Family Pet

Part 7

“C’mon, get on with it, you stupid fucker!”

Pet winced audibly as the toe end of young Master Rogers' trainer caught him in the ribs. Another bruise, another sore spot, but what was one more among hundreds! He’d been expecting it at some point, for the savage toe poke was as inevitable as…as…the sun coming up each morning, just as predictable as the growing impatience from the teenager holding the end of his leash.

It was also wet on the concrete path that led down the side of the lengthy garden at the rear of 139 Rosemary Avenue, ending at the decaying wooden fence at the bottom of the old railway embankment. A barrier or rotting green-hued fence posts, wooden panels and rusty wire, now reinforced by a variety of prickly bushes, saplings, and young trees that nobody ever bothered cutting back or trimming. It was also a long, well, not exactly a long walk from the house, but the narrow stretch of garden was exceedingly generous compared to what you’d get for your money in a modern three-bedroomed semi of a similar size.

Nowadays, the priority was at least two, and preferably three, parking spaces, wasn’t it? Pet reflected as he shuffled and squirmed on his dirt patch, trying to do what his impatient young Master wanted. Looking back, the house wasn't that far away, not for the young man, but a distance somewhat more challenging for him on his doubled-up, stunted little legs. Modern living, mum, dad, and at least one kid with a car, whereas when this house was built, car ownership was a rarity among the middle-class occupants of these houses. Oddly, they’d all been built with garages, but how many families could have afforded a car back then? Maybe that was an extra middle-class status symbol of the times, a house with a garage, even if it didn’t contain anything more exciting than a bicycle or perhaps a motorcycle! He pondered that as he strained himself. The nineteen thirties, the Great Depression, but also an era when the motor car industry had snowballed, so maybe the first residents of this road, some of them anyway, could have afforded one.

“Oh, come on, hurry up and do it, boy! We haven’t got all day, you know!” The irritated voice sounded odd because his young Master was going through the vocal changes that often occur during early puberty. In his case, it happened later, in his mid-teens, rather than earlier. His sister callously said it was because it had grown tired of waiting for an upward growth spurt and had settled instead for his porky outward one! She’d also taken to calling him ‘Squeaky’ because, at times, especially when indignant or angry, his cracked voice occasionally hit a high note. Relations were consequently somewhat strained between the siblings. Not that they’d ever seemed entirely cordial, chalk and cheese, Pet reflected as he strained desperately, trying to produce something from his bowels to justify the morning visit to his dirt patch.

Not normally a problem for him because he was invariably a little ‘loose’, especially first thing in the morning, thanks to the horrible diet they fed him. Occasionally, he went the opposite way, as seemed to be the case this morning. He wriggled and strained again, conscious of his young Master's tapping foot, anxious to avoid another kick in the ribs. He was even more anxious that his failure to crap as required in the dirt would be reported to his Mistress or the boy's sister. If that happened, they had a remedy to ‘loosen him up’ for the day, as they crudely put it.

One of them would fill a large syringe from the bottle of ‘Pets Poopy Juice’ that lived under the kitchen sink, along with all the cleaning supplies, then attach a short length of plastic tube in place of a needle. The tube would go down his throat to ensure the contents reached the intended destination. Dosage depended on which of his female tormentors was administering the horrible-tasting mixture. In the early days, he had fought to resist that, but to no avail. One of them would wield the syringe while the other forced his mouth open and held it there. Now he was sufficiently trained and obedient to make the tube and syringe unnecessary; he’d probably have lapped whatever it was from his bowel at the snap of their fingers. They still did it the original way, though, tube to the back of his throat. Perhaps they didn’t trust him, or maybe it was just another of their perverse little amusements.

God knows what was in that bottle, but it was always effective and thus… probably illegal! Hadn’t he read an article a few years ago about the government clamping down on a whole range of such products? His mother had regularly suffered bouts of constipation; he could remember being sent to the chemist as a kid to buy Syrup of Figs and laxative chocolate for her. He pulled a face. Whatever was in that big bottle certainly wasn’t chocolate syrup! Chocolate, Easter egg chocolate that always seemed to taste different, nicer than the same chocolate in bar form. How long since he’d had an Easter Egg…how long since he’d tasted any chocolate? How long since…….”

“Come on, Roger, stop dawdling, your breakfast is getting cold!” The voice of his Mistress came from the open kitchen door behind them, and this time his ribs did feel that encouraging nudge, not that it was a nudge!

Pet winced again and redoubled his efforts, but he already knew it was a futile exercise. Maybe it was the overlong night he’d recently spent with Miss Susan and her toys. Christ, but he still felt sore after that merciless pounding and no wonder his rear end was reluctant to produce anything; it was probably still in shock! The girl had not been gentle! Then again, that was nothing new either.

Worse, it was starting to rain again. The first few drops were falling, and it must have rained overnight. The concrete path was damp, with shallow puddles in places. His dirt patch was oozy, and the nettle patch beyond shimmered with moist leaves, partly covered with morning dew and partly with overnight rain. Master Roger had muttered something under his breath but hadn’t responded to that shout. Probably because he, Pet, didn’t exist. They were in what his Master called no-man’s land — that untidy, overgrown section of the garden between the neater lawn and flower beds, the rockery and greenhouse full of potted plants, the garden tool shed, compost heap, and the assorted scrub, bushes, and large nettle patch by the old fence and railway embankment. The part he couldn’t be bothered about because it was the tail end of the garden, hidden behind a shed, fruit trees, and a glasshouse.

Besides, they never shouted anything about him when he was outside; he’d noted and tended to quietly growl whatever commands they issued to him. Security, he assumed, probably frightened a neighbour, or some local visitor walking along the top of the railway embankment might hear them. The long garden was narrow, with high brick walls on both sides, and if they kept in the shadow of one where the path ran along, the adjacent house couldn’t see him being walked to do his ‘business’ in the designated patch. The neighbours were elderly, deaf, half blind and somewhat cat-crazy, a batty pair of old spinster sisters. Evidently, they’d seen something at least once, because that topic had come up over the dinner table, but the old girls were of the opinion that his family, his owners, possessed a large dog!

They were the last house on the street, so there was no one across and only the tall, tree-covered disused railway embankment behind. On Sunday afternoons, a few strollers and dog walkers used it, but not many, since the trees and bushes that had overrun the embankment and some of the old track bed provided very effective cover. There was a kind of path leading up to the top through the fence and bushes, very twisty and convoluted. He had been dragged up it a few times during the darker nights by Miss Sussan to ‘stretch’ his limited legs on a longer walk and get some fresh air. An exercise more for her benefit and twisted amusement than his, and it was hell trying to get up there and back down again!

The grubby trainer lashed out again, but half-heartedly as the leash jerked his collar and neck. “Do it, dumbo or…or do you want to play in the nettle patch again!” came the ominous hiss

The pet definitely didn’t want to ‘play’ or do anything else in the nettle patch. He glanced nervously sideways at the large area of abandoned greenery behind the garden shed. It wouldn’t be the first time he’d been dragged through that lot or worse, forced to walk through them in fear of something far more painful if he didn’t! He’d always loathed the damn things as a kid in shorts, but what was a single sting to his knee or thigh compared to his entire body getting stung by the bloody plants? Nettled everywhere except, and somewhat ironically, his knees and thighs, for they were now protected by his pet pouches. Miss Susan, the bitch, wasn’t averse to cutting herself a handful of the wretched plants to ‘tickle’ him with, as she laughingly put it.

“Right, that’s it, good boy!”

He’d managed to finally produce something, a trickle, enough to satisfy Master Roger, who promptly yanked at the leash, setting course back to the house. Pet obediently waddled along behind, trying to avoid the worst of the shallow puddles forming on the path. Bringing dirty water and worse, mud, onto the spotless kitchen vinyl floor would not be appreciated and the fact that he couldn’t help it was no excuse.

“C’mon, move, move, I said!”

Master Roger suddenly yanked him forward forcefully, causing his submissive little leather stumps to skid on the damp ground, and he squealed softly as the youngster shifted his grip to the middle of the long leather leash and used the handle end to smack his bare bottom.

The lad repeated the action twice more before they reached the kitchen door, where he paused to catch the old towel, his mother had tossed to him without a word. The woman didn’t need to speak; the whole routine was automatic and had been repeated countless times. Morning or evening walks, crap or pee, maybe both in the dirt, then a pause on the big internal doormat for wet wipes and a towel. Christ, he might as well be the family dog, only no one had yet picked him up and dumped him in the bath or treated him for fleas.

The wet wipes for his bum hole area and frontal private parts, the towel for his ‘paws’, knees and elbows where his stumpy, doubled-up limbs had picked up muck and detritus. The whole ‘wipe down’ routine took next to no time, but Master Roger always grumbled to himself as he did it and was pretty perfunctory about it. He’d been shouted at and told to do it again more than once by his mother and sister, who invariably were a tad more thorough. Whereas on the rare occasions his Master took him for such walkies, that lazy slob was content to order him to wipe his ‘paws’ and his butt on the coarse doormat blatantly ignoring his wife’s indignant protests.

The pedal bin clanged open to accept the wet wipes and the old towel, his towel, hung back on its hook behind the door. Pet, prompted by another firm nudge in the ribs, waddled over to his basket while Master Roger headed for the breakfast bar, pausing on route as he always did, to veer off and wash his hands in the kitchen sink. Something he wouldn’t have bothered doing had the female members of the family not been present. The young man was as lazy as his dad, and he’d complained about such simple hygiene practices more than once.

“Why, I never have to bother when I fucks it, so why all the fuss just because it's had a shit in the garden!”

“Because that’s different, that’s why and don’t argue about it!” was the usual short reply from his mother and in a tone that defied any response.

Pet wriggled into a comfortable position in his big basket and put his chin on the wicker rim and stared glumly out at the gruesome foursome. What a strange, crazy, abnormal household. ‘I never have to bother when I fucks it!’. He watched Master Roger shake cornflakes from the familiar box into a bowl. Normality, absolute bloody normality among all the craziness that made up his miserable existence. How many times had he performed that very same action with that very same brand of breakfast cereal?

Right now, or... say, he glanced up at the kitchen wall clock. Within an hour either side, that same action has probably been performed a hundred thousand times throughout the country, maybe more—perhaps a million, two million, whatever! Yet how many, he watched Master Roger pour or attempt to pour a generous portion of milk onto his cereal. His mother's hand flashed out to stop the flow.

“No, you don’t need to drown them. How many times do I have to tell you? You end up with an inch of milk in the bowl when you’ve finished, and that’s just a waste!”

He’d been about to ask himself, in how many kitchens throughout the country, throughout the world, for that matter, was this cosy domestic scene to be repeated if the likes of him were included in the equation. Was this damn house unique, a one-off, or were there other poor sods like him? It was a question he’d asked himself many, many times, and of course, remained unanswered. His thoughts were inclined to the probable, the positive, for the world was full of crazies, wasn't it? So, he doubted that number 139 Rosemary Avenue contained the entire global collection of such…such…he broke off, bored with that old chain of thought. Pity about that cereal bowl, though.

His Mistress rarely wasted any food; why should she when she had a quick solution for leftovers? It wasn't quite haute cuisine, but licking up about half an inch of fresh milk along with a few cornflake bits was much better than canned dog food or munching on half-chewed beefburger his Master occasionally spat out on the carpet as a treat. The only breakfast treat he could expect regularly was burnt toast. The electric two-slice toaster was rather unpredictable, varying from barely golden to burnt black, no matter the setting, and had to be watched carefully.

His Mistress though was loath to replace it primarily on the grounds that it matched, the electric kettle and the bread bin and was perfectly fine so long as you flicked the lever at the right moment and caught the bronzed bread slices! A trick she was single-minded enough to accomplish, likewise Miss Susan, unlike the male members of the family, whose attention span was more limited. Charcoal and cinders, as his Master laughingly called them, whenever he tossed a slice for him to chew or rather suck upon, since he could no longer chew anything, not having any teeth. ‘Here, boy, something to keep you occupied, eh!’

He did too. Refusal on his part was unacceptable; grateful pets never wasted food, no matter how revolting or foul. That was a house rule, and once generously given, he had to eat it or face the consequences under his Mistress’s heavy hand, or more accurately, whatever implement was in it! Whether via his food bowl, on the floor, or even on the garden path, it mattered not. If the fingers snapped, pointed, and the command was ‘eat’, he ate. He’d long since learned that there was no alternative… well, there was, but his life was miserable enough without giving the heartless bastards an excuse to make it far worse! Not that they ever needed an excuse to do that should the mood take them!

Occupied was right! Anything remotely hard was a challenge because it had to be licked, sucked, soaked, and softened with saliva until he could use his gums to tear at it. Brittle, black, carbonised toast was one such item, as were dog biscuits, both large and small. One of his bone-shaped ‘treats’ from the glass cookie jar could keep him occupied for a good hour, and even then, he had to discreetly dunk it in his water bowl. He wasn’t sure whether that was allowed, so he had adopted the habit of doing it quietly when he thought no one was watching.

It was Saturday, but that didn't matter much to Pet. There would be a few minor variations to his routine, but nothing out of the ordinary. Miss Susan had brought him downstairs after his—or perhaps more accurately, her—energetic night. He’d been given his pill, the one he suspected of somehow draining his strength, and taken outside to do his business as usual. Soon, one of them would fill his food bowl, and he’d eagerly slurp his sloppy breakfast down and lick his bowl until it was spotless. More of that ‘gratitude’ he was expected to show for being so well looked after!

One difference was the absence of weekday rush and hustle. Saturday and Sunday mornings, first thing, were much more relaxed and less frantic, though he wasn't overly affected by that. Breakfast was pushed back about an hour and was compulsory, much to Master Rogers' disgust. The lazy little sod would have been perfectly happy to spend the entire morning sprawled in his bed, but his mother had other ideas. In fact, it was one of his young Master's frequent complaints that he, pet, could laze around doing nothing in his basket while he had to get up, wash, and dress when there was no real need for him to do so!

His mother wasn’t very sympathetic and was usually fired back a barrage of ‘useful’ suggestions about what he could do to make himself useful. Tidying his bedroom was often at the top of that list, along with washing the road dirt off his filth-covered scooter; it was an eyesore next to the family's other vehicles. Or catching up on neglected school homework. Sometimes, she even made him sit at the dining room table with his schoolbooks under her watchful eye—something both the lad and the pet hated. Master Roger was as lazy academically as he was in everything else, and pet, because the more the boy seethed impotently under this ‘unfair and unjust’ punishment, the more likely he was to vent his temper on a helpless victim later. God help him if such a homework session happened to coincide with a night when it was the brat’s turn for him!

Most people look forward to the weekend but not pet. During weekdays, he spent most of the day locked in his basement cage, waiting for his owners to return. Usually, Miss Susan or Master Roger were the first to come back, unless his Mistress was on a half-day at the dental practice. Technically, it was the duty of the first one home to release him and take him upstairs, but they didn’t pay much attention to him. He went from lying on the old blankets in his cage to lying in his basket upstairs in the kitchen or his corner in the living room. Hardly a ‘Eureka’ moment, was it!

There were variations, of course; sometimes Miss Susan, having a far more active social life, might be straight out again on an errand, or there would be some other interruption that left him confined below. Master Roger frequently ‘forgot’, at least that was his excuse, and a somewhat lame one. How the hell could anyone forget about him and where he was! Or he’d been too busy, that was another of the lad's regular ones. Busy doing what? Playing Nintendo, Xbox or watching TV. Too damn lazy to open a door, descend a flight of stairs and take the family pet upstairs, more like!

Not that he, pet, would complain about it, even if he could. He much preferred being imprisoned in the basement under the ever-watchful eyes of the wall-mounted camera aimed at his cage. It was a love/hate relationship when it came to the prospect of being dragged back down to that punishment bench by one or, worse, both female members of the household to correct some real or imagined transgression on his part; it terrified him. Indeed, he sometimes shivered involuntarily in the morning when he was dragged down by his Mistress before her departure for work. His memories of what the bitches had done to him down there, fresh in his mind, wanted no additional reminders!

The upside, once the door at the top of the stairs closed, was that he was alone, free or at least free from them. His cramped cage was now a temporary sanctuary for a time when, in a sense, he was free. At least in the sense that he didn’t have to fear being beaten or kicked every time one of the bastards felt like it. Free from having a fat cock rammed down his throat or being raped in his poor arse. Free from licking hairy pussies or Miss Susan's collection of boots and shoes. Free from, well, free to dream of better days even though that dark cloud constantly hung on his horizon.

He had no clock, but some long-buried, unused, superfluous, primaeval instinct had clicked in during the long hours of his confinement. It still worked even though he could now snatch surreptitious glances at the various clocks upstairs. For some reason, the mad bastards considered looking at a clock as the same as glancing at a calendar or a newspaper. Such an action on his part inevitably brought swift punishment and the threat of worse if he repeated the misdemeanour. Of course, curiosity is a difficult instinct to suppress, and it was still there despite the best efforts of cane, paddle and whip or a swift kick in the ribs! It was all the more crazy because while he was forbidden to watch television, any television he had ears that functioned!

Missing Love Island, soap operas, and the like didn’t bother him at all, and he sometimes lay there staring at the wallpaper, wishing he could shut that rubbish out. His Master was fond of documentaries, which made the urge to glance at the screen a little harder. Then there was the news—the TV news in the evening and the breakfast-time news on the radio, which came up about every fifteen minutes in the morning. His Mistress liked Five Live, one of the BBC’s channels. He could be mercilessly flogged for merely glancing in the direction of the TV or at a discarded newspaper, yet listening to TV or radio was somehow exempt! He might not have a clock or calendar, but he knew what was making the local and national news beyond the walls and bars that imprisoned him!

If there was some bizarre logic behind their seeming paranoia, it was beyond him, and he sometimes lay in his cage thinking about it to keep his mind occupied. Weekends were a different kettle of fish, though, since he’d spend the entire day above ground, as it were, alongside the family that claimed ownership of him. No escape. No quiet period free from fear, for one of them might call upon his services at any moment or, worse, lash out at him for no perceived reason other than that they could. If, perhaps, they all went out together—as sometimes happened—he would get a reprieve; otherwise, he’d be on tenterhooks all day. Tenterhooks—where did that expression come from? Tent, cloth, material being stretched, perhaps? Whatever, it wasn’t important. He wouldn’t be able to relax until the usual mayhem of the Monday morning rush hour was over and he was safely back in his cage until the first brat got home.

“Another sausage, anyone?” His Mistress was passing the frying pan around but found no takers, and from the tone of her voice, she hadn’t expected it to be otherwise.

“No, thank you, sweetheart. Three were enough for a couple of sandwiches. In fact, I thought they tasted a little... well off," his master tentatively offered as though expecting a rebuke.

“I thought that too," Master Roger chimed in. “Mine had kind of a funny taste to it, even with ketchup on it."

“I notice you’ve both got clean plates though”, Miss Susan observed. “They can’t have been that bad!”

Miss Susan was a muesli and brown bread toast breakfast aficionado, pet knew. Not exactly a vegan or vegetarian, but decidedly fussier than her father and brother. More of a weight thing than anything else, even though she took after her mother physically, who’d retained a relatively slim figure. Well, maybe not uber slim, but she certainly wasn’t overweight or anything. The two guys, on the other hand, only had to look at a burger, and they’d put on the pounds!

“My fault. They’re still in date, but they must have fallen out of the shopping bag and been floating about in the car boot for a few days” His Mistress put the frying pan back on the stove and poked at the contents with a wooden spatula. “I probably should have thrown them away. Never mind, pet can have these two, and I’ll squash the others up for him over the next couple of days. Waste not want not, and it’ll be a nice treat for it!”

The horrible woman didn’t so much as spare him a glance as she made that announcement. Why should she, for he was only the human garbage disposal unit, wasn’t he? Not that she’d consider him human, at least not on the same level she and her family occupied. Great, cold, mashed-up sausage that tasted funny, and tomorrow, or whenever, cold, raw, mashed-up, and liquidised, rotting sausage! Yeah, a real treat for him, the ‘it’ of the household.

Saturday fucking morning, and life was only likely to get worse from here on down until Monday morning dawned! A mere matter of time till something unpleasant happened to him.

*****

Rather to his surprise, it hadn’t happened, or at least not until much later. Miss Susan had disappeared for the day shortly after breakfast, meeting up with her friends in town for shopping and then lunch, and later going to her boyfriend’s house, where she was spending the night, his parents being out of town. No doubt the bitch would be on the end of the sort of pounding she had subjected him to the previous night, only she would doubtlessly find her lover boy’s efforts a hell of a lot more pleasurable than he had!

Maybe it was the other way round, but no, it was highly unlikely. The girl had a photo of the tanned, muscle-bound hunk in his swimming briefs on her dressing table, and the youth didn’t seem the type to meekly open his legs to accept one of the young bitches’ toys. Besides, there had been that time when he’d been face down, nose buried in her hairy bush, his tongue paying homage to her love spot while she’d been on the phone to lover boy. He’d only heard one half of the conversation, but despite his predicament, it had made him feel horny! Miss Susan was a young lady who could be very... explicit at times!

The rain that had threatened earlier had held off, so his Master and Mistress had spent most of the morning and afternoon ‘doing stuff in the garden’ as Master Roger put it. The lad had put in an appearance for lunch, but other than that, he’d been in the lounge all day playing a new Xbox game on the big TV in there. The lad evidently being of the same opinion as the family pet that a low profile, or better still, near absence was his best defence against such green-fingered outdoor activity. It was probably more a case of his being piss-useless that had saved him from a day of more physical activity, given that the lad couldn’t tell a flower from a weed, and even a simple task like cutting the grass on the small back lawn had proved too much. His sister had been particularly scathing when he’d managed to cut through the electric hover mower's cord twice in one afternoon!

Pet, of course, hadn’t escaped Scott free as one might expect in the horrible house. Gardening was the only physical activity his Master seemed to engage in, unless you counted fucking his unique pet! The guy specialised mainly in growing roses, experimented with cuttings, and also liked cultivating vegetables. The vegetable patch was down near the end of the garden and wasn’t exactly large, but from the way the bastard spoke about it, you’d think he was farming acres! Never mind loaves and fishes and feeding the five thousand; simply keeping the family in healthy greens and a few carrots was beyond the capacity of that small dirt patch.

Pet had kept a wary eye on the back door all morning, just in case, but apart from them coming in for morning coffee, he’d remained untroubled and untouched. Evidently, all was well in the gardening world, with the slugs, greenfly, and other pests that enraged his Master giving the rear garden of number 139 a miss, at least for the time being. Not surprising given the guy probably had more chemical weapons at his disposal than what’s-his-name had in Iraq, Saddam Hussein! The garden shed contained more spray bottles and plastic containers than anything else! Master Roger regularly refused to eat his homegrown ’greens’ because they tasted funny! Then again, anything remotely healthy tasted ‘funny’ to that lad!

They didn’t. a) because his Mistress made sure they were well washed, and b) the boys' discards and leftovers invariably ended up in his food bowl, and he hadn’t noticed anything odd about them. Previously, he’d tended to be somewhat similar to his young Master, more carnivorously inclined, much preferring red meat or even white to lots of ‘healthy’ vegetables on his plate. He still ate meat, but unfortunately, much of it came from cans; the pet food company aimed to satisfy canine appetites, not human ones. Also, as the local supermarket's own brand and at a bargain price, it wasn’t likely to contain choice cuts of meat.

It came in a six-pack, two chicken, two duck and two lamb, and invariably tasted the same regardless of the label on the can. Chemically enhanced, flavourless, tasteless, gristle and yuck from heaven knows what animal? Pet was pretty sure that whatever unfortunate creature had provided those chunks had never possessed a beak, bill, or any wool! Nor was he very hungry when it appeared later, along with assorted leftovers and doggy biscuits in his food bowl for dinner. ‘Good for his teeth’ was the occasional casual comment from someone when such biscuits were added to his food bowl or tossed to him as a treat. Oh yeah, very good, given he no longer had a single tooth in his mouth thanks to his Mistress's dental pliers!

Yes, he’d had a relatively untroubled Saturday bar the three interruptions when his presence was immediately required by his betters. Unpleasant, very unpleasant interruptions, but for once, relatively pain-free. He’d been kicked a couple of times, but he was well used to that, and what was a mildly bruised rib or two compared to a bottom-blistering flogging! Mid-morning coffee, lunch, and finally the afternoon beverage break—when the green-fingered duo had called it a day—meant they needed him, or rather his mouth and tongue, and not in the usual way! No, much as he loathed performing that degrading sex act, this one was no less demeaning and, in some ways, even worse, albeit less intimate. One certainly capable of killing his appetite for whatever delights his evening dinner bowl might contain.

Yes, the rain had stopped, but it had rained heavily overnight, soaking the garden and turning it into mud. Horrible, brown, sticky mud that loved clinging to green rubber gardening boots along with all the dirt and debris they trod in. The mud was more stubborn than super glue in that regard and seemed to have a near-magnetic attraction to bits of dead vegetation and insects, the latter not always dead! So three times his Master and Mistress had kicked their boots off on the inside door mat, three times his Mistress's fingers had clicked and then pointed, and three times Pet had climbed reluctantly but not slowly out of his basket to quickly waddle across the floor on his stumpy legs to obey that silent command. He dared not do otherwise!

They’d sat and sipped freshly brewed coffee, nibbled on chocolate biscuits, making small talk with not even a glance in his direction, while he’d had to clean their horrid, claggy footwear with the only means available to him. Although he suspected that if his hands had been free, the bastards would still have insisted that his tongue do the filthy work! Their complete domination of him wasn’t just physical but mental as well. If those green rubber—or whatever they were made of these days—weren’t gleaming clean by the time they were ready to move on, he’d suffer for it. Almost certainly later as well, when his Mistress felt she had more time to correct his lazy attitude. Worryingly, it was her turn to have him for the night, and the last thing he wanted was to start off on the wrong foot! If he, pet, had one goal remaining in his miserable life, it was to not upset his damn Mistress.

It wasn’t just the boots but also the bloody doormat where they had stamped down upon it. Lick, lick, suck and worse, digest. He couldn’t simply spit the filthy muck to one side, for that wasn’t allowed. No, he, the pet, the human garbage disposal, was expected to absorb the muck no matter the content, however revolting it might be. His duty was not to question why but to do, and yeah... probably die of some horrible illness. Perhaps something unknown to medical science, because how many other members of the population were avidly gobbling down domestic garden muck regularly?

There were no exceptions, no excuses. He’d been given a task, a very simple task and was expected thus to perform it to perfection. He’d once received a savage caning from his Mistress because he’d refused to gobble down a small wriggling earthworm that had dethatched itself from a moist clump of dirt. ‘Honestly, it's not rocket science, is it, and what else has the useless thing got to do!' his Mistress had sarcastically observed to her husband as she sat down for coffee, tossing that horrible bamboo cane onto the table. He found she’d added three big ones to his feed bowl that same evening and stood over him, cane in hand, to ensure he ate them! Even her daughter had said she thought that a bit extreme, but maybe the fact that it was her turn to have him for the night had something to do with that. Miss Susan was a fastidious young lady, and having his mouth near her pussy after that little exercise probably didn’t thrill her overmuch.

Master Roger, on the other hand, found it extremely amusing and even temporarily abandoned his substantial dinner to join his mother in supervising this culinary spectacle. Worse still, he went out of his way to find all manner of creepy crawlies for him to eat as ‘extra’ tasty treats during their daily walkies. ‘Here, boy, here! Look at this big, fat spider in its web… yummy!’ Spiders, earthworms, earwigs, and the threat of his mother's cane quelled any squeamishness on his part, and he adapted as he always did, knowing the lad would soon tire of his horrid little entertainment. Walkies with Master Roger down to the poopy patch were always somewhat brief because it was a chore, and Master Roger and household chores simply did not mix. The lad was prone to lie, especially on cold, wet days, and would answer in the affirmative when someone remarked, ‘That was quick, did he do it?’

He was contemplating things later in the master bedroom as he watched his Mistress sitting at her dressing table, going through the nightly ritual of applying ‘beauty’ treatments to face and body. Overall, though, on reflection, it hadn’t been a bad day for a Saturday. He’d been virtually ignored all day, which was a rare blessing for a weekend day when all the bastards were usually around…doormat and boot duties excepted. He couldn’t relax properly like he could on weekdays when he knew they were all out of the house, but still, it hadn’t been a bad day, not by his normal standards anyway. That quirky thought amused him, but only briefly. Not a bad day? Hell, his very existence in this house of hell was a nightmare by the minute, not by the day, and he’d been here, held captive for how long…he shuddered when he thought about it.

The sound of a sealed container being opened distracted him, and he looked up as his mistress dipped two fingers into a pot and started spreading white, creamy gunk all over her face. She had been in a pretty good mood all day, which, now he thought about it, wasn’t all that unusual. The woman terrified him, but she wasn’t an outright sadist; well, she was in one sense, one that scared the hell out of him. But she was always objective; she had never beaten him or lashed out without reason, or very rarely. Not since he had graduated from being ‘trained’ by her downstairs and brought upstairs to ‘earn his keep’.

He’d even been served a proper dinner for once because they chose fish and chips from a nearby chippie. Master Roger had been roused from his marathon gaming session and reluctantly sent to walk down the road to the small parade of shops at the junction where Rosemary Avenue joined the main road. There had been a time when this house was built, when almost every street boasted its corner grocery and a small parade of shops within easy walking distance. Butcher, baker, chemist, newsagent, fish-and-chip shop, grocer, etc. Many had disappeared, replaced by big supermarkets, but a few still remain, now with unisex hair salons, Turkish barbers, kebab shops, and nail bars taking the place of the traditional outlets.

From family conversation, Pet knew that a few of the older establishments had survived within easy walking distance of number 139. Twenty minutes after he’d reluctantly departed on his errand, Master Roger was back with the evening meal, only to be heavily scolded by his irritated mother for reckless spending. ‘Four, four Portions! What’s wrong with you! That stupid games console is addling your brains, what few brains you’ve got that is! This is not a cheap meal these days, you do know that. Four portions, didn’t you think even for one second!’

The young gent, no doubt still mentally focused on whatever end-of-level boss he was struggling with, had absentmindedly ordered cod, chips, and mushy peas four times. Then, realising his error, he was too shy to try to correct it. Usually, his sister volunteered to walk down there to stretch her legs, so he had that excuse. However, forgetting that there were only three of them and that the usual order would have been four medium cod, two portions of chips and two cartons of peas. His mother maintained that they were very generous with their portions, and apart from the fish, one portion between two was more than enough of chips and peas. Four of everything was grossly excessive, especially given there were only three of them for dinner that night!

Had it been Pet who’d been sent on the errand, the irate woman would have thrashed him to hell and back, not that there was any chance of that happening. Being sent on an errand that was not the thrashing — that was always a possibility hanging over him. Master Roger just received a lengthy verbal tongue lashing while he. Pet, for once, got a real edible treat, a feast even. Waste not want not!

His Mistress usually cut the last crispy inch or so of the heavily battered fish off and added it to his bowl along with a few of Miss Susan’s surplus chips and a spoonful of the bright green mashed-up peas. Not always, though, the bitch knew it was a rare treat for him and so made sure it was kept a rare treat! Yeah, she could be sadistic that way when it came to feeding, couldn't she? Not this time, though; his bowl had been loaded, more than loaded, and there would be more, albeit cold, added to his food bowl contents for the next day or so. Not that he’d complain, even stone-cold, greasy fish and chips would be preferable to some of the concoctions she came up with.

‘I will be extra disappointed tonight if your performance isn’t up to… expectations, ’ she’d told him very pointedly as she’d placed his full dinner bowl on the floor. ‘Very disappointed indeed!’ she had emphasised, tapping him on the head with one finger. Pet had resisted the temptation to plunge headlong into that delicious-smelling hot meal and glanced sideways at her as she walked away. He knew that tone only too well and what it portended. He glanced down at his bowl, savouring the sight and smell. At least he’d have a full belly, a happy and contented belly, a full tank of energy, because his tongue was going to need it, later he’d sensed!