Chapter 2

Well, I was a good dog for the next three weeks. I minded my manners, stayed as clean as I could, and used the toilet for all my bodily functions. I even closed the door while I was in there, and turned on the exhaust fan and turned off the light after I was through.

Naturally, Brenda was amazed by all of this. I think she attributed all my unusual skills to my having been a circus dog or some such. She knew I was smart, but I figured that, like almost all humans, she was working on the assumption that someone, somewhere, had given me careful training.

Nevertheless, I found that, after awhile, Brenda would talk to me in a manner that wasn't much different from the way she would have spoken to another person. And she'd try different things to determine to what degree I could understand what she was saying to me.

One morning when she opened the front door to go out and pick up the newspaper, I kind-of wedged my snout into the opening of the door in front of her and made as if to go outside. I hadn't been outside since Brenda had first let me in with the groceries, more than two weeks back. My ability to use the bathroom facilities had limited my need, and Brenda, whether deliberately or not, had kept me indoors the whole time.

Maybe she was afraid that, if she let me out, I'd run away.

"Do you want to go and get the paper?" she asked me that morning.

I shook my head up and down, signifying a clear-cut "yes." This gesture, alone, was pretty damned impressive, for a dog, but Brenda was past being shocked by such things. She apparently decided that I wouldn't run away if she let me out, and she opened the door and stood there while I retrieved the paper. I took care not to slobber on it, and quickly brought it back and handed it over.

"Good boy!" she said.

Well, hell. I really was a good boy. Sure, I had some untoward designs on Brenda's fabulous little bod, but I'd made no false moves in that direction. I had been content to wait, patiently, for an appropriate opportunity. What I had in mind was simple enough. I figured Brenda, like any other healthy young woman, was bound to pleasure herself at some point.

Maybe she had, already, and I'd just missed out on it, but I didn't think so. My doggie sense of smell would have tipped me off, I think, if anything sexual had been taking place in Brenda's bedroom or bath.

So far, she'd been behaving like a nun. Or, at least, like people imagine nuns behave. Who knows what really happens, inside the nunnery?

Too bad for me, all this good behavior, but I figured it couldn't last. My master plan was that, when and if Brenda ever did get herself excited, using a vibrator or perhaps just her own fingers, I would wait until she was pretty far gone and then I'd make a contribution to the festivities. With my thoroughgoing knowledge of human anatomy and with my inherited-across-species skills at cunnilingus, I could employ my long, long doggie tongue to tremendous advantage.

Oh, I was well-aware that, in all likelihood, Brenda would quickly push me away and force me to stop what I was doing. But the point was, if I behaved myself impeccably until she had begun an auto-erotic adventure on her own, then two good things might happen.

First, Brenda would likely blame herself for having caused me to misbehave. She would surely believe that it was her own lewd behavior that had inspired mine. Accordingly, she would not be unduly angry with me for my transgressions.

Second, it was possible -- unlikely, but possible -- that if I quickly hit the right spot with my educated and very lengthy tongue, Brenda would be so stimulated that she would hesitate for precious seconds before she allowed her sensibilities to take charge; before she pushed me away and said "Bad dog!" or some such.

Even if I did get pushed away, I was counting on Brenda's remembering how absolutely great it had felt, for those few seconds, there, when I was lapping away at her clit and its environs. My master plan was telling me that there would be future opportunities, and that, the second time around, Brenda would push me away much more slowly -- if she pushed me away at all!

Damn, it took patience to seduce a human woman! It took patience if you were six feet tall, handsome and drove a Lexis. It took far more patience when you were a damned dog! I could have screwed every four-legged bitch in a two-mile radius by now, if I were out there on the street, doing my doggy thing.

My other big worry (aside from the awful possibility that Brenda might decide to have me spayed) was that Mistress Brenda would eventually hook up with some guy, and I'd suddenly have acquired perhaps overwhelming competition. (I started, for a moment, to say "hook up with some other guy," but most of the time, I remain well-aware that I am "only" a dog, and perhaps would be no competition for a real live human male who was a competent lover.)

So far, Brenda had not exactly been a social butterfly. She was home every night at an hour that suggested that she'd come there directly from work. On weekends, she'd talk to people -- mostly other women -- on the telephone, and she'd go out in the car, apparently to run errands, but for the most part, she was right there at home, with me. I couldn't have been happier.

Well. Unless...

She had started in, calling me "Fred." Well, that wasn't so bad. It was better than "Rover," or maybe "Fido." I'd never actually run into a dog, in this life or in any other one, who'd actually been called "Fido," but that's the name that cartoonists frequently seemed to give to their generic dogs. Brenda could have chosen to give me a more traditional dog's name. Why she chose "Fred," I had no idea, but I liked it just fine.