bowl. Neal narrowed his eyes at the dog and growled low in his throat, trying to protect his bowl with one hand. He knew he was at the bottom of the pecking order here, but no way was he going to starve.

Satchmo got the message and walked away, relatively unconcerned. He was a benevolent and gentle ruler, well-fed and comfortable, and assured of his high rank in the pack. He could afford to be generous. He would share this house. But the newbie needed to know how things worked around here, so after making sure Neal's eyes were on him, Satchmo slowly lumbered over to the table and rested his head on Elizabeth's knee. As soon as Elizabeth began to pet him, he turned and stared at Neal. You can have anything you need here, Satchmo telegraphed, but the humans belong to me. Neal understood. He went back to his dinner.


The Burkes discovered a lot of interesting things about Neal that first week. Their initial discovery was that simple human food was all right, whether it made any sense in context or not. The Cheerios and gefilte fish dinner, for example, caused him no problems. Encouraged by this success, and still hungry, he lapped up half a cup of the baby food that Elizabeth had purchased and eagerly ate a small amount of string cheese and four little oyster crackers right out of her hand. She offered all of this as "dinner part two," determined to put a little meat on Neal's bones. But Peter had firmly insisted that they at least try to follow the doctor's orders, so they fed Neal some of the Petco kibble.

Neal held it together for about ten minutes and then was violently sick all over the floor. Included in the torrent of vomit was all the actual human food he'd been able to eat so far, including bits of the hot dog bun from lunch. Elizabeth was very upset. She took Neal upstairs to the bathroom to clean him up, and Peter was dispatched to take care of the mess, because it was really his fault.

He'd called the office earlier in the day and left a message for Hughes about the new pet situation. In the middle of mopping up the vomit, he got a telephone call from the man himself, agreeing to his plan of half-days in lieu of full-on Peet Leave for the initial ownership period, which was generally one week. Peter couldn't quite muster the appropriate enthusiasm. Hughes asked if his peet was all right.

"He should be just fine," Peter grumbled, as he scrubbed. "It's me that's in the doghouse. I'll see you Monday, sir." And he hung up. As soon as the vomit was cleaned up, he took the bag of kibble from the kitchen and threw it in the garbage outside.

Peter and Elizabeth also discovered that Neal had been relatively well-trained by the prison. He wasn't aggressive or territorial, he was content to be bathed daily, and he knew how to control his bladder and bowels. He also knew how to use a human toilet, which he demonstrated right after he threw up that first night. Something in the kibble had made his sensitive system go haywire, and his body had decreed that all exits were open for business. Elizabeth felt terrible for him but also a little relieved at his response; she'd heard horror stories about cons being diapered for the rest of their lives, or being taken outside to do their business because their owners were too lazy to train them properly. She rubbed Neal's back in sympathy and helped him wash his hands at the sink, and thanked the powers that be for a peet who had something on the ball.

They discovered he really liked to play, and enjoyed toys. Anything stimulating and colorful was fair game. Squeaky toys intrigued him. The noise wasn't loud enough to frighten him, but they caught his interest and he liked to chase them. Peter could keep him entertained with a laser pointer and a wall (hours of fun trying to catch that dot!) or he would throw a fuzzy stuffed ball about the size of a basketball across the room and Neal would dart after it. Then he would toy with it like it was prey. If he was feeling particularly happy, he would flip on his back and bat it around.

They discovered that his sleeping habits were fairly regular, but they got a heck of an unpleasant shock the first night. Elizabeth thought Neal would like to sleep on the couch, so she'd set a few blankets down. But when she and Peter had come into the living room in their night clothes with the intention of helping Neal get ready for bed, and Peter said, "All right, bedtime," Neal horrified them by clumsily stripping naked and lying on the floor in a tense and very submissive posture, obviously waiting for pain.

The worst part of Neal's behavior wasn't the behavior itself, but the fact that he was responding on auto-pilot. It was Pavlovian. Ingrained. Routine.

They were appalled and responded instinctively, swaddling Neal in the blankets and carrying him upstairs to their bedroom. All the books said not to do this, no matter what, but they had to sleep, and they weren't about to leave him alone after a display like that. Neal was laid in the middle of the bed and sandwiched between them; Peter assured him quietly that no one was ever going to do that to him again. And when Peter woke in the morning, one hand holding Elizabeth's and the other cupping the back of Neal's head, he realized they'd done the right thing. Neal was curled up with his face against Peter's chest. His eyes were scrunched shut and he breathed softly. All of them had slept for eight hours straight.

In the nights that followed, they managed to train Neal to do the proper human bedtime thing: strip to his underwear, put on a shirt and sleep pants (Peter had to help him with this), brush his teeth (Peter or Elizabeth had to do this for him) and climb into the nest of blankets on the couch so that one or the other could tuck him in. As soon as this process was complete, Satchmo would show up, tail wagging, and clamber up on the couch so he could settle in next to Neal for warmth and company. Their sleeping arrangement became permanent.


By the end of the week, everyone in the Burke house was doing fine. Neal was eating and sleeping properly and getting along very well with Satchmo; things were going better than Peter had even hoped. They were enjoying a peaceful Sunday evening because Elizabeth didn't have an event tonight and Peter had no case at the moment. Dinner was over, the pajamas were on, the lamps were dim, and four faces were lit by the cool glow of Animal Planet on TV. Peter and Elizabeth shared a smile. Normally they'd be cuddling together on the couch, but at the moment they were about three feet apart. Dressed in a gray sweatshirt and matching pants, Neal was curled up between them on his side, hogging Peter's lap with his head and warming the soles of his socked feet against Elizabeth's hip. Satchmo had draped himself over Elizabeth like a furry blanket, and his eyelids were starting to droop.

The commercial break was just ending. "Animal Cops: Detroit" was back. Neal and Satchmo both perked up a little. Peter and Elizabeth weren't giving the program too much attention and spoke quietly over their heads.

"So are we still on for that Bureau Accommodation Dinner next week, or are you going to try and wiggle out of it?" she teased.

"Well, we can go, but we'd have to get a pet-sitter," Peter said. He absently petted Neal. He wasn't looking forward to leaving him and Satchmo with someone else. It wasn't separation anxiety, really. It was more like general concern for his home.

"That's true," Elizabeth agreed, and played with Neal's feet a little. She petted Satchmo with her free hand and looked back at the television. "Hey, speaking of pet-sitting, what are we going to do about tomorrow? You're going back to work full-time and I'll be out and about quite a lot. I can leave Satchmo with Sandy up the street, but Neal … well, he can't be alone."

"Yeah, I know," Peter said.

Neal had revealed an alarming amount of dexterity over the past few days, and he'd already managed to open a con-proof drawer in the kitchen. Granted it was by accident, and after the scolding he got from Peter, he wasn't about to try it again, but still, a curious con left unsupervised in a house full of potentially dangerous objects? Not a good idea. He'd have to think of a solution.

The TV distracted them both. One of the Animal Cops was standing outside a run-down tenement, asking a censored, blurry-faced woman about the number of cats she was hoarding, when suddenly the door of the neighboring building banged open. The shaky camera turned on this unexpected event as an ill-fed, unkempt man stumbled down the steps, barking and whining like a dog and frantically searching for some cover. A high chain-link fence surrounded the front yard; he wasn't going to find a hiding place there. Another man, dressed better than the first and holding a very large stick, jumped out the door after him and cornered him, yelling obscenities.

The tirade ended with, "Don't even know why I brought you home! And you stay the hell away from my Tracy, or it'll be 'snip snip, hooray,' you piece of garbage!"

The cornered man cowered and tried to protect himself. The man with the stick raised it high, ready to strike. Peter clamped a hand over Neal's eyes. Neal was confused; he started to fidget. "'Owr?"

"Shush." Peter winced as the man began to beat the tar out of his convict in plain view of the cameras and the Animal Cops rushed over to intervene. He had to change the channel, but he was weighed down by Neal and the remote wasn't where he left it. Elizabeth had the same thought, but she was buried under Satchmo. Everybody was nice and comfy and hopelessly stuck listening to the abuse on television as the animal control officers pulled the man away and tried to get the convict to safety. Peter swore under his breath. "Elle, do you have the remote?"

She was hunting fruitlessly. "Nope."

And then Neal, eyes still covered, freed one arm. The remote was in his clumsy grip. "Mowr?" he inquired.

Peter snatched it with an "Ah ha!" and changed the channel to Discovery. Once he saw that some beavers were swimming around, he took his hand off Neal's eyes. Neal blinked at the screen and Satchmo woofed at the beavers. "Good job." He scratched Neal's head gently.

Neal accepted this praise silently and snuggled a little deeper into Peter's lap. Peter blew out a breath and looked at Elizabeth. "Maybe we can just watch a basketball game next time. They won't mind, right?"

Elizabeth smiled. "I don't think so. But Neal stays ten feet away from the flat screen at all times. I don't need him trying to catch the ball and leaving fingerprints everywhere."

Peter nodded sagely. "No problem. So … you were asking what happens when I go back tomorrow."

"Right," said Elizabeth, remembering. "What do you plan to do?"

"Well, I think I'll take him with me," Peter said. "I mean, let's face it, he needs supervision, and the office is pretty friendly." Off Elizabeth's eyebrow raise, he sighed and came clean. "Look, Cruz and Jones either need pictures or a face-to-face, or they'll be after me with pitchforks. You know how they get!" Elizabeth crossed her arms and licked her lips. "Jones volunteers for the ASPCA, and Cruz has fish. I think they'll really like Neal. Besides, he should do well in any case. He likes people."

"He likes us," Elizabeth said, and Peter knew what she meant. "Just be careful with him, okay?"

Peter smiled at her as the beavers skittered and chuffed across the screen. "I will."