Fic: By S. Morgenstern
Title: By S. Morgenstern
Author: Alone Dreaming
Rating: PG (for sickies and biting)
Characters: Satchmo, Neal Caffrey, Peter Burke
Warnings: Sickies and doggy thoughts which do not precisely equate to the doggy norm nor do they particularly make sense.
Words: 1000ish
It is imperative to note that dogs and humans, while the epitome of perfect friendship, have very little in common other than dependency and love. Satchmo, for all his doggy charm and adoration, does not think about the same things that Peter does, nor does he consider the same options as Elizabeth. In fact, at this very moment, Satchmo is considering only one thing and that is whether or not the thing on the floor is dead. He nuzzles it, sniffs it and then tries to roll it over with his paws. He tastes it with a tentative tongue and recognizes the texture of the material and the flavor but does not get an answer to his question.
A human, Satchmo has witnessed this firsthand, would touch with dulled fingers and use a loud voice to startle whatever lay on the floor into a state of awareness. Satchmo knows that smell and taste and listening work just as well; he would even argue that they work better, because they give depths of death that humans are not terribly aware of and fail to categorize properly. The thing that he listens to right now, that rattles and makes the slightest whimpering noise, can fall into the "mostly-dead" category. This category resides two levels above dead, and is consistent, in Satchmo's mind, with trips to the vet, white cones about necks, and disgusting medicines hidden in cheese and bits of meat. It radiates heat, its nose dry, its breath stale; and Satchmo, with an impatient huff, attempts to bring it awake, at least, because mostly-dead is no excuse for no supper.
Another difference between humans and dogs: once the dog has the information, it does not seek deeper meaning or reminisce. It simply stores that information away in some flap of the doggy brain to either drift into nothing (the great realm of forgotten, inhabited by all sorts of thoughts, dog, human and otherwise) or to lie, in wait, until the opportune moment. Now, Satchmo has gained his answer. The thing is mostly-dead but somewhat alive so now, Satchmo wants his dinner. Mommy did not come home at the normal interval-- Satchmo's internal clock requires him to be at the door at the same point, every time the sun causes long shadows on the couch-- and Daddy rarely comes home in time to feed him.
Nudge, nudge, nudge... feed me. He nibbles a bit of exposed skin and then licks it to make up for any pain he's caused-- human's are extraordinarily sensitive--but garners no reaction. The thing on the floor wheezes along and Satchmo sits down in frustration. In one last pathetic attempt, he nips the thing's finger and gets the slightest of groans. Ah well, he snorts, flopping down so his legs sprawl over its chest. No dinner for him; his head rests on his paws and he decides that he will nap. The idea of food fades as his mind wanders into doggy Elysium with fields and tennis balls forever flying.
The mostly-dead thing does not move at all when the lock turns and Satchmo opens sleepy eyes to see Daddy standing in the doorway. He stands up and tramples over it so he can greet Daddy-- oh, he's quite glad that Daddy's home-- and get a scratch behind the ears. How nice an ear rub will be right now, right here, just in the crux between the cartilage and the skull. His tail thumps, its own, tinier brain in agreement and he sits down, paw raised, hoping for attention. Attention always wins.
"Neal?" Daddy calls, discarding his overcoat and kneeling down before Satchmo. His hands rub Satchmo's chest-- very nice-- and behind his ears-- even better-- but it's absentminded and not as nice as Satchmo wants. He whines, and puts his paw over Daddy's wrist. "Neal?" Daddy calls again.
And Satchmo grunts in annoyance and wanders back over to it. At least it provides a vast amount of heat in the chilly house.
"Jesus, Neal!" Daddy gasps, preventing Satchmo from lying on it again and pulling it into a sitting position. Satchmo sits next to it instead and tilts his head to the side, sniffing long and deep. Underneath the sick, and the dead, and the ick (ick he has the sudden urge to roll in so that he can be the king of the smell), he identifies it as Neal-- Uncle Neal, Neal often whispers into his ear as he brings Satchmo treats, and toys, and takes him on walks and brushes his fur-- and wonders if Daddy is upset about the mostly-dead.
"Peter?" it mumbles and Satchmo yawns. "Was thirsty."
"And, let me guess, you tried to stand up and discovered you shouldn't," Daddy growls, getting it up underneath the arms.
Having now discovered that it and Neal are the same thing-- he had not thought of it earlier because Neal always moves, always does, always uses all of his senses, and never, ever lies still and motionless on the ground-- Satchmo rather wants his ball thrown. It sits forgotten in the corner of the room, awaiting someone to toss it. With light feet, he crosses the room and captures it before it can run off. Then, he carries it back to where Daddy helps it--no, Neal-- onto the couch. Daddy still uses his angry voice.
"You should've called," he finishes, swinging Neal's feet onto the couch. "That's why your phone's right on the table."
"Forgot," Neal whispers and Satchmo drops the slimy ball right into his armpit. He blinks down at Satchmo, dazed. "Hi Satch..."
"Satch, not now," Daddy reprimands, removing the ball from Neal and tossing it across the room.
Satchmo does not care. The he has achieved his goal. He goes to fetch.
Upon his return, Daddy has vanished into the kitchen and Neal has a blanket tucked up about him. Satchmo sets the ball onto his chest and waits patiently. But Neal, being human and mostly-dead, doesn't quite get the point. He reaches out a tremulous hand and rubs heated fingers over Satchmo's ears and down his chin.
"Good boy," he murmurs. "Good boy."
Dogs and humans do not think the same way. But they do, to some extent, understand each other. And for now, Satchmo accepts the ear scratch and chin scratch and puts the ball from his mind. Petting is good, Neal is good. The rest can wait for later.
Author: Alone Dreaming
Rating: PG (for sickies and biting)
Characters: Satchmo, Neal Caffrey, Peter Burke
Warnings: Sickies and doggy thoughts which do not precisely equate to the doggy norm nor do they particularly make sense.
Words: 1000ish
It is imperative to note that dogs and humans, while the epitome of perfect friendship, have very little in common other than dependency and love. Satchmo, for all his doggy charm and adoration, does not think about the same things that Peter does, nor does he consider the same options as Elizabeth. In fact, at this very moment, Satchmo is considering only one thing and that is whether or not the thing on the floor is dead. He nuzzles it, sniffs it and then tries to roll it over with his paws. He tastes it with a tentative tongue and recognizes the texture of the material and the flavor but does not get an answer to his question.
A human, Satchmo has witnessed this firsthand, would touch with dulled fingers and use a loud voice to startle whatever lay on the floor into a state of awareness. Satchmo knows that smell and taste and listening work just as well; he would even argue that they work better, because they give depths of death that humans are not terribly aware of and fail to categorize properly. The thing that he listens to right now, that rattles and makes the slightest whimpering noise, can fall into the "mostly-dead" category. This category resides two levels above dead, and is consistent, in Satchmo's mind, with trips to the vet, white cones about necks, and disgusting medicines hidden in cheese and bits of meat. It radiates heat, its nose dry, its breath stale; and Satchmo, with an impatient huff, attempts to bring it awake, at least, because mostly-dead is no excuse for no supper.
Another difference between humans and dogs: once the dog has the information, it does not seek deeper meaning or reminisce. It simply stores that information away in some flap of the doggy brain to either drift into nothing (the great realm of forgotten, inhabited by all sorts of thoughts, dog, human and otherwise) or to lie, in wait, until the opportune moment. Now, Satchmo has gained his answer. The thing is mostly-dead but somewhat alive so now, Satchmo wants his dinner. Mommy did not come home at the normal interval-- Satchmo's internal clock requires him to be at the door at the same point, every time the sun causes long shadows on the couch-- and Daddy rarely comes home in time to feed him.
Nudge, nudge, nudge... feed me. He nibbles a bit of exposed skin and then licks it to make up for any pain he's caused-- human's are extraordinarily sensitive--but garners no reaction. The thing on the floor wheezes along and Satchmo sits down in frustration. In one last pathetic attempt, he nips the thing's finger and gets the slightest of groans. Ah well, he snorts, flopping down so his legs sprawl over its chest. No dinner for him; his head rests on his paws and he decides that he will nap. The idea of food fades as his mind wanders into doggy Elysium with fields and tennis balls forever flying.
The mostly-dead thing does not move at all when the lock turns and Satchmo opens sleepy eyes to see Daddy standing in the doorway. He stands up and tramples over it so he can greet Daddy-- oh, he's quite glad that Daddy's home-- and get a scratch behind the ears. How nice an ear rub will be right now, right here, just in the crux between the cartilage and the skull. His tail thumps, its own, tinier brain in agreement and he sits down, paw raised, hoping for attention. Attention always wins.
"Neal?" Daddy calls, discarding his overcoat and kneeling down before Satchmo. His hands rub Satchmo's chest-- very nice-- and behind his ears-- even better-- but it's absentminded and not as nice as Satchmo wants. He whines, and puts his paw over Daddy's wrist. "Neal?" Daddy calls again.
And Satchmo grunts in annoyance and wanders back over to it. At least it provides a vast amount of heat in the chilly house.
"Jesus, Neal!" Daddy gasps, preventing Satchmo from lying on it again and pulling it into a sitting position. Satchmo sits next to it instead and tilts his head to the side, sniffing long and deep. Underneath the sick, and the dead, and the ick (ick he has the sudden urge to roll in so that he can be the king of the smell), he identifies it as Neal-- Uncle Neal, Neal often whispers into his ear as he brings Satchmo treats, and toys, and takes him on walks and brushes his fur-- and wonders if Daddy is upset about the mostly-dead.
"Peter?" it mumbles and Satchmo yawns. "Was thirsty."
"And, let me guess, you tried to stand up and discovered you shouldn't," Daddy growls, getting it up underneath the arms.
Having now discovered that it and Neal are the same thing-- he had not thought of it earlier because Neal always moves, always does, always uses all of his senses, and never, ever lies still and motionless on the ground-- Satchmo rather wants his ball thrown. It sits forgotten in the corner of the room, awaiting someone to toss it. With light feet, he crosses the room and captures it before it can run off. Then, he carries it back to where Daddy helps it--no, Neal-- onto the couch. Daddy still uses his angry voice.
"You should've called," he finishes, swinging Neal's feet onto the couch. "That's why your phone's right on the table."
"Forgot," Neal whispers and Satchmo drops the slimy ball right into his armpit. He blinks down at Satchmo, dazed. "Hi Satch..."
"Satch, not now," Daddy reprimands, removing the ball from Neal and tossing it across the room.
Satchmo does not care. The he has achieved his goal. He goes to fetch.
Upon his return, Daddy has vanished into the kitchen and Neal has a blanket tucked up about him. Satchmo sets the ball onto his chest and waits patiently. But Neal, being human and mostly-dead, doesn't quite get the point. He reaches out a tremulous hand and rubs heated fingers over Satchmo's ears and down his chin.
"Good boy," he murmurs. "Good boy."
Dogs and humans do not think the same way. But they do, to some extent, understand each other. And for now, Satchmo accepts the ear scratch and chin scratch and puts the ball from his mind. Petting is good, Neal is good. The rest can wait for later.