Chapter 13: Park Puppies
The leashes were warm in Barnaby’s hands, the leather worn soft from use. He stood rigid at the edge of the park’s paved path, the green expanse stretching before him like a judgement. Ram and Greta strained against their tethers, not with panic, but with a low, eager impatience. They were on all fours, their palms and booted feet planted on the gravel. Their naked backs—broad, furred, powerful—dipped and rose with each crawling step.
“C’mon, owner, the grass is better over there,” Ram grunted, tossing her head back. The sun caught her green eyes, turning them feral.
“Smells like a hundred other mutts,” Greta added, her nose twitching. “Gonna fix that.”
They moved with a disturbing, synchronized grace, their huge haunches rolling in a slow, exaggerated sway. The effect was obscene. Barnaby saw the other park-goers—a woman with a pug, an old man with a terrier, a couple with a frisbee-catching collie—stop and stare. Whispers cut through the idle afternoon air. He wanted to sink into the earth.
But the leashes pulled him forward. He followed, a timid captain dragged by his monstrous, beautiful ships.
They reached a secluded patch of grass under a large oak, dappled in shade. The distant sounds of playful barks and children’s laughter felt like they were from another world.
Ram and Greta circled once, twice, noses to the ground. Then, as if by some silent agreement, they positioned themselves side-by-side, facing away from him. They looked over their shoulders, their expressions a mix of challenge and devotion.
“Gotta go, owner,” Ram said, her voice a low rumble.
“Real bad,” Greta affirmed, her tail lifting slowly.
They sank into simultaneous squats, their powerful thighs trembling slightly with the controlled descent. The position was profoundly vulnerable, profoundly bestial. Barnaby’s mouth went dry. The sheer scale of them, the vast, furred hemispheres of their asses presented to him, blotted out the world. Each was easily double the size of his head, a breathtaking landscape of muscle and softness.
A hush fell. Their bodies tensed. The muscles in their lower backs corded.
Ram’s gaze locked with his. Greta’s did the same. A unified, guttural growl vibrated from them, a sound that bypassed his ears and went straight to his spine.
“Which dump gets your face first, owner?” Ram grunted, the words strained.
“Gotta choose,” Greta hissed, her own concentration breaking into a savage grin.
He couldn’t speak. He could only watch, a prisoner to the spectacle. The sounds began, wet and profound, not the discreet patter of a pet but the heavy, substantial expulsion of a large, fed creature. Pfffrrrt-sploosh. From Ram. A thick, earthy odor immediately bloomed, rich and hot. Blrrrrt-squelsh. From Greta. Hers was a deeper, more resonant report, followed by a darker, more pungent smell that mixed with Ram’s in the still air.
They didn’t look away from him. Their eyes were wide, pupils dilated, watching his every flinch, every twitch of horror and fascination. Their tails stayed high, flags marking their territory. The process was not quick. It was a prolonged, physical release, a statement. When they finally finished, two massive, steaming piles lay on the grass behind them.
They remained squatting, panting softly, waiting.
The world came crashing back. A woman across the park gasped, loudly. The old man muttered something and hurried away, pulling his terrier behind him.
Barnaby’s face was on fire. His heart hammered against his ribs. Yet, beneath the tsunami of shame, a terrifying, iron-hard certainty settled in his gut. This was the line. The public line. They had crossed it for him. They had offered him the most base, revolting part of themselves in the open air, and asked him to claim it.
He took a step forward. The leashes went slack.
Ram’s ears perked. Greta’s breath hitched.
He didn’t speak. He simply pointed, his finger trembling slightly, first to the deposit closest to Ram, then to the one by Greta. A silent decree.
A look of pure, triumphant joy passed between the two bitches. They had their answer. They had forced him to participate, to choose, even if only by gesture. It was enough.
With a final, soft grunt, they both rose, their movements effortless. They didn’t look back at their mess. They turned and nuzzled against his hips, rubbing their muzzles against his trembling hands, leaving the scent of grass and musk and themselves on his jeans.
“Good owner,” Ram whispered, licking his palm.
“Knew you’d pick mine first,” Greta purred, though her tone held no malice, only a deep, satisfied pride.
He fumbled for the plastic bags in his pocket, his motions automatic. The clean-up was a silent, ritualistic process. The bitches watched, their competitive energy soothed into a contented, shared watchfulness. As he tied off the second bag, heavy and warm, Ram leaned in close.
“You wanna… take those home with us?” she murmured, her hot breath in his ear. “A souvenir.”
Barnaby looked at the two sealed bags in his hand, then at their expectant, adoring faces. The sun was beginning to set, casting long, distorted shadows of the three of them across the grass—one small, two impossibly large, all connected.
He didn’t answer. He just started walking back toward the path, the bags swinging gently from one hand, the leashes held firm in the other. They fell into step beside him, on two feet now, their shoulders brushing his, a solid, smelly, immovable wall of belonging. The park, and its stunned, silent witnesses, faded away behind them.