Title: It All Goes Back to the Dogs [1/13?]
Warning: language, sex, human trafficking, gambling, abuse
Disclaimer: I don’t own MCR, and I really hope this isn’t true
Word Count: 5,446
Summary: Frank thought his luck had changed when he won $5,000 on a scratch-off lottery ticket, but it just seemed to make everything worse. First, he couldn’t buy the dog and the unconditional love he wanted because he ended up spending the money on Gerard instead. And, second, the slave he bought out of pity seemed to hate him even though he just wanted to help.
( ) ( ) ( )
Gerard took his time lining his eyes and concealing the bruise on his cheek, making sure everything from his straightened hair to his pretty eyes was in place for when his keeper came home. He pretended that he didn’t notice Joshua standing in the doorway of the bathroom watching him, trying to poach his techniques and use them in a weak attempt to steal their keeper’s attention for himself. What Joshua didn’t get was that he had supremacy in this house. He had been picked up first. He was the first whore. He was the most important one. He called the shots when their keeper wasn’t home. He deserved the most attention.
It had taken him eight years of passion, understanding, nurturing, affection, love, concern, obedience, loyalty—eight years of complete and utter submission to get where he was now. He would sooner kill Joshua than allow him to make light of his years of work.
Gerard was their keeper’s, and their keeper was his long before he was ever “theirs”.
“Why do you do that to your face?” Joshua asked. Gerard recognized his tactic from the other whores who had appeared and subsequently disappeared throughout the years. In a feeble attempt to steal his place in their keeper’s eye, Joshua was trying to knock him down and prey on insecurities. It wouldn’t work.
“Because He likes me to,” Gerard answered, tilting his head and examining his eyes in the mirror.
“No He doesn’t.” Gerard approved his looks and left the room, turning off the light and clipping Joshua’s shoulder as he moved past him. He slipped through the living room and entered the bedroom, going to the dresser to grab the tube of strawberry flavored lip gloss and sliding it along his lips until he was sure that there was enough for his keeper to get a taste when he came home. “You know He’ll be home soon,” Joshua said as Gerard passed him again, going to the kitchen to make sure (for the third time) that not a dish was out of place.
“Why do you think I’m doing the rounds then?” Gerard snapped.
“They should be done already,” Joshua said smugly. His snotty demeanor disappeared in an instant when Gerard stormed towards him, not stopping until their noses were touching and their eyes had no choice but to lock.
“It’s called thoroughness,” he spat. “You do the rounds until he gets home to make sure nothing was missed! Once isn’t good enough! Twice isn’t good enough! Ten times isn’t good enough!” Joshua stumbled backward as Gerard moved even closer, not sure if he wanted to beat him to death now or save his sorry ass for later. Their keeper deserved better than this wretch!
Gerard’s mind was made up for him when he heard the first of the locks on the front door crack. His heart began to race as he shoved Joshua aside to stake his claim by the front door, waiting to welcome his keeper home.
When the door swung open, Gerard pounced, his arms around his keeper’s neck, legs wound about his waist, lips smashed together. His keeper was used to it—he caught him effortlessly and returned the kiss as he took the two remaining steps into the house. Joshua appeared to close the door for him, remembering to lock every lock, but not recalling the rule Gerard had laid out that said not to fucking watch.
“Paperwork?” Joshua said softly, making Gerard’s eyes shoot open in annoyance as their keeper broke the kiss and motioned for him to drop back down onto his own feet. Gerard obeyed—he always obeyed—but kept his arms around his keeper’s shoulders intimately. His eyes were on Joshua though, glaring him to death for interrupting.
The keeper saw the look Gerard passed to Joshua and knew that his decision had been right. Gerard was overstepping too many boundaries, somehow seeing himself as more elite than the other whores due to his long history in the house. Perhaps Gerard was better than the others in some ways, especially since he was the only kept person that he really loved at all, but those days were over now.
“You have paperwork?” Gerard asked, suddenly putting on an innocent air and breaking off the embrace so he could try to get a peek at the forms. His keeper held them back from him, hiding the contents of the text to his chest.
“Yes. Go sit on the couch.” Gerard moved and sat. Instant obedience. The type that took years to form but that he seemed to have given his keeper since day one. “Joshua, you stand over there.” He motioned for a corner of the room behind the couch, wanting him present but not within Gerard’s line of vision. Joshua, too, obeyed. He was the perfect replacement.
“You look sad, Honey. Are you sad?” Gerard asked in the strange voice he put on whenever Joshua was around. The tone told the keeper that Gerard was threatened by the new presence. He had a right to be.
“We’ve got something to talk about, Gerard.” His pet made eye contact, proving that he was listening with every scrap of attention he had. “You hurt my other whores—your bedmates. You threatened them, you attempt to threaten the men who sold them to me,” he began, moving to stand in front of the couch, but not sitting on it beside his toy. Gerard broke eye contact to glance at the floor very briefly before looking back up. His eyes were already wet. He knew he was in trouble. “You convinced one of my whores to commit suicide!” Gerard lowered his head again, shoulders starting to shake as he fought the tears.
“I’m sorry,” Gerard whimpered, looking up to make eye contact and sounding sincere. He was always sorry when he was about to be punished. He couldn’t handle his keeper’s anger.
“Is that good enough?” Gerard looked down, shook his head, and then made eye contact again, the tears falling rapidly.
“So here’s how it is, Gerard.” He began making and breaking eye contact over and over as he fought back sobs, knowing his master hated the noise. “You’ve become too much for me to handle. I’m done. I can’t do it anymore. This paperwork is to put you back on the market. I’m selling you to someone else.”
Oh, but that devastation was real. So real.
( ) ( ) ( )
Frank Iero was sure that if he hadn’t just used the gas station’s bathroom, he would’ve pissed himself. So to make up for his physical lack of response, he screamed once his throat unclenched from the initial shock of seeing three gray boxes on his scratch-off lottery card match for a value over one dollar.
At first, he told himself it was only five dollars, and that they put the extra zero on the end just to trick poor idiots like himself. But when he looked closer he saw that it didn’t say $5.000, it said $5,000—dollar sign, five, comma, zero, zero, zero. Five thousand dollars. Three and a half thousand Euro. Three point one thousand British pounds. Fifty-eight thousand Mexican pesos.
Whatever the fuck it was, it meant one thing to Frank, and one thing only.
He finally had enough for a dog.
Sure, some people would see that five thousand and shout out that they could stop their house from being foreclosed on, could afford that trip overseas, could pay those medical bills, could pay for their kid’s schooling, could donate it to one God or another—not Frank, though. He saw it, and images of puppies gnawing squeaky rubber bones came to mind and he grinned madly.
Maybe if it had said five thousand and one dollars instead of just five thousand, he may have even given the gas station’s clerk a hug he was so damned ecstatic about it. He didn’t hug the bug-eyed woman, but he did shake her hand though after she went to the back and of the store and returned with his five thousand.
The only thing that stopped him from running out and getting himself that cuddly little ball of warmth and unconditional love was the fact that it was nine-thirty at night on a Sunday. No humane society would be open…
No dog today.
Frank felt his heart sink a little as he walked the street, going the wrong direction to get to his apartment, but not really worrying. It wasn’t dark yet, but it was getting there. The street was starting to look less and less inviting as he traveled down it, making him fist his separated wads of money where they resided in his pockets. He liked to feel the paper in his hands, to know that it was safe and not slipping out and spilling on the sidewalk for some junkie or crack-whore to find. Doing this also kept the pickpockets away, even if he couldn’t stop the real thieves from putting a gun to his head and taking his prize away.
After dodging a few shady figures by dipping on to side streets like a timid street-novice, he ended up outside of a bar that looked just as dejected and lonely as the apartment buildings surrounding it. There were voices coming from inside the building, surprisingly large for the neighborhood, and Frank suddenly got the magnificent idea that he would be that guy.
The one that showed up out of nowhere and bought a round of drinks for everyone in the bar—even if he only stood at nineteen years of age—for no reason at all besides elated generosity. After all, a dog didn’t cost five thousand, and a round of drinks could cost no more than one-tenth of that amount… Financially, it sounded like a safe idea, so he went up to the door that revealed the bar’s exclusivity by being locked, and knocked.
The door immediately swung open, the force startling him and making him back a step away. A black man, probably three times his own size, with a bald head and a nose piercing that made Frank’s own look like a little girl’s clip on hoop earring glared down at him with bloodshot eyes and a horrific snarl.
“How much you got?” The man spat, his teeth perfectly white, but carnal.
“How much you need?” Frank spat back, relying on the ferocity he’d learned over the years to keep himself safe. He wasn’t a mean guy, but he could play the part. The man looked him over and Frank kept his face narrow and angry. He could tell that guy was about to slam the door when he got the brilliant idea to try to stick his foot in the door—metaphorically at least. “I’m missing the show, man. I’m here to buy.” He didn’t know why that made the man’s demeanor change, but he wasn’t feeling thankful when he found himself being let in.
“Fifty bucks.” Frank found his hand rifting through the bills in his pocket, securing one of the hundreds and handing it over.
“Better give me my change, man,” Frank spat, eyeing the guy that could squash him easily as he pocketed the bill.
“Or what?” The man responded, leaning down to get his face within inches of Frank’s. Frank didn’t blink.
“Or I don’t buy,” he stated. The man gave him a knowing look, a look that made him nervous as hell, and backed a step back into the bar that had gone freakishly quiet. He took a fifty out of his pocket and handed it to Frank.
“How much money you got?” The man asked, ushering Frank inside. Frank took a step in, noticing that the smell of alcohol was missing, but the reek of sweat was too heavy to bear. The door opened into a hallway that was sealed off on both ends by closed doors. Once he was inside, the man who quit looking like he was about to kill him shut the door leading out and locked it in several places.
“Who needs to know?” Frank asked, holding his money a little tighter in the pockets of his jeans.
“The guys selling,” the man spat, looking to Frank with rage again. “How much cash you got?”
“Five thousand,” Frank hissed, narrowing his eyes as his heart began to race. Next time, he thought, go to a bar you know. If there is a next time. If you make it out of this one. This could be the end. “But you ain’t gettin’ it all.” He made eye contact as he spoke, trying to look vicious again and thinking more of Doberman Pinschers and Rottweilers than little Pugs, Bichons, and terriers.
The man shrugged and stuck out his lower lip.
“You already missed the best half of the show, man,” he said, his tone becoming friendly—a street friendly. An ‘I’ll laugh at you now, but if you wrong me again I’ll shoot you in the back of the head’ friendly. He tapped Frank’s shoulder and pointed to the door on the right end of the hall, spoke, and then pointed to the one on the left end and spoke. “Girls. Boys.”
A gender segregated bar. Frank had never heard of such a thing, but he started towards the left side hall and the man followed him, opening the door for him and waiting until he’d just cleared it before slamming it shut again, done escorting Frank and returning to his job as bouncer.
Frank stared at the immense crowd he’d walked into in almost horror. At some point in time, this “bar” had to have been a theatre, a little dine-in and watch the show sort of theatre with a small stage and an array of tables for the onlookers to sit at. Only there were too many tables so people were standing around those who were sitting, all staring at him.
He could tell that they didn’t like that they didn’t recognize him, but they went back to talking once they saw he wasn’t a threat to whatever they were in the process of doing and looked back at the stage—the only lit place in the room.
What the hell kind of place was this? A strip club? But strip clubs all had booze. This place was barren of alcohol. When a scream erupted from behind the stage, his heart froze in his chest and his blood iced over.
He knew what this place was, and he knew that if he turned around and tried to leave, he was going to be dead within a matter of minutes…or be forced to face the same fate as the too-skinny teenage boy being drug onto the stage, screaming and clawing at the man restraining him. He’d won the lottery and walked his ass right into a human trafficking ring.
( ) ( ) ( )
Frank had intended to stay up against the back wall, not wanting to venture into the crowd that chanted, cheered, and jeered at the slaves drug onto the stage for them to bid on. Some were only for sale for the night, some were to be rented out as long as the bidder wanted or as deep as his wallet went…some were for sale for good. Being transferred from one hand into another like…like a dog. With no say in what happened to it.
The ones sold for nights cost feeble amounts. One boy that looked to be about sixteen being sold for twelve dollars. Some cost ten dollars an hour. The slaves sold from one “master” to another, varied in price. A fourteen year old boy was sold for twenty five thousand, the cash transaction taking place on the stage before the owner, the new owner, and the slave went behind the curtain to discuss matters further in privacy. A man that looked to be in his twenties had just been sold for six thousand.
He looked for a clock, but didn’t find one, and knew better than to bring out his cell phone to check the time. No one else had grabbed for their phones, telling him that it was obviously a rule. Of course it was a rule—you can’t take photos of the sex trade. He told himself that he’d stay for an hour and then leave, hoping to live to tell the bouncer that no one here was good. That he wanted someone...more attractive than what he’d seen.
He was surprised he managed to keep his head about him as one slave after another was brought out, described in humiliating detail, and sold. More sobs and screams could be heard behind the stage, each one invading Frank’s head even though he tried to block them out.
Was this punishment, he began to wonder. Because he’d wanted to buy a dog he was being forced to see how terrible the life of a pet would be—to prove that he wouldn’t want to be treated the way dogs are. Did something out there, instead, want him to give the cash to a charity?
As the shuddery whimpers of the next slave to be auctioned off reached an earsplitting volume before he was even drug onto the stage, Frank prepared to leave. He couldn’t take one more dejected presence, one more wordlessly weeping victim too afraid to beg for mercy, being forced in front of him.
Just as he started creeping back towards the door, the slave appeared, being pulled only by the arm from backstage while most had been drug by the hair or even picked up and carried to get them to move. His owner looked like most of the other owners, dressed casually, but treated his…dog…better than the others. After all, the slave was better behaved than the others, though somehow appearing less willing to go up for sale than the others even though he just stood there, trembled, and sobbed.
“Quiet,” the man said to his black-haired slave. It choked out one last whimper, but lowered its face and volume almost immediately. All Frank could catch a glimpse of was a face stained from running black eyeliner and a toothy grimace. And though the man had been speaking to his pet, the audience went quiet as well….or maybe they were just shocked that the man put an arm around the shoulders of his less-than-human sex toy which instantly began to sob again. “You guys aren’t gonna like this one,” he said, smiling and chuckling as he said it. “You can’t get him to do a line of coke anymore to save his life, so you won’t be able to keep him trapped that way. Don’t try to force him either. It’s not worth it. Give him a kiss every now and then and he’ll come around.” The whore turned its face away, pressing it against his own shoulder in a feeble attempt to hide. Frank felt his heart split open when the slave lifted a hand to touch its master’s, obviously begging for him to change whatever decision he’d made. “He’s a good whore. He does everything he’s told to—kneel.” The slave sobbed, but complied, his knees seeming to give out on their own and slamming him onto the wood floor of the stage. “He’s also, only five hundred.” The crowd instantly began to jeer, then chant.
They thought for sure that the slave was diseased.
“You know me, guys. Come on! If he’s that cheap, he’s got problems—one of them being the fact you can’t keep him tied to you with coke—but you know I wouldn’t sell you something diseased.” The crowd hummed and the man smirked. “I take too much pleasure in killing them.” Frank felt that he was about to be sick, but held himself together because one of the men in the crowd was watching him. “I’ve had this little pet for eight years. I bought him off a man that had had him less than three months, trained him up nice—though I say I’ve done a little better.” The crowd laughed, but Frank didn’t see what was so funny. “It kills me to give him up, but it’s time he left.” The slave’s mouth moved and the room fell silent except for a theatrical gasp.
“Please don’t,” the slave whimpered. “Please don’t.”
“You shut your mouth, now,” the owner hissed, annunciating his words by fisting his hand in his slave’s hair and pulling it hard. His pet choked out another cry, but didn’t speak again. It settled instead for nuzzling its master’s leg, seeking affection…mercy. As it moved its head, Frank could see all of the worry and terror on its face—his face—even through the smeared eyeliner and tearstains.
“He’s not trained!” One man in the crowd spat out. The owner laughed and held up one finger in a silencing gesture.
“No, you see, he’s too well trained. He loves me. That’s another reason he’s so cheap.” The slave broke into loud sobs again, exhausting his owner to the point that he released his hair in order to slap him. The injury silenced him good. “He also has a big head. He gets possessive and doesn’t want to let anyone else around you, going so far as to attack my other whores to keep them away when I come home for work. Don’t let him fool you. He’s got fight left in him—he bites the dick that feeds.” He scowled at his pet when he said it, and the slave lowered its head further as the crowd groaned. “He’s also got a tooth going bad that you’re gonna need to get it pulled, because he won’t eat now since it ‘hurts too much’.”
“He’s useless,” an observer shouted.
“Next one!” Another replied.
“You know if I don’t sell him I have to kill him, right?” The master asked, not at all upset about the meaning of what he’d just said or the affect it had on his slave. It began shaking harder, nuzzling its owner’s leg again with more despair in each motion, quiet whimpers escaping him again. “Five hundred. It’s a fair price for a starter-whore—first time slave. He’s trained. He just wants to serve you.”
“He’s too old! Next one!” The owner scowled in the direction of the voice.
“Five hundred bucks. It’s a fair price.” The crowd mumbled its way to silence, and as each second ticked by the slave became more frantic. “Come on, don’t make me kill him.” The whimpers were turning back into vocal sobs. “Five hundred…No? Four eighty.” A loud sob and Frank caved.
They’d kill him. No one wanted him, so they’d kill him. The thing was scared to death, so wounded by its keeper’s betrayal and yet still trying to get affection back from him by pressing its forehead urgently against his leg.
He had five thousand. All this man asked for was a tenth of that…exactly what he’d been planning to spend on beer that he wasn’t even of a legal age to drink, not that any bar would really care on his end of town… Beer or a human life?
“Four seventy,” Frank shouted, just as the owner began to pet his slave’s hair in an apologetic gesture that it understood too well.
“Four eighty,” the owner shouted back, trying to single out the bidder in the crowd with his eyes. Frank helped him, he began walking forward on legs he could hardly feel over the hum of his nerves.
“Four seventy five! He fuckin’ bites.” He made it to the front of the room, looking up at the owner but catching the slave’s eye as well. It looked like it hated him. Like it would have rather died than be sold to some strange person. It looked, with its amazingly bright, hazel eyes, right through him. It made his heart stop.
“Anyone want to go to four eighty?” He scanned the crowd again, and someone shouted the number back to him, making Frank jolt back to awareness.
“Four eighty-five,” he mumbled, knowing the slave heard him, if not the master.
“Anyone go up to four ninety?” The owner asked, smirking since the game was beginning to take off. The same person as before repeated the number.
“Five hundred fifty,” Frank spat, looking up and catching the owner’s eye. “I’m done playing games.” They locked eyes, and then the owner smirked.
“Sold.” And the whore broke into the same fit of hysterics as those before it had. Loud cries, wails, sudden pleas for him to reconsider—the only difference in his actions, besides speaking, was that he clung to his owner whereas the others tried to escape. “Come backstage and we’ll discuss it further.”
( ) ( ) ( )
It was as if he’d just blinked and he was back in the fully-lit room. The slave was clinging to its owner in desperation, silent after being slapped again, and finished giving Frank dirty looks after being verbally trashed by the man it loved. The insult that seemed to hurt the worst “You’re worthless. You’d do better for the world laying in the bottom of the dumpster with your guts slit open”.
“You don’t have any others at your house, do you? Whores, slaves, companions, whatevers…”
“No,” Frank said, handing over exactly five hundred and fifty dollars.
“Good. Like I said. He gets jealous easily—yes, yes.” He turned his attention back to his—well, Frank’s—slave as it began to butt its head against his shoulder, starting to nuzzle it desperately. “You’re not mine anymore, go to him.” He gently pushed the creature away, not hitting it since it wasn’t his to beat anymore.
“Come here, Babe,” Frank said softly, grabbing the tear drenched slave’s wrist and pulling him over to him gently. Just touching him made something go off in Frank’s mind. He felt protective, suddenly feeling the need to hold the slave close and give it comfort it was trying to reject.
“Go to him!” The former owner shouted. “Now!” It didn’t think twice. It went to Frank and buried its head in his shoulder, its back to the man that had yelled at him. “But, yeah, you’re gonna wanna get that tooth fixed. He won’t eat until it is. It really does hurt him a lot.”
“I’ve got the money for it,” Frank said, keeping his voice soft as he became enraptured in stroking the shaking slave’s back and holding it gently. It calmed him somehow. Maybe because he knew his worries here were over. He’d bought someone; that meant he wasn’t a spy that needed taken care of out back by the dumpsters.
“He’s got some scars, but I didn’t give them to him. These are his medical records—his fake I.D., social security card, everything you need.” Frank took the papers with his free hand and glanced at them.
“How old is he?” He asked keeping an uninterested tone.
“Twenty-something. I don’t know.”
“What’s his name?” Frank knew he asked the wrong question when the man started eyeing him. He held the slave a little tighter, and felt it begin to nuzzle his neck.
“What do you want it to be?”
“Well, what do you call him?” The man looked back down at the money and counted it again.
“Babe.” The man looked at him and glared suspiciously.
“For five hundred bucks, he’s gotta suck in bed.” The man snorted.
“Nah. But he bites. Don’t stick it in his mouth when he’s pissed unless you wanna lose it. So I’d suggest you treat him good the next coupla months if you want him to give you head. Or bust his teeth out, I don’t really care.” He laughed and pointed towards a door that didn’t have an exit sign. “That’s the way out. You need help getting him to your car?”
“I walked, but thanks,” Frank said, lifting his hand to pet his new ‘dog’s’ hair gently before letting him go. It looked at him accusingly, but followed him with every step he took. Before he opened the door, he folded the papers and put them in his pockets with his money.
“You live nearby?” The man asked following him, even after he opened the door which led into an identical hallway to the one out front. This one, however, lacked a bouncer.
“No, I live in Portland. I came down here to shop.” The man examined him, and the slave pressed its forehead to the back of Frank’s shoulder.
“Portland, Oregon or Maine?”
“Maine,” Frank snapped back, unlocking the deadbolts on the door he really hoped led outside, his heart starting to race again. “You think I want to try to fly with this thing? Or check it into a hotel? This drive back is gonna be bad enough.” God, he hoped they wouldn’t try to follow him. God, he hoped this wasn’t the action signing his death certificate. God, he hoped the police didn’t stop him.
“He’s a good boy,” the owner said, catching the slave’s eye. Frank thought the man looked close to tears himself. Not wanting to wait anymore, Frank unlocked the last of the deadbolts and pulled open the door, loving the air that washed over him that proved he wasn’t being led into a killing cell. “Take care, Babe,” he said as Frank grabbed the slave’s wrist and led him gently out of the bar and into the alley behind it.
“I love you,” it whimpered in response, its voice raw and heavy. It stared at the doorway, even after its former owner closed it and redid the locks. It showed resistance to Frank when he tried to lead it to the street, but inevitably followed, head down, shoulders forward, mouth shut, eyes slowly drying.
Take him to the cops. Just take him to the cops.—No! If you do that they’ll all find out and they’ll kill you for busting up their ring! Just let him go. Let him run.—No, he’ll just go back to them. He’s in love with that man. He’ll try to find him and he’ll be sold again, or killed!—No, take him home. Take care of him. Fix his tooth, get him fed.—No, take him to the cops and say you found him.—No, they’ll put him in some awful place while they try to figure out who he is.—No, they’ll send him to an asylum because he’s fucked in the head—No, just take him home—just let him go—take him to the cops—take him home—get rid of him!
Frank’s mind just spun as he led his new companion through the streets and to his house by the wrist, trying to get him to walk closer so he didn’t look like a parent dragging a reluctant child down the city streets—awarding him the suspicion of passersby—but the man he’d bought wouldn’t come any closer than an arm’s length.
As if after an eternity of looking over his shoulder and jumping seven feet in the air at the wail of every siren he heard, he made it to his apartment building. That was where his companion started to cry again, feebly trying to pull his hand free from Frank’s grasp. Frank let him go, wondering if he’d actually run and his decision of whether or not to keep him would be made for him.
But the man stayed. He just cradled his hand to his chest and cried pitifully, his head down and his shoulders shaking. Frank stood and watched, not sure if he should just leave him standing there—not wanting to do that anywhere in his heart or mind—or force him into the building, causing suspicion to arise with his neighbors.
“Please, no,” the man whimpered. “Eight years, just him—please, no.”
“I’m not going to hurt you, okay?” Frank said softly, touching the man’s hand. He didn’t flinch, just cried. “I just wanted to get you out of there,” he whispered. His companion didn’t respond, just stood crying.
He fished his key out of his pocket and unlocked the building’s door, holding it open and making a gesture for the man to go inside. Of course, he obeyed, and followed him up every stair and down every hall, and stopped outside of the only door that mattered. He stared at that door with horror though, imagining the worst things behind it, envisioning all of the terrible things he knew would happen in there. Knowing he would have rather died.
Why Are We Laughing?[2/13?]
- It All Goes Back to the Dogs [1/13?]