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Andrew is not really an animal person. He tolerates the cats because Neil likes them and they make decent heaters on occasion (maybe if he’s honest with himself he can admit that the weight on them on his chest on bad days is oddly comforting) and they’re small and mostly self sufficient.
Dogs, on the other hand — Andrew has had very few good experiences with dogs. When he was eight he lived in a foster home for six months that had a labrador retriever. The animal was stupid and seemingly vindictive. It would snatch food from his hands if he waited too long, jump on his bed in the morning no matter how much he yelled, chew through his already threadbare backpack without a care. The adults always laughed indulgently at Andrew’s distress, telling him that the creature was just playing, that it didn’t mean any harm, that he should calm down and stop crying. Stop acting like a child, Andrew, just tape the straps back together, we can’t afford a new one and it’s your fault for leaving it on the ground, Andrew.
The home he was at when he was eleven, right before Cass, owned some large mixed breed guard dog, with teeth the size of Andrew’s pinky fingers. It growled if you so much as looked at while it was eating. It laid in the hallway outside Andrew’s room and would snap at his ankles every time he tried to go to the bathroom at night. It would bark and bark and bark when he got home from school, deep snarls that scared the shit out of him as a kid. Andrew was not a large middle schooler, the dog had probably been heavier than he was, at that point.
In juvie they’d had drug dogs that came around every once and awhile, sniffing all around their cells and sticking their noses in places that made Andrew tense up. He’d been lucky enough to never be bitten or chased by one, but it was hard not to be wary.
So the first time Neil brings it up Andrew flat out says, “No.”
Neil looks at him for a long moment before nodding decisively and going, “Alright.”
And that’s that.
But part of Andrew is — curious — maybe, so later when they are wrapped up in each other, Andrew’s head resting heavily on Neil’s chest, one hand tracing the constellation of long faded scars along Neil’s hip, barely visible in the dark, he asks, “Why do you want one.”
“Huh?” Neil says, as stupid after sex as he always is.
“A dog. Why.”
“Oh,” and then Neil pauses for a long moment. He opens his mouth a couple times, not saying anything, apparently trying to articulate something more complicated than Andrew was really expecting. “It’s kind of stupid,” Neil finally settles on.
“That does not answer the question. Lots of your ideas are stupid.”
Neil lets out a nervous sounding chuckle, “Yeah guess so. Uhm-,” he cuts himself off again. Andrew can feel Neil’s hand move up from where it’s been tracing Andrew’s waist, into his own hair to tug gently. “I don’t like having- It’s really because like-”
Andrew cuts him off, “Get to the point Neil.”
“I don’t like how big the house is,” Neil finally says.
Andrew is thrown, “And a dog fixes this how.”
Neil gives an expressive shrug before apparently deciding something, “I don’t like how, vulnerable it feels, to have all these extra rooms and a backyard and all these neighbors and it’s so much space and it’s not like an apartment where people have to get buzzed in and there’s better security — it’s just the stupid alarm system and anyone could hop the fence at night and get in before we even get alerted and it’s not like the cats are gonna do jack shit so I was just thinking maybe a dog could — I don’t know protect us, I guess.”
Andrew is not impressed, “You want a guard dog.”
Andrew can feel Neil nod from above him, “Yeah, I’ve been doing some research. You can get them pre-trained. We’d have to get one that’s alright with cats but that’s not too hard to do. But,” and he hesitates here, “If it’s a no from you it’s a no. Cats are one thing, but I know how you feel about dogs, I’m not gonna make you deal with one if you don’t want it.”
Andrew has by this point outlined most of the broader points of his childhood experiences to Neil, and Neil has done the same in return. Neil must have been thinking about this for a while, to even bother bringing it up, knowing the way Andrew feels about them.
In retrospect, ever since they moved into the house Neil has been considerably jumpier. Andrew appreciates having the extra space, lets himself fill it with creature comforts like soft blankets and expensive leather couches. They have multiple guest bedrooms, which is good because there are still nights where one of them needs to sleep alone, cannot stand the weight of another person in the bed, and it is good to have a place to retreat to. (Andrew needs this far more often than Neil does, honestly. Andrew has never had qualms about kicking Neil to the couch on bad nights, but they are getting older, and having an actual spare bed is far better for their backs.)
But Neil has been waking up at night considerably more often, getting up to pace the house usually at least once a night. Andrew had assumed it was just the stress of a new house, a new bed, and that it would probably fade. It probably still will, but Andrew sees how a dog could — help.
Andrew’s gut instinct is still no, but he lets himself consider it, for a second. “I will think about it,” he tells Neil.
Neil lets out a shuddery breath, “Okay. If you want to.”
Andrew pulls away from Neil, presses himself against the wall, leaving a foot or so between their bodies. Cuddling is all well and good but Andrew is very rarely able to sleep with someone holding him. “Go to sleep.”
Neil reaches out in the dark, tugs on a lock of hair that’s hanging in Andrew’s face before tucking it behind Andrew’s ear and withdrawing. “‘Night Andrew.”
—
Andrew thinks about it for a long time. Neil doesn’t bring it up again, seems to have decided that Andrew’s no still stands and that’s that. Andrew appreciates the time it gives him to consider. He ends up watching some videos on youtube, looking at breeds and personality traits and training and behavior modification. Andrew discovers that the dogs he lived with had both been incredibly poorly trained and noticeably neglected. He ignores the similarities to his own situation. He’s spent far too much of his life being called a dog to find them anything other than irritating.
He mentions it to his therapist too, a man named Joseph Garcia who specializes in LGBT issues and trauma therapy. The man is competent, professional, and similar to enough to Bee in his style that it doesn’t put Andrew on edge.
“Neil wants a dog,” Andrew says, “A guard dog, not some little yappy one.”
Garcia nods slowly, “If I remember correctly, Mr. Minyard, you are not the biggest fan of animals.”
Andrew thinks on it for a moment, “I got used to the cats.”
“Cats need a lot less attention than dogs though,” Garcia points out. Andrew is aware.
Andrew thinks for a moment, “Things are - very routine - right now. A dog could be… interesting,” he settles on.
“Interesting is not always good.”
“It’s not always bad either, though,” Andrew points out.
Garcia smiles at him, like Andrew has answered his own question. Which, in a way, he has.
Andrew changes the subject.
Later, as he sits on the couch with his feet in Neil’s lap he finally says, “We can get one.”
It’s been nearly a month since their last conversation about it, and they’d just been discussing dinner plans, so it is perhaps expected when Neil says, “What? An appetizer?”
Andrew resists rolling his eyes, “A dog. I’ve been thinking. We should get one.”
Andrew still covets the face that Neil makes when he is pleasantly surprised. His jaw will drop and his eyes will widen ever so slightly and there will be a tiny upturn at the edge of his lips that Andrew always wants to kiss away.
“Really?” Neil says, before obviously coming back to his senses, “I mean, obviously you wouldn’t have said it if you didn’t mean it I just-” he cuts himself off from rambling, “Neat.”
Andrew has seen Neil’s youtube history and it’s been pretty much nothing but dog training videos and compilations of agility competitions. Andrew partially suspects that Neil really just wants a jogging buddy.
“We will not get a puppy. I do not care about breed. You are exercising it.”
Neil grins dopily at him, “Yeah of course! I’ll start contacting breeders and stuff. Maybe a rescue or something.”
Andrew has another thought, “You’re not letting Nicky name this one.”
That gets an actual laugh out of Neil, “Yeah sure, I can agree to that.”
And so it’s decided that Neil and Andrew are going to get a dog.
—
The dog they end up getting is a two year old belgian malinois. She’s technically a rescue, they’re told, because it’s not uncommon for owners to get the breed as puppies and then dump them when they realize that dogs aren’t just for looks.
When they meet her for the first time she doesn’t bark or snap, just bounces up to Neil, aggressively sniffing at his hands before shoving her way between his legs. She then winds around so she’s standing directly at his hip, nose up and staring like she’s waiting for something.
The trainer laughs, “Oh that’s good, she’s already responding to you pretty well, you should give her a treat.”
Neil clucks at her gently as she snaps up the cube of cheese he’d been handed earlier. Her teeth are long and sharp, and her jaw snaps open with a loud pop, but she sniffs at Neils hand perfectly politely, ears forward and eyes bright and intelligent.
Andrew has perched himself up on a shelf, not wanting the dog to approach him first, and wanting to give himself a little bit of distance from her to start. He watches as the trainer walks Neil through some basic commands, sit, stay, stand, heel. The dog responds to all commands quickly, looking at Neil like he’s the most important thing in the world.
Neil is asking the trainer something about retraining for commands in russian when Andrew finally gets the nerve to hop down from his perch. The dog doesn’t pay attention to him until he’s right up beside Neil, and when she does it merely takes the form of her swapping her steady gaze from Neil to Andrew as she continues to sit perfectly still.
“Down,” Andrew says, and she drops like a rock. There’s something incredibly pleasing about it — the cats wouldn’t listen to him if the house was on fire — it’s nice that some animals have manners.
Andrew crouches down, looking her steadily in the eye. He reaches out a hand, lets her sniff it, surprisingly delicately. He waits. Yes or no, he thinks, despite himself.
She shoves her head under his hand, and the force of it surprises him. Her ears are soft, and the fur on her forehead smooth and slick. Andrew lets his hand sink into the ruff around her neck, adding pressure as her tongue starts to loll merrily out of her mouth.
It occurs to Andrew that he’s never pet a dog before.
He hears the conversation Neil is having stall out, and glances up at both of them. Neil raises an eyebrow, “Well?”
Andrew stands and nods at Neil, “She’ll do.”
—
Neil names her Yeva, and makes the decision to retrain all of her commands into to russian, which means she not only has to learn her name, but also relearn all of her word associations. Neil takes to it well though, he takes her jogging with him every morning, which seems to tire her out well enough. They introduce her to the cats slowly, with lots of supervision, but she seems more inclined to lick them than to chase them, so eventually they deem it safe to let her wander mostly unsupervised when they’re home.
She’s not perfect, of course, because she’s an animal and they are only human. They keep her in one of the guest bedrooms during the day, at least to start, so she’s not unsupervised with the cats while alone. The first day they’d come back from practice — it had been short, only a few hours — she’d gnawed great gaping holes into the carpet, and taken chunks out of the wall. Neil breaks down laughing, when he sees it, but Andrew is far less amused.
“That’s going to be expensive to fix,” he notes.
Neil is trying to smother his giggles and if he doesn’t succeed soon Andrew is going to smack him. Yeva is sitting in the center of the bed, face relaxed and panting lightly.
“Bad dog,” Andrew intones at her. She looks unrepentant.
“She was just bored,” Neil says, laughter still in his voice, “We should have left more toys, I think.” Neil would find wanton destruction in the face of boredom amusing.
“We should just take the bed out and make it her room. Then we can leave more shit in here for her to fuck with.”
Neil tilts his head, “That’s actually a pretty good idea, I was thinking of a kennel maybe but it’s not like we need two guest bedrooms.”
One of the perks of being one of the best athletes in the country is that Andrew is rich enough to just remodel parts of his home randomly. They knock a hole in the wall and put a dog door in it so she can get into the backyard at any time without getting access to the cats on the way out. Since the entirety of the property is fenced off all they need to do is put a Beware Of Dog sign right on their front gate and they can leave her alone at home all day without worry of her destroying the entire house. Andrew figures that when they need to start flying for championship games it might end up a different story, but for now it works.
Neil seems to be sleeping better too, knowing that she’s out in the yard, watching and aware, is less anxious around the house and yard, spends less time jumping every time a child screams from down the street.
The moment it really clicks for Andrew though is one day when Neil isn’t even in the house. Andrew has been having a — bad day, to say the least. He’d barely slept last night, had needed to move to the guest bedroom after shuddering awake with the feeling of hands on his skin. He hadn’t really gotten back to sleep, leaving him a head full of cotton and a stomach full of needles. He has a tendency to get unfortunately nauseous on bad days, partially a symptom of how his previous medication fucked up his stomach. It means he’s curled up on the couch, staring listlessly at whatever Netflix show he’d randomly selected and trying really hard not to vomit. King is laying on his stomach, warm and soft — a living hot water bottle — which helps a little bit. He desperately wants to sleep but between the sick feeling in his gut and his nagging sense of paranoia he feels both exhausted and too keyed up at the same time.
He doesn’t even realize Yeva’s there, at first, he’s so caught up in his misery, but a flash of movement catches his eye and there she is, ears perked forwards and teeth shining in her open mouth.
Andrew would say that overall Neil still has a much stronger bond with her. Andrew has far less energy day to day, but Neil seems to never tire, jogging in the morning and then going hard during practice and then jumping and playing tug with her at night, and she has a similar energy to match. But now she’s looking at him like she wants something, and honestly Andrew doesn’t have the brain power right now to parse what it could be.
“I cannot do this right now,” he tells her, “I am tired.”
She keeps staring at him.
“No,” he tells her firmly, “Go away.”
She gives a little huff, and then turns away from him. Andrew expects her to walk away but instead she slides down the hardwood until she is laying down, paws straight out in front of her, head still up and alert.
Andrew watches, waits for her to lay down fully and go to sleep, waits for her to get bored and get up and leave, but she just lays there. Eventually she rests her head on her paws, but her eyes stay open, surveying the room. It takes her getting up, poking her head into every room of the house, and then coming back to lay down in the exact same position before Andrew realizes what she’s doing.
She’s guarding him.
No one could sneak up on him, with her like this. No one could steal into his space, grab him without him noticing, without her preventing it.
Andrew is very aware that it’s incredibly unlikely that someone would break into the house in the first place, but he’s been hyperaware and paranoid all morning and the realization that if someone were to try they just simply wouldn’t be able to, hits him in the stomach like an Exy racket.
He thinks he gets it, why Neil wanted this, now.
He watches her a little longer. She goes on another little patrol, comes back and sniffs his hand delicately before laying down again. Eventually Sir comes by and curls up underneath Andrew’s knee, and before he even quite realizes it his eyes are drifting shut.
He wakes up to one more weight joining him on the couch. As he slants his eyes open the light coming in through the windows is the warm golden color of late afternoon. It dances through Neil’s hair, makes his eyes seem dark and liquid.
“Have a nice nap?” Neil asks.
“No,” Andrew replies, just to be contrary.
Neil still smiles though, and lets Andrew pull him down to rest alongside each other.
Yeva is on the ground between the couch and the coffee table, head on down on her legs but ears still perked up and active. Sir and King have re-situated themselves, but are still heavy weights along his legs.
Andrew goes back to sleep.