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                It was

a pitched battle, well into the second half, and still scoreless. One of the

opposing team's midfielders dribbled toward center, passing to a wingback as

our sweeper came in to find an opening for himself. Some very good footwork on

the wingback's part diverted our fellow until the ball could be sent in a short

pass to one of the attackers, who sped neatly through a hole left by our own

midfielders and set himself up to pop a swift one straight toward the goal. Our

goalie was too good for him, not merely fielding but setting up to one of our

sweepers, who sent it back to midfield, toward one of our own best fullbacks.                Or at

least, that's as close to a description as this middle-aged wolf can get. I've

been watching football for some time now, and although I'm still trying to

learn all the right terms to use, I'm afraid that I still associate most of the

positions with the various players' names, at least for our team. To me, it's

still mostly, "That guy kicked to the other guy, who got it past Philip and

sent it to a third guy, who tried to kick the goal and got stoppered by Vikas."

At least I've gotten used to calling it "football," which is proper after all.

(Note to the United States: Why call it "football" when the ball almost never

comes into contact with a foot? Call your sport "Rugby Light" and bear the

shame.)                I got

swept up in the collegiate games because of Robbie, of course, and I'll

continue to put my pawsome young footballer up against the other kind any day

of the week. The games are so much more exciting, faster, skillful. Watching

Robbie tear downfield, a brown-topped light gray blur of speed, to line up a

shot at the goal is fantastic. I know to call Robbie a striker (he's told me

often enough!). To be a great striker, you have to know how to dribble the

football as well as to make your shot more often than not. I have no idea how

the idea came about that a rabbit's paw is supposed to be lucky, but Robbie's

got two, and they are amazing at this game.                Vikas,

a sleek cheetah who was all but born on the football field, is one of the best

goalies anywhere. I would even put him up to professional levels - and when he

graduates this upcoming spring, even his honors degree in pre-med might not

hold his attention for long. The scouts have been looking him over, after all.

For me, however, what makes him a spectacular player (above and beyond his

apparent ability to nab nearly every ball that comes even close to the goal) is

that he never forgets that everyone makes mistakes, and he never holds that

against anyone. I have the idea that Philip, as a defender, probably isn't

meant to get the ball and move it forward; however, Vikas showed his confidence

in Philip as a team player by passing the ball a short distance to him, knowing

that Philip would get his bearings on an open fullback to push the play

forward. Philip obliged beautifully, his powerful dingo's paws making a nicely

faked dribble backward before smacking the ball right to Seth's nimble hindpaws.                Perhaps

anticipating that Philip's earlier error was almost certain to score a goal, the

other team's defenders seemed a little slow on the uptake. Robbie was wide open

on the far side of the field, and Seth spotted him instantaneously. One swift

laser-straight kick sent the ball flying directly to Robbie, who barely did any

shifting or dribbling - he was in perfect position, and just between you and

me, the look on the goalie's face was priceless. The young squirrel knew

exactly who he was facing down, and he also realized that he was going to have

to face him alone - his sweeper was AWOL, so far ahead downfield that he was

almost in front of his fullbacks, which is a major error for the sweeper

position.                Robbie

sized up the competition in a heartbeat, set his face in that tight little

smirk that (if you knew him well) telegraphed that he had found and locked on

to the exact place that the goalie had left open. He kicked sharply and hard at

the goal, a pointed-toe kick that went from zero to sixty in about half a

second. The crowd was on its feet even as the ball was still in the air,

because they could see immediately that the opposing goalie had misinterpreted

Robbie's body language, and he'd left a hole in his defense that only widened

as he leapt into the air in the wrong direction, flicking is long, thick tail

in some vain hope of knocking the ball at least slightly off course. The roar

of the crowd increased with the speed of the football, which pushed against the

interior of the goalie's net so hard that some of us probably thought that it

would rip right through. The cheers were huge and raucous (home team and all),

obliterating every other sound in the region.                I was

aware of all this, although my attention was elsewhere. As Robbie's toe

connected briskly with the ball, every other eye in the place was on the flying

comet that scored the first goal of the game. My eyes were on Robbie, as he

pulled up almost in slow motion, his eyes closing sharply, his face twisting

into a grimace. Something in the look made my fur stand on end and my tail

twitch. The crowd was still cheering as I started making my way toward the

sidelines. Robbie's teammates had come up to congratulate him, but in only a

few seconds, they realized that he'd been hurt.                The

game was, officially, still in play, even though the clock was stopped for the

injury. I avoided crossing onto the field itself, to prevent confusion if

nothing else. Vikas had signaled the team's coach and the medico who always

volunteered to keep an eye on our lads for each game. A couple of Robbie's

teammates had made him stay seated on the ground while they waited for the doc.

Several of the opposing team were watching from a short distance; crowding in,

even if genuinely concerned for another player, was considered an invitation to

trouble. I was silently grateful that the other fellows had enough

sportsmanship to be worried.                I made

myself stay at the team's benches on the sidelines while Robbie was seen to.

After a minute or two, a pair of Robbie's teammates helped him stand on his

left paw, as he held his right away from the ground. I thought I could see

blood on the tips of his toes. After a moment of protest, Robbie finally let

his friends form a chair for him to carry him off the field; it was as much a

celebration of the goal as it was to help him get to the benches on the

sidelines. Referees began conferring with coaches of both teams, and I lost

interest in them as Robbie came closer.                I knew

he'd be fine, but it's a lover's prerogative to worry. He was smiling as his

friends set him down on the bench nearby. "There," I heard Allen tell him. The

lean meerkat grinned. "And remember: All glory is fleeting." He nimbly dodged

Robbie's swat toward his tail.                "Back

to the field, you two," Coach Barnaby remonstrated. The large red panda,

himself quite the football contender in his time, cast his eyes over the

remaining players, settling on the other lop-eared rabbit on the team.

"Pritchard, you're in."                "Tough

act to follow," Pritchard told Robbie and took himself off to midfield. I was

dimly aware of the decision of the coaches and refs to get the rest of the game

going - about six minutes left  on the

clock, and a home-team lead racked up. I was more interested in what the doctor

was saying.                "If

you're very lucky, lad, we'll only have to amputate half the paw." The old

badger grinned, knowing that Robbie was as well aware as he that the problem

was minor. "You got a mid-toe claw twisted, didn't ye? I would have thought that

this old reprobate of a coach would have told you how to make a proper

toe-kick."                "Penberthy,

do your stinkin' job, the kid looks like he's hurting pretty good." Barnaby

looked Robbie in the eye. "Okay, what happened?"                "I got

the shot," Robbie said quietly, with a little well-deserved smugness. He shook

his head. "I know, Coach - I got eager, didn't prepare my paw properly. It's

not bad." He inhaled sharply as the medico touched the paw gingerly. "Not too

bad, anyway."                Penberthy

dipped into his bag and got out the basics of any first aid kit - antiseptic,

gauze, bandages, tape. "I'd give you a quick shot of ethyl chloride to numb it

a bit, but there's a little blood - not good to use that on an open wound.

Here, let's have a closer look. I'm guessing you jammed your claw right enough

to pull it, di'n ya?"                Robbie

said nothing, looking away from the medico's fiddling and finally seeing me not

far away. He smiled - oh, how I love that smile. Toward me, he had the decency

to blush just a little for his folly, and I smiled back, glad to know he was

all right and in good paws. He yipped as Penberthy worked as gently as he could;

sterile gauze pads came away with blood on them, rather a lot I thought, but I

knew enough medicine to know that it's not necessarily a bad thing for a wound

to bleed a bit. I wasn't about to go weak sister and panic until I knew what

was going on.                Robbie

was cleaned up, patched up, and looking better by the time that the game was

over, with the score 1-0 over our challengers. His teammates all came over to

make sure he was all right and to celebrate the victory. I had to give the

opposing goalie credit - he also came over to make sure Robbie was all right,

and he joked (with a mischievous flick of his tail but not a hint of meanness)

that at least he might not have to block another shot from Robbie anytime soon.

He got a lot of appreciation from our team. Good manners will out.                Vikas

sat next to Robbie, tousling the rabbit's long brown headfur affectionately.

"Don't make me freak like that, will ya? You probably took a few years off my

life!"                Robbie

laughed with his teammates. The medico gave his admonition - keep off the paw

for at least three days, change the bandage at least once a day until we're

sure that there's no more bleeding, and put a paw cover over it to protect it

for at least a week. "After that," he said, "we'll get you back onto the field,

and not an hour before." Penberthy turned toward me after his pronouncement. "And

you, you decadent old pup. See to him, won't ye? I swear the lad acts like he's

got no sense!" His wink took all the harshness out of the comment.                "All

right," I said as the team began to head for the showers. "You're coming with

me, mister."                "I'll

need a shower."                "You'll

need a sponge bath, if you keep this up!" I laughed. "We'll have to make sure

all that bandaging is wrapped in plastic before you get bathed, and I don't

fancy having you one-pawed in a slippery shower... or fondled by your teammates,

which makes for an interesting picture I must say. So - let's get you home.

Think you can hop on one paw?"                That

earned me the single most excruciatingly sarcastic look that I've ever gotten

in my life.* * * * * * * * * *                 The

ride home wasn't a long one, and in spite of his injury, Robbie was in good

spirits. As we pulled into the drive way, I mentioned that I thought I had a

crutch or cane somewhere in the garage.                "I'm

not broken for life, dad," he teased.                "Call

me 'dad' one more time, and you will be! Just thought it would be easier for

you to get around for a few days. Unless you want me to carry you everywhere."                "Tempting."

He chuckled softy, leaned over to kiss me, and I took advantage of the offer to

make it linger a bit. "Thank you, Grayson," he said softly. "I don't think I'll

need a crutch, but I'll take some help getting into the house."                "Done."                I got

him inside and situated on the couch for a bit, his paw properly raised and

pillowed, while I surveyed the kitchen for what we might need for dinner. He

called out a request for a soda, and I complied, bringing a half-liter bottle

of water as well. He looked at me with a disapproving eyebrow, and I reminded

him. "Soda dehydrates, and you've been running about for a few hours, counting

your warm up. You know you're not going to make me change my mind about this."                "No, I

guess I'm not." He chuckled and took the water first. "You know, you really

don't have to mother me. I'm a reasonably grown bunny."                "Want

me to stop?"                "Never."                "Good

answer." I smiled at him. "So now that I've got you right well ensconced on

your throne, your majesty, what shall we do next?"                "I

really should take a shower. I probably stink."                "You

smell good to me."                "I always

smell good to you."                "Funny

how that works out." I sat next to him. "We can work out something for a bath,

if you want one. I think I've got dinner figured out. You want to go lie down

for a while?"                "That's

something else you always think about with me."                "Complaining?"                "Nope."

Robbie laughed and leaned against me, a smile on his sweet muzzle. "I can't

figure why I should feel this tired. I'm not usually so worn out after a game."                "You

had a good shot of adrenaline from the injury, and now that it's wearing off,

you feel tired. You're feeling your body's reactions just like everyone else

would. Not," I hastened to add, "that you're exactly like everyone else."                "I

guess I should nap. Could you do me the favor of an extra flat sheet, that I

could lie on, so that I don't get my bed stinky?"                "Of

course. Unless you want to make my

bed stinky."                He

nuzzled against my side. "Kinky."                "Stinky

Kinky: Pheromones and More. Sounds like a really weird perfume shop, probably

located right next to Spencer's Gifts and Hot Topic." I kissed the top of his

head. "Of course, you may want to sleep alone tonight; I sometimes kick in the

middle of my dreaming, and I'd hate to hit your paw."                "Ow,"

he said softly, grinning. "We might risk it anyway."                That

was when he yawned, and I knew it was time to get him into one bed or another.

"When hungry, eat; when tired, sleep." I moved him gently away from me

(something that I always hate doing) and stood. "I'll get a sheet from the

linen cupboard. I'll come get you when I'm ready."                "Compromise."

He held out his forepaws to me. "I'll go with you and balance briefly on one paw

while you take twelve whole seconds to lay out the sheet."                "In

your vastly weakened condition?" I opined in great melodrama. "Oh, the pain,

the pain!"                Don't

let anyone tell you that rabbit tongues can't produce excellent raspberries.

Laughing, I helped him up and, with very little assistance on my part, we made

it down the hall to his room. I propped Robbie up just inside the door and made

a great show of counting out the seconds as I ran to the cupboard for the sheet

and threw it open, spread it upon his bed, and presented the finished product

with a flourish. I helped him wheel around and sit on the bed, stood nearby as

he hugged me around my middle. No matter how much control I may think I have,

my tail always starts wagging when he holds me. I daresay I'll never have any

secrets from Robbie.                "Okay,

Pelé," I said smiling, petting his brown headfur softly. "How much of these

clothes do you want to take off?"                He

pulled away from me, put a finger to his muzzle. "Hmm," he said, "let me see...

I'll take Stripped Nekkid for $1000, Alex."                "Jackpot!"

I shouted. He needed very little help with his shirt, shorts and jock strap. It

was the socks - one sock - that would be a problem. Knee-high, open at the heel

and just above the toes, the sock on the bandaged paw might not want to slide

easily over the bandage. I took off the left sock first, and we considered the

second.                "How

tender is that toe?" I asked.                "Enough

that I wouldn't turn down some ibuprofen," he admitted. "Here, let me try

first."                He

pulled the sock down from knee to heel, then began working the bottom portion

toward the bandages. The fabric had a lot of stretch to it, but it was also

designed to be a fairly tight support to paw and calf. A few moments of

fiddling revealed that removing it gently wasn't likely to be a successful

process.                "Scissors?"

I suggested.                "They're

practically new," he objected.                "And

replaceable. I'll make room in the budget." I smiled at him. "I hate wasting

things, too, but it's probably for the best. We'll keep the other sock as an

extra, in case you wear out one of a new pair. I'll go get the scissors. And

that ibuprofen."                Moments

later, as Robbie downed the pills with yet more water, I knelt before him and

readied myself for the operation. In the moment before I began, I took the

moment to appreciate the young lepine's beauty. Soft silvery-gray fur covered

most of him, set off by the beautiful cream-white from his chin, down his chest

and abdomen, turning to a matched pair of inside-leg chaps down his thighs. His

chestnut brown head hair matched his lovely eyes, and he remains to this day

the most beautiful young lad I've set eyes on. And I have the privilege and

honor of calling him my mate.                "Calling

Dr. Chase," he said, grinning. "Dr. House wants you in surgery."                Mimicking

Hugh Laurie as best I could, I answered, "I don't recall actually wanting Chase anywhere at all, but he'll

do in a pinch." I snipped gently and the sock came away easily enough; Robbie

sighed and stretched himself out on the bed. "Blanket?" I asked.                He

shook his head. "I'm okay right now; if I get chilled, I'll fold the rest of

the sheet over me."                I

leaned over the bed and kissed him softly. "I'll figure out something to help

get you bathed before dinner," I said. "Get some rest. Holler if you need me."                "I

always need you," he said, a sweet smile on his muzzle. "But I can manage

without you for short periods."                That

earned him another kiss. "I love you, Robbie."                "Love

you too, Grayson."                I

smoothed his headfur gently and left him alone to doze for a while.* * * * * * * * * *                 Some

time later, I heard the front door close just a little too enthusiastically. I

rose from my chair in my workroom and wound through to the living room in time

to see a very large cerulean-furred lion, his mane and markings made of indigo,

toss his gym bag down onto the sofa with a small measure of disgust.                "Aleksandr,

are you all right?"                The

young male looked up at me, startled at first, his deep, dark golden eyes

expressing surprise and a little embarrassment. "Oh, I'm sorry, Grayson. Just

frustrated." His voice, ordinarily smooth and purring, was laced with the

jagged edge of irritation. "I shouldn't let small things bother me so much."                "What

happened? Come on, sit down and talk to me for a moment."                He

moved over to the large recliner that we had bought especially for him (being

6'9" tall, not to mention 60" at the chest and 48" at the waist, can require

one to make some concessions to the furniture budget) and sat with slightly

less grace than I was used to from him. He sighed heavily, passing a forepaw

across his handsome muzzle. His thickly-furred tail tip flicked in frustration,

a sign that he was more than just a little bothered. "It

might be easier if I found another gym, but I hate the idea of running away."                "Back

up, luv, you lost me at the bakery."                Aleksandr

snorted a quiet laugh and smiled at me. "Just some irritating homophobes. I

suppose they're everywhere, like the poor and Homeland Security."                "What's

going on with them, then?"                "They're

just being mouthy, little snide comments from time to time, making a big deal

out of not being the shower if there's a 'fag' in there." He shook his head,

his lavish mane dancing softly around his shoulders. "Not much I can do about

it, I suppose."                I

looked at him curiously. "Forgive me if I'm a little prejudiced in your favor,

but what in the world would make someone want to challenge someone of your

royal proportions? Do they have a death wish?"                That

made him chuckle. Aleksandr is the original gentle giant, with rarely an ill

word or a raised voice to anyone. "I have no idea if they know that I'm gay.

No, it's a young stoat who's joined the club recently. I've helped spot for him

once or twice, when he was using the free-weights. He's still bench pressing a

weight that I could lift with one arm, and that's absolutely not anything to be

ashamed of; everyone has to start on the low end and work up, or at least they

do if they're smart. Even so, there aren't many people there who are in that

weight class, so he's been keeping more or less to himself."                "And

someone is after him because he's gay?"                "That's

the worst. I'd be willing to wager that he isn't." Aleksandr looked at me

sadly. "I'm not sure if my 'gaydar' actually works, but I'm figuring that he's

straight. He's just... well, the guy is a perfect candidate for the 98-pound

weakling in those old Charles Atlas posters. In his case, 98 pounds would be

pretty well distributed; he's a probably a little shorter than Robbie, no real

excess weight nor muscle. From what I can see of his workout, he's wanting to

build more stamina than raw muscle, and he's dedicated himself to a good

regimen."                I

shrugged. "I've never been one for the gyms." I chuckled. "Sorry, of course you

know that. The stories and social structures all come from you. You'd know

better than I what to do."                "I

really don't know," he said. "Gyms are pretty cliquish, and he hasn't really

found anyone to work out with."                "You

could offer."                "I

could. I'm just not sure if it's a good idea. If those queer-haters know that

I'm gay, I'd probably make things worse for the kid. And I'm not sure what his

reaction would be either. He was in the showers at the same time that I was

this afternoon. I tried very hard to act no differently, not paying attention

and not actively ignoring him. One of the really verbal guys started to come

in, then saw 'the fag' was using the facilities and noisily decided to leave." Aleksandr's

face showed real pain. "The kid looked over at me, maybe wondering if I was

going to leave too, or maybe even assault him. I just finished my shower in my

own time and left him to himself."                "That

might be enough to start up a dialog with him," I suggested. "Next time you see

him, talk to him. Straight or gay, he might welcome a friend."                "Sounds

like something from the film My Bodyguard,"

he grinned, then sighed. "Won't do any good to wonder until I meet him next.

You're right - I'll see if he wants to have a chat."                I

smiled. "You and Robbie have both had interesting days."                "Robbie?

What happened?"                I told

him the Terrible Tale of the Torn-Up Toe, and Aleksandr winced once in genuine

sympathy. "He's not in hospital, is he?"                "Oh no,

it wasn't that serious. He's dozing in his room." I glanced at the clock. "We

could go wake him soon. I told him I'd figure out how to get him bathed with

that paw in a bandage, so he could be clean before dinner. I got as far as

figuring out how to stick his paw in a plastic bag and tie it around with

rubber bands, and then I got stuck. I don't want him to slip in the shower, and

a bath might be problematic in getting him in and out."                Aleksandr

grinned. "That's what you keep me around for."* * * * * * * * * *                 The

solution was simple enough: Aleksandr could pick up Robbie with one paw, if

need be. He ran a bath, then helped Robbie into the tub, stripped ("No matter

how we work this, I'm going to get wet"), and he sat on the floor nearby; they

talked while Robbie bathed. Robbie kept the bandaged paw out of the water, and Aleksandr

used a damp cloth to clean whatever parts of said paw the bandage didn't cover

up. I wasn't there to witness the removal process, but I heard plenty of

giggling, laughing, and water sloshing, so I wasn't too worried. Evidently,

Robbie was feeling quite a bit better.                My

sweet lovers came by my workroom, both naked, Robbie cuddled into Aleksandr's powerful

embrace, his arm about the lion's strong neck, clearly enjoying being coddled

and cared for. I smirked up at them. "I don't suppose the term 'dressed for

dinner' has any meaning in this situation? Not that it has to, I suppose, but I

figure it could make things a little less distracting for us if there were

something to cover up that decadent display of raw male sexuality."                The

lion regarded the rabbit seriously. "Black tie?"                "Only

for bondage."                "Business

casual?"                "It's

nobody's business."                "Shorts?"                "Shorts."                Aleksandr

looked at me with a grin. "No Speedos!"                "Shorts,"

I agreed. "I'll get dinner started. What shall you two be up to in the

meantime?"                "Would

you play for me?" Robbie asked his native bearer. Aleksandr raised his

eyebrows. "Play for me, not with me."                "Oh

pooh," pouted the lion, then grinned again. "I'd love to. Got something I'd

like for you to hear."                "You're

welcome to bring it in to the kitchen table," I called after them. I always did

love to hear Aleksandr play guitar.* * * * * * * * * *                 The

kitchen smelled of honey and ginger as I prepared one of my sort-of Chinese

dishes. All of us cook, actually; Aleksandr is the undisputed champion of the

grill, our combined rôtisseur and grillardin, and Robbie is unsurpassed in

pastries of all kinds, as well as soufflés, quiches, and things made in the

oven that are - if you'll forgive the gay cliché - simply to die for. I learned

the majority of my cooking in my college days (including the Masters degree period),

so my specialties are mostly the throw-it-together mixtures of something frozen

or prepared, plus some cooked meat of one kind or another, seasoned with spices

and sauces both plain and exotic. Generally speaking everything ends up in one

bowl, which makes the flavors blend as well as making clean-up easy. Nothing

terribly fancy, but no one seemed to complain. The Iron Chefs in our kitchen

are judged on a 100-point scale: 10 for taste, 5 for creativity, 5 for

presentation, and 80 for not having to get up off your furry tail and cook it

yourself.                Easy to

see how we get such high scores.                As I

tossed together tonight's not-so-secret ingredients, I was listening to Aleksandr

playing a variety of riffs on his guitar. We're a lucky trio in another way, as

we're all musicians. Robbie picked up the violin from a fairly early age; when

he also elected to play football, his parents nearly had fits, fearing sports

injuries. As they came to realize, Robbie's talented forepaws were in far less

danger from this game than, say, rugby or even lacrosse (bang those crosse poles together a few times, and

your paws will feel the rough vibrations for minutes afterward). When he was

able to keep up with his studies, his practice, and his football all at the

same time, they became avid fans in the auditorium and in the stands.                I'm the

piano-picker in the band, and I've had my experimentations with electronic

keyboards as well. For some things, nothing beats a piano, not even a sampled

or electronic piano; it doesn't matter that the sound is "close," or even

"exact" (har-dee-har-har), it's the sound and feel of a pianoforte in the same room with you that makes the difference.

Would that I could afford a Bösendorfer 290 Imperial - oh, the sheer sensuality

of playing such an instrument! And 97 keys? As Debussy, Ravel, and others have

commanded, the Imperial would deliver... at a cost about equal to our rather

large house. I was quite happy with my Steinway Model L Grand, just under six

feet long and ringing with authority in the lower and upper registers equally.

Add the Yamaha Clavinova CVP-409, and I'm a key-pluckin' fool.                Robbie

sat at the kitchen table, his right hindpaw up on a pillowed chair, smiling at Aleksandr

fondly as the lion tuned his guitar. He made a bit of a show out of it, both

from a sense of personal perfection and because he knew that it irritated

Robbie a little. This sort of teasing goes on all the time in this house. About

the time that I cleared my throat quite melodramatically, Aleksandr got the

hint and started some actual strumming. "I've been going through your old CDs,

Grayson - the ones in the common library downstairs. You never told me about

the Kingston Trio before."                "Guilty,"

I chuckled. "I wasn't sure either of you would be interested in those guys.

They're pretty mellow, almost countrified by today's standards."                "Dave

Guard had some pretty good guitar riffs. I've been trying to pick up one of

them. Hang on a second..." Aleksandr strummed a minor key chord, then the major,

then began slowly to pick a pattern consisting mostly of the tonic and the

fifth, with the minor and major third note alternating from time to time. As he

grew more comfortable with the picking, he gained speed until he was making a

sound that reminded me of a fast-moving train...                "Good grief!"

I piped up. "That's Fast Freight,

isn't it?"                In

answer, the lion brought out his beautiful low-end baritone and began to sing:As I listen for the whistle, lie awake and

wait

Wish the railroad didn't run so near;

'Cause the rattle and the clatter of that old fast freight

Keeps a-makin' music in my ear

Go bum again... go bum again...                The

chorus came up, and I harmonized with him:Hear... the whistle blow...

Hear... the whistle blow...                He

picked up the rest:Clickety-clack, clickety-clack,

The wheels are sayin' to the railroad track,

"Well if ya go, ya can't come back...

If ya go, ya can't come back..."                Robbie

looked at us in open-mouthed wonder. It was clear that he'd never heard the

song before, and I don't care what genre of music you're used to, "Fast

Freight" is a haunting little melody. With the second chorus, I could see

Robbie's mind working, and by the third, he'd figured out exactly where his

tenor note should come in - he nailed it the first time. Aleksandr, rightfully

proud of his guitar skills, was happy to comply with Robbie's request for him

to play it again. This time through, all three of us were able to chime in on

the chorus, trying a few different harmonies (one or two really stank, which is

often the way it is when we first get to working on a song), and in the end we

realized that we had something new for our expanding repertoire.                 And

luckily, I didn't burn dinner.                Since

Robbie was already comfortable there, we stayed at the kitchen table to eat.

Robbie had told Aleksandr the details of the day's game, so there was little to

add (except for the part about "All glory is fleeting," which tickled the hell

out of the lion). Aleksandr talked a little more about the young stoat at the

gym. Robbie showed great sympathy. "I think Grayson is right," he said. "A

friend might be just what he needs."                "I

guess I'll find out next time I see him." Aleksandr shook his head, his

magnificent mane dancing about him. "It's futile to wish that such things

didn't happen, I know; I still do, though. I guess I'm still looking for a

perfect world."                "It's

okay," I smiled. "We're building it, one person at a time."                "Or

two," Robbie grinned, looking at Aleksandr and myself in turn.                I

raised my glass of soda. "I'll drink to that."                "You'll

drink to anything," the rabbit retorted.                "Then

I'll drink to that, too." I suited action to words as my lovers enjoyed a

chuckle at my expense. It was another day in our world, in our triad, and I sent

up a silent prayer of thanks to The Deity It May Concern that we were together.

And for those wondering just how that happened... well, these pages are here to

tell the tale...