Chapter 12

Sunday morning, 9th Sept {Bob}

Normally I don't get to sleep in on the weekends. That's because Bandit knows I like to do that, so he comes in and jumps on top of me, or stands at the door barking madly, as if there is a burglar sneaking towards that entrance and he's warning me about it. Should there ever actually be a burglar he'd probably run and hide. And, if by some chance he actually stood up to said burglar, I wouldn't have to worry about him being hurt. If a burglar threw anything at him he'd miss. I know this because I've thrown dozens of things at the noisy mutt and never even come close to beaning him.

Which was why I was astonished to be wakened on Sunday by the phone ringing instead of Bandit barking. Well, truth be told, as soon as the phone started ringing, he did start barking, but it was the phone that woke me up.

I scrambled for the receiver knowing that if Bandit got there first I'd have to chase him, which would mean he'd run like blazes, pulling the phone off the night stand. He'd never broken a cord yet, but it wasn't from not trying.

"Owwww!" I yelled into the receiver as Bandit's jaws snapped closed with an audible click right next to my hand. He didn't actually touch me, but my mouth wasn't aware of that yet.

"Bob! What's wrong?" came Chris' anguished voice over the phone.

I think Bandit heard her voice and recognized it, because when he landed on the floor he seemed to bounce like a rubber ball and ended up on top of me, trying to lick the receiver.

"Hello!"I yelled, followed immediately by "Get off me!

"Bob! Are you being attacked?" Chris sounded really worried. I had visions of her hanging up and calling 911, so I tried to laugh it off.

"I'm okay!" I said, entirely too loudly. I pushed at Bandit, who apparently decided to help me sit up. He did this by grasping my fingers in his teeth and jerking backwards, like he was playing tug of war. It worked, because I sprang upright in bed, drawing in breath to howl. That let him dance right on my crotch, where he got a foothold. Well, actually he got a triple foothold. The claws of one of his front feet sank into my morning hard-on and both back feet tried to make wine out of my balls. All the air came out of my lungs in a gust, though I wasn't able to articulate any sound that would have made sense to anyone. About all I could manage at that point was a kind of sobbing groan.

I folded up in a perfect pike position which, if there had been a swimming pool around, would have been fine. I'd have taken Bandit into the water with me and taught him to breathe under water. But I was in a bed, not a pool. I let go of the phone and twisted sideways. The phone landed on the floor with a thump, at which point Bandit abandoned me and bounded down to lick it and whine. I could hear Chris' voice yelling and then I landed on the floor in a heap. I wouldn't hurt a fly, but I confess that at that point my right foot shot out in an attempt to make a field goal with my dog. I missed with the kick, but the back-swing knocked him away from the phone and I rolled over on top of it like I was recovering a fumble.

"Hello?" I wheezed into the mouthpiece.

"What is wrong, Bob!" she demanded.

"Bandit and I had a disagreement over who was going to answer the phone," I whispered.

"Oh good grief," she sighed. "I thought someone was killing you."

My balls throbbed. I was afraid to look at my prick, because it felt like it might need stitches. You can't just go to the emergency room and say "I need a couple of stitches in my cock, okay?" That's the kind of thing that ends up on the eleven o'clock news where they smile and laugh and talk all about it, while never actually saying where Bob Randall actually got the stitches, except that everybody in the world can read between the lines. They never forget that kind of thing either. Not for decades.