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The vicarage was rarely so quiet as it was in those moments after Fletcher's release. I heard the pup's panting breath gradually slow as he collapsed in my arms, falling into a light doze that I was loathe to disturb. All around, stillness gave us a space to be together. No phones rang, no one knocked, even the sounds of non-sapient dogs barking or kits and pups playing were so soft as to seem kilometers away. The air was still, close with the wolf's scents, warm enough for us not to need any cover. I did all I could to let the moment's sweetness linger without judgment on either of us. A psalm from the rulebook came to mind:You have put more joy in my heart than they have when their grain and wine abound. It was said to be about the fulfillment of God's mercy and love when the world makes us suffer in material want. Selfish of me it might have been, but here, is the safe quiet of my room, I would have said those same words of Fletcher, and I would consider that love no blasphemy.

We lay together for long moments before the young wolf began to stir. I still held him tenderly, my forepaws at the level of his chest; as he woke, I touched him softly, his lush ash-gray fur a sensuous joy that I let be a simple pleasure rather than something erotic. Perhaps strangely, my emotional passion for the pup helped supersede my own sexual desire, and it was no difficulty at all simply to hold him and wait for his mind to return to him. It didn't take long, and the first indication was a shiver that ran through him tip to tail as the fur across his entire body shifted. His body didn't stiffen or shudder, so I didn't think it was fear that was causing this reaction. I continued to hold him, in no hurry, waiting.

He turned his head gently toward me, looking over his shoulder. "Graham?"

"Here, Fletcher."

"I think I made a mess."

"It's okay." I kept my smile soft. "How do you feel?"

A brief pause. "It's different from... felt different this time."

"Can you say why?"

"I made it happen. Myself." He rubbed his cheek against my chest. "With you."

"I don't want to put words in your maw; may I suggest something?" He nodded against me. "You wanted it to happen. You wanted it for yourself."

He murred a little in his throat. "Yes. I wanted. Wanted to make it happen." Another pause, and I could sense the blush in his voice. "I guess I need words. Heard some in Othertime, but..."

We took a few minutes together for him to tell me some of the crude terms he'd heard, as well as some things that Leif had talked to him about. I offered clinical terms along with a few that might be more (for lack of a word) romantic. I again tossed up a request for a blessing for Leif; the leopard had correctly guessed or sussed out ideas that Fletcher may have gleaned from his late puphood, and with the information Leif provided and our progress through the book that Wyatt had loaned to us, a lot of the (again, for lack of a word) mechanics of sexuality had been covered. Before long, the wolf was able to describe what he'd done for himself as well as what had happened. As I'd noted all along, he was far from stupid.

"Graham," he asked softly, "are you okay? Do you need... do you want to...?

I squeezed him gently against me. "No secrets from you, young wolf. I'm almost afraid to touch myself now, because I so much want to touch you, and to have you touch me. And that mustn't happen. Not yet."

He looked away briefly, and his voice grew quiet. "We shouldn't have done this."

"Yes, we should." I nuzzled his ear briefly. "Fletcher, there are things that you need to understand, and this was the best way. I still have not touched you the way you were touched in Othertime; I haven't made you touch me like that either." I did all I could to keep the hurt and scorn from my voice. "I want to share love with you, wolf, and to help you find joy in your body, your sexuality. The rules say we can't do that, at least not now, and I think it's immensely unfair. Even so, I could not abandon your need to be educated. Leif helped, and Wyatt's book is helping, but more than that, Fletcher, I had to find a way to keep you from being afraid to discover for yourself. My greatest desire is that you not have to feel fear anymore, as best I can make that happen. So when you were afraid to try this alone, I..."

"Look at you?"

I leaned back to make space for him to roll over, and his cobalt blue eyes, calm as sweet summer sky, looked into mine. He gathered himself, remembering Leif's instruction to breathe slowly. "Thank you, Graham. I feel dumb -- no, I know I'm not really dumb, but I don't have the right words yet. Still working on that." He breathed again, let it out slowly. "Graham... I've lied to you about something. I'm remembering more about Othertime than I told you. It's been coming back faster, and I've been remembering things that..." He swallowed, tried again. "I'm remembering because of backward. No, wrong word, I mean... okay, when I feel something with you, it's like... where something hurt me in Othertime, what you do is like the other side of it."

"Opposite?" I tried.

He nodded, smiled a little. "Weird. Know that word, but it wouldn't come out. Yes. Opposite. Still don't know how long I was there, but never wore clothes. I was never allowed to wear clothes." He nodded again, feeling the importance of using that personal pronoun. "When I wear clothes here, I feel like a 'me' again. But it's also about... this." He put his forepaw to my chest. "There, without clothes, I was a thing; here, without clothes..." He swallowed again. "Safe. Loved. I love you, and I'm safe with you."

"I think I understand, Fletcher." I touched his cheek gently. "It's what I realized about you touching yourself. You were still back there, in Othertime, in your mind. And now..."

The gray wolf put his head against my chest and whined softly. "You made it safe. So much feels safe now. Food won't be taken away from me; I can use the bathroom when I need to; I can shower and be clean; I can sleep without wondering if someone will wake me and... do things... that I didn't want..."

I pet him gently as his words turned into soft sobs. I made quiet shushing noises, but only for comfort. Nothing I could imagine would be as horrifying as what he had gone through, and I was learning that words might need to come later than sooner. As the pup had shown me, even when you know the right word, it may not come to you when called. I closed my eyes and held Fletcher close to me, letting my mind ask as it would, letting my heart feel as it must, letting my spirit hear as it did. In that sweet moment, I remembered why it was referred to as a Calling.

* * * * * * * * * *

We did eventually leave the bed -- reluctantly, I freely admit. The young wolf had indeed made quite an impressive mess, and although I doubted that these linens had known such a particular dousing, they were certainly washable. I reminded Fletcher that everything that had happened was normal, and that he and I would discuss the means of "containment" later. Reassurances included the idea that "cleaning up" after sexual expression was not because it was a shameful act but because it makes one's fur sticky and carries a scent that one might not wish to carry into the rest of the world. Because he asked, I told him that the scent did not in any way offend me, and because I promised him that we'd have no secrets, I added that I rather liked it. He managed a small smile at that, and I knew I'd have to wait for another time to find out why.

I showed Fletcher the simple joy of a warm wash cloth to clean up with, partly because (as I told him) I had often fetched a cloth for Merrill when we were together. Just as the wolf found himself dozing after his climax, Merrill too found it easy to feel quite indolent after taking his pleasure. I did tell the yowen that I would clean up my lover, but he understood quickly why I had to refrain from doing so for him. I talked him gently through the necessary attendance to his forepaw and his genitals, letting him use whatever words he felt comfortable using. I confess (if you'll pardon my using the word) that I probably enjoyed watching him more than was strictly necessary.

We dressed, tended to the laundry, then sat in the living room to talk some more. He spoke, with greater calm than I'd have credited possible, about some of the sexual activities that he had been put through. He explained that talking with Leif had started some of the memories flowing, and that after our experience an hour ago, he was able to understand more of what the leopard had been explaining.

"Opposites," he said. "Leif and Wyatt love each other, and they want what they do together. Othertime was all about what others wanted, whether I wanted it or not. When I was scared and fought back, I was hurt; when I didn't fight, they called me..."

I put a tender forepaw to his shoulder. "I can guess," I said. "You don't have to say it."

Fletcher nodded. "You showed me different. I can want, and it's okay."

"There's something I want to remind you of. Remember when you first met Wyatt and Leif, and we talked about their relationship? Wyatt mentioned something about wanting. If he wants something but Leif doesn't, Leif is not forced, and the reverse is also true. Love is about respecting each other, respecting that idea of 'want' or 'don't want'. You never have to submit, to give in like that. Someone who loves you will not put you through that."

The wolf leaned against me in a very proper cuddle. "I remember. And I remember what you said, about not throwing me out." He laughed softly. "You know what I mean. I understand better now. That's part of why we're not supposed to touch each other yet. Rules say that yowens may do things, be forced to do things, because they're afraid of being thrown out. Hurt." He nodded against my shoulder. "You wouldn't treat me that way, but the rules... they have to cover furs who_would_ treat a yowen that way."

I pet his headfur gently, smiling. "That's the idea."

"So because some furs might be bad, the rest of us have to hurt because of it."

"I wish that weren't so, but it's a pretty good description of things."

"Poo."

He joined my laughter quickly, and we gave each other a squeeze before he pulled away from me to look me in the eyes. "Graham?"

"Yes?"

"Have we broken the rules?"

Sighing, I looked down for a moment. "Some would say we have. I don't think we did." I looked back into the wolf's eyes. "Fletcher, I love you very much, and I may not be as strong as I need to be. What I'm saying is that I may be trying to convince myself that we didn't break the rules when we really did. I think I can say that Leif and Wyatt would feel strongly that we didn't break the rules, and that it's no one else's business that we may have_bent_the rules."

He took my forepaws into his and looked at me, his expression one of openness and affection. "If that counselor asks me, I can still say the truth. You haven't touched me like anyone in Othertime, you haven't made me..." He swallowed. "That doesn't count. You didn't make me do that, I made you, and I'm sorry. I'll still say you've never touched me like that. Is that bad? Is it wrong for me to say that?"

My conscience fought with the dictionary, with the rulebook, with the rule of law, and I made my choice. "No, Fletcher, but only if you feel that I haven't hurt you."

"I was the one who hurt you. You protected me. Protected us."

"Then we will keep our private moments private, and I will continue my promise never to hurt you on purpose. I may hurt you accidentally, just as you may hurt me accidentally. We all try not to hurt those we love, and sometimes, it happens anyway. But I will apologize and make amends as fast as I can, always."

Slowly, a small smile appeared on his muzzle. "Does that mean we can do it again?"

I grinned at him, remembering what it was like to be that young.

* * * * * * * * * *

By the evening's end, we did finally go to sleep, and it amused me to realize that we were ending the day dressed again. The linens were clean, and we found an extra towel to absorb Fletcher's exuberance. I suggested that he keep it in his room, with his own clothes to be washed. I'd no idea if Mrs. Whitson's nose was sensitive enough to note the particular flavor of musk, but still better that she not wake us with tea, wondering about the scent being in_my_ room.

Friday morning, she woke us well in time for me to take a shower (and yes, the desire presented itself, and I ignored it, if only for the sake of being prompt). After breakfast, I performed the Friday morning non-Eucharistic mass for a pawful of celebrants, with Fletcher watching me from behind the curtain. Unlike that first morning only a few weeks ago, there was no fear in him that made him need to be in sight of me; he wanted to be there. He had asked our housekeeper if he could postpone chores until after the service. I felt joy in performing the rite, yet I realized that there was something missing in it. Happily, I was wise enough to guess what it was.

Back at the vicarage, I asked Mrs. Whitson to join me and Fletcher in the living room for a few moments. The red panda looked concerned at first, but I explained quickly. "This is, in part, a household idea, or perhaps even family idea. After all, Mrs. Whitson, you're also Fletcher's guardian, and in case I've not said it before, I'm very glad of it."

Fletcher showed perfect timing by offering her a hug at that moment. Beneath her cheekfur, the hint of a blush arose, and she returned the hug with a squeeze before the wolf pulled away and sat down near me. "Right then, Reverend Graham. What's up?"

I'd have bet quite a bit that she already knew. "I'd like to know how you both feel about telling everyone about Fletcher becoming my foster pup." I looked first to the yowen, who blinked a little. "It would be wonderful to introduce you to the flock... my parishioners, those who go to church here. That would be a big step, and it may be too soon to try that. However, at some point, we'll need to explain why you're here. And eventually, it will be good for you to be able to go back out into the world again."

Sensing the wolf tremble, I took his forepaw into mine. "This is to talk about, not to spring on you like a bad surprise. It doesn't have to happen right now, and it's probably better to make this choice slowly. Fletcher, you and I talk about everything together; this is a time when I think Mrs. Whitson's counsel till be good for you too." I looked at him with a knowing glance. "This is another case of asking you for permission. Yes, I want something of you. I want to announce that I've applied to become a foster sire, and we all know that I probably will succeed. What I want, Fletcher, is to have your permission to announce it on Sunday, at mass. If you're not comfortable with that, then I won't do it."

"How..." He swallowed, made himself bring out all the words. "How do I choose?"

"I find it best to ask questions," Mrs. Whitson offered. "I think Reverend Graham and I will answer any question we possibly can. Whatever questions you have, we'll talk to you about. And then you can see how you feel about it." She smiled. "Feelings are sometimes the hardest part, and we'll help with those, too. You may find that it helps to ask a question of yourself: What am I most afraid will happen? You can imagine something happening and see how it makes you feel."

"Fletcher, there's one question I'd like to ask you first." The pup looked at me, more confused than frightened, which I took as a good sign. "You and I have no secrets; I will always respect that. And we talked about how we spoke to Leif and Wyatt separately, so that we could understand what we wanted to say first before we talked to each other. Maybe my question is more of a suggestion: If you're not sure what to say to me first, you can always call Leif, or Wyatt... and you can talk to Mrs. Whitson, too."

"Absolutely," the red panda offered smiling. "After all, the Cook's Secret Society has to stick together!"

The young wolf managed a laugh at that, then looked to me and our housekeeper in turn. "Thank you. I guess I knew... I mean, we'll have to..." He managed a smile again. "Weather's been nice, and it's a cryin' shame t' waste it." A slightly lost look came over his face for a moment. "My dam said that. I remember..."

An ice spear struck my heart. "I'm sorry, Fletcher, I--"

"No, it's okay." His smile came back, not as strong, but there. "Good to remember that. Her. Good to remember her." He looked to Mrs. Whitson, the smile still there. "She was good, like you."

"Thank you, Fletcher." The matronly firefox smiled softly at him. "That's very kind of you. Did your dam ever get you to do the dusting?"

"Yes, she did." The wolf laughed a little.

"Feel like doing some tidying up with me?"

"Glad to help," he said, rising to his hindpaws.

"And you," she eyed me with a grin, "need to get at that desk of yours!"

"Ma'am, yes, ma'am!" I joked, hopping to my hindpaws.

"Right!" declared the matron-in-charge. "Let's get to work!"

As I'd long ago learned, some commandments simply must be obeyed.

* * * * * * * * * *

The monthly meeting of the Females' Auxiliary Committee (a name from the 19th century, I'm sure, and never bothered by change) took place in the early evening and was brief. Honestly, they had little need to keep me in the loop at all; they had everything well in paw, as far as their various duties were concerned. I was particularly proud of them for helping St. Christopher's be a clothing donation site that took in garments that were intended to be worn again, not sold as "slightly used" for the profit of some CEO under the guise of good works. Several of the fine females on the committee donated cloth, thread, and talent to necessary minor repairs, making ours the most truly "recycling" of recycling concerns. They also handled any refreshments needed for special occasions (with Mrs. Whitson leading that particular charge), helped keep the parish calendar, prodded me for my contributions to our newsletter, and handled my favorite of the holdover traditions from across the pond, the jumble sale. I marveled at what our parishioners donated and, often, purchased from such sales.

Arriving back at the kitchen about 7:30, I was greeted warmly by Mrs. Whitson, who had (as usual for meeting nights) held dinner for me. By warmly, I mean a hug that rather surprised me. Putting her muzzle close to my ear, she whispered, "It's going to be fine, Reverend. I'm proud of you."

Fletcher walked in at that moment, smiled at us, and said, "I'll start serving."

The red panda released me gently and herded me to the table. "I do need to get home, Reverend Graham, but I wanted to be here long enough to hear your reaction. Fletcher and I had quite a talk while you were with the committee."

I sat down as the young wolf set a steaming bowl of Mrs. Whitson's best stew before me. I sniffed a long, sweet draught, catching the savory scent of what she called her "hunter's sauce", a thick brown concoction that defied exact analysis of spices but never failed to make my taste buds stand to attention. I then found myself in a side-to-side hug that let me press my cheek against Fletcher's flat belly. Cutting my eyes toward the red panda in a slightly guilty glance, I saw that her smile had only become larger.

"I want to talk more," the pup said softly, "but I want to go forward. Scared, a little bit, but yes. Time to... do more. To trust more."

Wrapping an arm around his waist, I returned Fletcher's hug, doing my best not to cry. I didn't fully realize, until that moment, just how much his assent meant to me. I released him, looking up into his eyes. "More talk. We'll make sure you're ready."

"We will indeed," Mrs. Whitson affirmed. "And Reverend... Fletcher's told me how much he loves you, and I want you to know that I support your choices."

I might have jumped right out of my fur, if my heart hadn't stopped dead in its paces first. I had my spoon in paw but hadn't taken my first sampling, so at least I avoided the spit-take. Fletcher had seated himself by this time, and I felt his hindpaw touch mine under the table just as the red panda touched my shoulder.

"You're a fine and honorable male to be so strong for Fletcher. And when he's of age, if you both find that you wish to date properly and marry, I'd be honored to stand for you at your wedding."

I had the distinct impression that gears in my brain were both real and grinding noisily in an attempt to get me to respond.

"That's going to take more talking too," the young wolf said, smiling. "Just glad Graham is teaching me so well."

That didn't help, something in me replied.

"I'll be off then, Reverend. See you two in the morning, as usual. Good night. Sleep well." And with little fanfare at all, she left us to ourselves.

By accident or design, I held my tongue until I was sure that we were entirely alone. The young wolf had attacked his stew already, oblivious to anything that could be wrong; he had helped himself to one of the biscuits, foregoing butter in favor of the gravy. It occurred to me in that moment, perhaps ironically, that the appetites of the young are rarely stinted. He paused a moment, looking at me, becoming worried. "Graham," he said softly, "are you okay?"

The last thing that I should do is overreact. "It's rather sudden for me, Fletcher," I managed, speaking slowly. "May I ask you what you told Mrs. Whitson?"

"We talked about everything," he said with candor. "About how much I love you, and you that you love me too, and how good it feels to be safe here with you. And I told her that I'd been remembering things about Othertime, but how it's okay, because of opposites, and how you..." Something seemed to dawn in the pup's eyes. "Oh! No! No, I didn't tell her about... Graham, that's private, like we said."

For the first time in minutes, I remembered to breathe.

"She asked me about loving you, but nothing like that. She said that she admired you for making sure I was safe that way. She reminded me about what we told the counselor, and she said, That's good enough for me. She knows we haven't... well, we haven't, not like..." He pulled into himself a little. "Did I do wrong?"

I indicated for him to set his spoon down, then I took his forepaws into mine and looked into his eyes. "Absolutely not. I apologize, Fletcher; it was the words that you and she used. They had more than one meaning in my head, and the other meaning frightened me. I should trust you to know about keeping private things private, and that you tell the truth. I should trust Mrs. Whitson for being a good, loving soul who looks out for us both. I apologize for being afraid."

"Oh, Graham, I don't ever want you to be afraid!" He squeezed my forepaws. "Are you okay now?"

"I think I am. Let me ask you: Did you mention anything about the 'male stuff' we've talked about?"

"I told her about the book," he said, still looking at me, still a little scared. "And I told her that you were helping me understand why my body is changing, and why things that happened in Othertime were not right. I did tell her..." He gulped, pressed on. "I did tell her that I thought maybe I'd like to know what it's like to be like Wyatt and Leif, but that you, and I understand that we can't do that right now. It's not time now. She asked if that was okay with me, and I said that I'd never do anything to hurt you or get you in trouble. That I loved you more than that. And she... she asked if she could hug me, and I said yes, so she did, and I think she was crying a little, and she said she was so grateful that you found me, that I found you, and she said she loved me too, and she'd always bring us tea in the morning, as long as we wanted her to." He paused for breath, then asked, "Is that okay?"

Pulling him to me, I hugged him as best I could from our positions at the table. "A lot better than okay." I released him, smiling. "I was foolish to be afraid. C'mon, let's eat, and we'll talk more about how to introduce you slowly."

* * * * * * * * * *

After dinner, we sat on the bed and talked a while before sleep. I hadn't lied to Fletcher, but neither had I told him a full truth: Being a little bit afraid (or, as I put it to him, "cautious") was probably healthy for us both. Perhaps that's why he was so insistent upon making sure we were clothed once again and the towel put away before we slept that night. I figured that, eventually, there would be at least a little less regularity in Fletcher's desires, but I can't say that I minded all that much.

In our conversations on Saturday, some of them including Mrs. Whitson, I came to realize that my concerns about announcing my plans to become a foster sire were only partly about my being a vicar and being gay. The most important consideration was Fletcher. I asked how much about his past and about our meeting I should tell. I asked what other details about him he felt comfortable with my revealing, such as his interests, his eagerness for learning, and so forth. (When Mrs. Whitson wasn't looking, he flashed me a secret grin.) I asked him about his feelings regarding meeting people. I told him my idea of inviting him onto the altar with me; I didn't expect him to want that (he didn't), but I did want him to have the option, to give him more experience in declining things he didn't want. I asked if he would let me tell my congregation that he was still insecure about crowds and meeting people; did that sound all right? He nodded, and both the red panda and I reassured him that it was okay to take things slowly. By the time we were done, Fletcher seemed both eager and, with our blessing, ready to move forward, one pawstep at a time.

Sunday is always my busiest day, no matter what. Mrs. Whitson is a marvel, waking even earlier than usual on that day, to arrive at the vicarage in good time to make and bring tea to me, all to help get me started in plenty of time. It's a morning when saying my morning office is, perhaps paradoxically, felt even more deeply than the rest of the week. It feels to me like a special preparation, clearing the way within my heart to let God come through me to bless the mass. That particular morning, I felt more joy and gratitude than I had felt in a long time, and I recalled the words of my Savior to his apostles:Peace I leave with you, my peace I give unto you; regard not your sins, but your faith, for the Lord is with you and with your Spirit.

I crossed myself and rose from my prei-dieu, a little surprised to see Fletcher standing near and looking concerned. He often heard me at my prayers, as he had from that first night. I never insisted that he join me in prayer. I have always felt it was wrong to impose religion upon a yowen who might not be ready to understand what all the ritual and words were about; it had occurred to me only recently how like it was to following a Master mindlessly, perhaps even dangerously. He was always quiet and respectful as I said my morning and evening Office, and he would sometimes ask me about the words, but I'd never before seen him look worried.

"Graham, are you all right?"

"I've never felt better." Lowering my voice, I whispered conspiratorially, "Except for a certain few times."

Fletcher smiled a little, glancing over my shoulder toward the kitchen down the hall, then said, "You're crying."

I wiped my damp cheeks, laughing a little. "I didn't even realize it. Don't worry, Fletcher. Sometimes, we cry because we're happy, and I feel so very happy this morning." I stepped up and pulled him into a warm hug. My chin on his shoulder, I said, "Can I count on your help with my vestments this morning?"

"Always." He gave me a squeeze. "Toast, tea, testament," he quoted me with a smile.

"The vicar's Sunday start."

Mrs. Whitson, never satisfied to keep things too simple on special mornings, gave us a treat: Fresh biscuits with butter and orange marmalade, and a good, stout British "white tea", in this case Earl Gray with milk. We ate quickly but properly, to avoid both indigestion and the threat of Mrs. Whitson's raised eyebrows. That firefox takes good care of us.

In the vestry, Fletcher helped me with the full Sunday vestments, making sure I looked as perfect as the two of us could make it. He hugged me again ("Remember what I told you," he whispered) before I left him to his hassock and went to meet my morning flock. The parts of the service seemed to fly by, and the Lesson for that morning was Psalm 127:Unless the Lord builds the house, the builders labor in vain. Unless the Lord watches over the city, the guards stand watch in vain. In vain you rise early and stay up late, toiling for food to eat -- for he grants sleep to those he loves. Yowens are a heritage from the Lord, offspring a reward from him. Like arrows in the hands of a warrior are yowens born in one's youth. Blessed is the fur whose quiver is full of them. They will not be put to shame when they contend with their opponents in court.

I closed the book without the usual "here endeth"; there was more to say.

"Friends all... I ask your indulgence for my homily this morning, as it's more in the form of an announcement. I'll try to keep the story short.

"Some two weeks ago, I found a young wolf on a bus, naked, half-starved, soaked to the fur from the rains. He had been a captive, right here in this city. He was a prisoner, held as a toy for some wicked male's pleasure, for what might have been years, and he was suddenly thrown out like trash." I waited for the susurrations of shock to subside. "I took him in to shelter him, feed him, clothe him, and with Mrs. Whitson's invaluable help, young Fletcher is much better now.

"What I want to tell you is that I've been loathe simply to turn him over to the foster care system. He bonded with me almost instantly, and I've been helping him to trust again. If you'll allow me to be candid with you, I'll tell you truthfully that I've grown to love him very much. With the help of some trusted friends, I've found legal counsel for him, emotional counsel when he wishes it, a physician to make sure he's healthy -- and he is, I'm very glad to say, growing stronger every day -- and with his assent, I am proud to tell you that we are working together to have me appointed as his foster sire."

The ripple that went through the crowd began as surprise, then some murmurs of gladness and a soft rumble of applause that was immensely welcome.

"There are several reasons for my telling you this. One is so that you won't wonder who the young gray wolf at the vicarage might be. He has the spare room there, and I've been given an emergency guardianship for now, along with Mrs. Whitson, while the rest is worked out. And just in case you thought that a vicar isn't subject to a background check...!" This garnered some gentle laugher. "Another reason is to explain why I haven't brought him with me to introduce you. He's gone through a great deal, as you might imagine. He's getting better every day, but it will take a little time before he's ready to meet others, especially such a large congregation. He did, however, ask me to tell you something. This needs just a little perspective.

"On that first day that we met, Fletcher could hardly speak. He had no way to estimate time, being kept away from the outside world for so long, but we guessed together that it might have been years since he was allowed to speak much at all." I raised a forestalling forepaw to the sounds of distress and hurt that ran around the sanctuary. "He is_so_ much better now, I promise you. I told you that to explain why it means so much to me that he asked me to give all of you a message. He's not yet ready to meet you, but he wants me to thank you all for being good to me. He said -- and I can quote this part -- 'Your love kept Graham safe so that he could find me and make me safe. Thank you for loving him as much as I do'."

I paused in the silence that fell, then smiled as I felt my eyes tear up again. "I thank you, too. And I hope that you'll join me in thanking God, for God is Love, and I rejoice in sharing love with you all."

Raising my arms, I saw my flock rise, a smile on every muzzle, a look of joy in every eye, and as the mass moved toward the blessing of the Eucharist, I knew and understood -- without the slightest doubt in my soul -- my Calling.