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I spent most of the evening saying little and moving less. I sat in the kitchen as Otis prepared dinner, talking to me about . . . about nothing at all, really, making sure to catch my eyes, to reach out and stroke my fur every once in a while. Time and time again he reminded me that he would make sure it turned out alright, that I still had friends around, even out of my department, that I had nothing to worry about financially, but if I needed a job, he'd ensure I got one. We ate, I don't remember what, but it had carrots in it. I know it's a terrible stereotype, and I'd never admit it in public, but Otis knows I really love carrots. If we had any social engagements that evening, I had completely forgotten them, and Otis wasn't going to even mention it.

I couldn't stop trembling. Why did I deserve this? Where would everyone else, friends from work, go? Had I let them down? What else have I been failing? Who would tell me if I did? How could anyone ever want me again? How could Master be so calm, when the world was falling apart? Did he already know I was such a failure?

He held me, stroking the fur between my ears, running his paws down my back, on the couch while my eyes glazed over, some mindless television unsuccessfully trying to distract me from myself. It wasn't terribly late, but as far as my Master was concerned, it was time to get ready for bed.

Our bedtime ritual usually involves showering, since we both prefer to sleep as late as possible before work in the morning. He disrobed, and lead me, almost carried me, into the shower stall: warm, steady streams of water rushing through our fur. Strong paws moved over me, caressing shampoo and conditioner into my pelt, stroking and squeezing each muscle. Normally, I'd relish the attention, but now, every moment such a worthless wretch as myself stole from my Master seemed such a waste. He whispered lies into my long ears:

"It's not your fault."

"You'll always be worth everything to me."

"I'll take care of you."

"I love you."

Something about being washed clean of the day's sweat, stench, and filth did feel good. Otis dried us off with towel and blow drier, but after the warmth the lingering dampness in my fur left me feeling cold and distant.

Master's eyes swept over me, still holding worry and concern, his lips still fixed in a sympathetic frown. He reached for a drawer under the bathroom sink: on the left, second from the top. I knew what that meant. It meant the brush. My ears rose a little, my eyes widening with a sudden ray of hope. The brush is marvelous.

My fur is short enough not to tangle or knot, and it will settle just fine after a shower with proper care. Strictly speaking, I don't need to be brushed. I never used to brush myself when I was alone, but as a Pet, it's something different. It's another chance for my Master to touch every inch of me, to draw out every loose or shed hair, removing a thousand tiny itches and nuisances I never really noticed I had. It makes my coat feel so smooth, silken, fresh.

He lifted the wooden-handled, fine-toothed fur brush from the drawer, took a large towel from the cabinet, and lead me to the living room carpet.

"Why don't you start out on your belly?" He suggested softly as he unrolled the towel onto the floor.

I complied, stretching myself before him, my pelt still ruffled from the blow drier. He knelt beside me.

At first, he was silent, stroking my fur in long, gentle sweeps, pulling tufts of loose hair from the bristles occasionally. Sometimes, he'd begin at the top of my head, and drag the brush gently through my fur, faintly scratching the clean skin beneath, down my back, over one haunch, and all the way down one leg, finishing at my heal.

After a while, he began to hum, just softly. Master never could carry a tune, so I wasn't surprised when I couldn't identify it. It was something low and sweet, almost mournful.

When he'd finished my back, the backs of my arms and legs, my sides, my inner thighs and calves, he asked me to roll over. I complied, and taking one foot into his lap, he began to work the brush down the front of my leg.

"If I . . . didn't get a job, and I'm not saying I don't want to," I began. He raised his gaze to meet mine, but his expression carried no judgement. "Would we have to move? I mean, I know I've been paying for half the rent, but if . . . Would you . . ."

"Sherman," he understood what I meant. His answer was calm, matter-of-fact. "When I picked out this place, I was counting on my salary alone. I didn't know anything like this was coming, but I wanted to be able to . . . be relied upon. It'll mean fewer new things, fewer excursions, but in terms of rent, food, and the like, we'll be fine." He continued brushing as he spoke.

I waited for a while, just enjoying his touch, as he finished both legs, and moved on to my chest and belly. He was watching almost directly over my face.

"I just . . . I still don't know. I've never spent long without a job, and with everyone I know from work moving on, I . . . I might want somewhere new, not to mention keeping up on skills, and just . . . feeling useful." I must have sounded distant. Even looking up into his muzzle, my stare was a thousand miles away.

"There's no way we're going to decide that today," he continued in his matter-of-fact tone, "It's going to take some time to get your head straight, and consider your options, and I'll be there the whole time. Like I said, I'll find a way to get you whatever you need, but you're useful to me, right here. You're my Pet, and I wouldn't trade you for any salary on earth."

"Thank you, Master." I smiled, but there were tears behind my eyes. I knew he had to be wrong. I was just lying there, useless. My job had proven worthless and so would any others I tried to find. In that moment, I was still sure that Otis had to be mistaken, that he'd eventually see through whatever value he found in me.

"You're always welcome, my Pet." He bent to kiss me, just briefly, as he lifted my left arm to be brushed.

Finally he rolled me over again, and I drew my knees under my chest, so he could begin to brush out the long, cottony strands of my raindrop tail. I was feeling just a little better, but the doubt behind my eyes grew when I turned away from his face. Fragments of his reassuring words became something else: "I wanted to be able to . . . be relied upon," "you're useful to me, right here."

His brushstrokes oh-so-gently lifted my tail, drawing out tangled fur and framing my freshly brushed, perky rump. I knew he liked this part, and that made it all the better for me. That should have been distraction enough, but the darkness at the back of my mind wouldn't rest.

"You knew this would happen," the coarse whisper escaped from my mouth before I knew I had even thought it.

My Master froze, one broad paw barely resting on my flank, brush just at the tip of my tail. "I had no idea, I'm sorry."

"You never expected me to hold down a career. You wanted me to stay home, to use me, and you don't want me spending time anywhere or with anyone else!" Already I was shouting, every muscle tensed, holding me rigid, eyes fixed on the floor.

"I wanted no such thing! I only want what's best -"

"LIAR!" I threw myself upward, launching on powerful rabbit legs, slamming my body into his. I'm ashamed to admit it, but in that moment I attacked him, I defied him, and I hated him.

A huge mass of muscular bear closed around me, forcing me back to the floor as quickly as I had risen, pinning my flailing limbs beneath me. A great growling roar bellowed close behind my head.

"HOW DARE YOU!? You can doubt my suggestions or my decisions, but how dare you doubt my intentions?" One huge paw reached under my neck, taking hold of my collar and my tag. I continued to resist, pushing and flailing with all my pathetic might.

"I. Own. You." The same booming voice pronounced, before a powerful bear jaw took hold of the back of my neck, holding me still, teeth pressing but not piercing into my flesh.

I wasn't listening to his words. I heard that he was angry, angry with me, and it almost felt good. It was right that he should reject, despise me. I deserved it. Frantically, I struggled to get away, to run from him, to hide in some dark corner where the world could forget I had ever existed.

Patiently, he waited for me to calm, for the worry and nervousness and despair turned blood-red rage to work its way through me, absorbing my pinned thrashing.

With his paws wrapped around my chest, his legs against my thighs, his chest against my back, my upward-brushed tail pinned between us, I could almost imagine that this possessive beast wrapped around me would claim what was his, would push himself inside me without warning or care. With his body around mine, my tail lifted from the brushing, we were so very close to an intimate position, yet so far. In my fear and rage I worried he would defile a beautiful, caring act, take his pleasure from me, rip me open, pound my sensitive insides, breed me with his seed, and leave me weeping. He had complete power over me, and in that moment, I did not trust him.

When at last I exhausted myself, when my struggles stopped because I was too worn out to move, my breath heaving with sobs and panting with the heat of struggling under so great a mass of flesh, eyes and nose streaming, I felt his teeth lift from my neck. He could have turned me away, crushed me, bitten me, violated me, but he did not. When my Master had power over me, he used it only to protect me, even from myself.

A cold, wet nose touched the back of my head, and a deep, almost choked voice reached my ears.

"Because I love you."

I gave in. The part of me that needed to know I had angered him, that he cared enough to be mad at me for my failings, was satisfied. All my fears that he'd been lying, that he'd send me away, that he'd keep me only to use me, that he didn't love me, had raged through my body and left me behind, utterly spent. I collapsed beneath him, sobbing gently.