AN: so this was a little extra chapter I did to get the creative juices back, so when I have a break from exams I will upload the human story. Thanks for reading, and if you want more, R&R!
Lewis was a stray, named by the pound man. For much of his young life he had spent his time chasing cats and aggravating neighbours with his chicken stealing and trash diving, which, incidentally, was what had wound him up in the Milton pound. It was an awful place to be sure; dirty and dark, cold and miserable. There his coat had become matted with fleas, and his little brown eyes had begun to weep, for sadness or poor diet.
He waited patiently, however, but had been disappointed when dog after dog had been selected before him. Perhaps it was his long, un-docked tail, or the fat brown patch over his eye. Whatever it was, it made him whimper and sit at the edge of his cage, waiting—waiting for someone to notice him.
He could not remember much of his old life as he lay on his paws in the dark. It seemed years, a thousand or more, that he had been free, wandering the grey cottony streets, playing with cats and eating rats in the gutter, they too fluffed with white. Someone had to want him, he was sure they did. Lewis was a good dog, and he would prove it. He would never eat another chicken or bully a cat again as long as he lived. So he waited, and days went by in that stifling darkness.
Dogs had come and gone, and without thinking, knew their fates by the brief yelps from the back and then the swift silence that followed. He saw the bodies, carried past the cages, and he shook, fear turning his bowels to water.
It was his turn, he knew it, when the pound man came for him with a pistol in his pocket. He shook, howling and biting, and nearly broke his leg on the urine slick cement when he heard a noise. The pound man stopped, and, through his haze of fear, saw a man with black hair and a fat woman. The man said something to the pound man, and he released Lewis, who shot into the back of the cage, tail between his legs.
The woman asked to see him, and coaxed him gently towards her. Fear dominating his senses, Lewis edged forward cautiously, but on approach, the smell of her and her kind words calmed him. His tail wagged, and he licked her hands, silently begging her to take him.
"What about him John?" the woman asked, glancing at the tall man. The man leaned down and Lewis nudged his hand, wanting a scratch.
"We we're going to gas him today," the pound man said uncaring. To this Lewis began to whimper again and huddled against the woman's legs, shaking. He did not understand the man, but knew the tone, and was afraid.
"Please John, we have to have him. We cannot let him die!" the woman lifted the dirty dog into her arms and ruffled his fur.
"Margaret..." the man, John, said, reluctant. Lewis's heart dropped to his tail, and eyes went wide. He knew this, the rejection, and knew what would happen if they did not want him.
"I want him. Look at his patches. Brown and black on white. He's like a checker board. You and I both know what will come of him."
The man leaned back on his haunches and turned to the pound man.
"How much for him?"
"Lewis? Five pounds."
John, to Lewis's amazement, pulled something from his pocket, and handed it to the pound man. The woman stood with Lewis awkwardly in her arms, for his long legs hung down, and when John nodded to her, she kissed her new mutt.
"You'll have a good home boy," she cooed as they left that horrible place forever, "I think we should be good friends."