Chapter Text
Pets were a luxury Kim Dokja couldn’t afford. Money was for rent, food, and webnovels. His first name demands he read new chapters immediately and his impatience hurls his credit card information into the billing box.
[Are you sure you want to submit payment?]
[Yes.]
But then he befriended a local stray dog and rather than budgeting his webnovel money, he sliced down his food money. Scraps that were tossed to the dog no longer appeased the good samaritan within him. He was forced into the pet aisle of the grocery store to buy the cheapest kibble available.
When the dog upturned its nose at the cheapest kibble, the cheapest wet food was bought. Then a more expensive wet food. And finally, the most expensive.
Only then did the dog eat, tearing apart strands of chicken and duck that were heavily saturated with broth.
Kim Dokja pokes his rice and reconstructs the side dishes to a more appealing shape. Expensive dog food means cheaper meals for him; the amalgamation of the dog’s poultry bowl looks more appetizing.
As if sensing his thoughts, the dog cocks its head and a single, floppy black ear turns inside out. It pushes its makeshift food bowl, the lid of Kim Dokja’s lunch container, with a dusty brown paw and stares at him with glinting dark eyes.
Kim Dokja swallows down a shiver. “No, it’s yours. Eat it.”
The dog continues to stare at him.
“I bought it for you. So you need to finish it or else it’ll go to waste,” Kim Dokja warns as he rearranges his rice. “I paid good money for that.”
The dog blinks, then barks as if understanding before digging into its meal like the mindless beast it is.
Kim Dokja releases a sigh of relief. He doesn’t know what he’d do if the damn dog didn’t eat. There were no other brands left in the grocery store.
He scarfs down his meal, hunger overriding taste buds, and tosses out the dirty, empty containers when they both finish.
Kim Dokja flicks away a grain of rice that had escaped to his lap. The dog lunges for it and laps at the ground, tail wagging. Kim Dokja wrinkles his nose.
“I have work now,” he says. “I’ll see you tomorrow.”
The dog barks and continues licking the floor, sniffing the concrete as if more food will appear by doing so.
He braces himself for an unrewarding day at Minosoft and an equally unrewarding paycheck.
…
The dog eats the next day, then the next and the next until one day it follows him to work. Its tongue doesn’t loll out of its mouth like a traditional dog, but its tail wags and its sharp eyes are trained on Kim Dokja’s form.
“I don’t have any more food on me,” Kim Dokja says, stepping over a stray rock. “Go home and sleep. There’s nothing here for you.”
The dog ignores his words and continues its pace. It walks beside Kim Dokja as if trained.
Heel, is the command. Kim Dokja has never said it, but the dog follows it of its own volition.
“Stay,” he tries, but the dog ignores him yet again. Kim Dokja clicks his tongue.
“You won’t be allowed inside the building,” he says. “It’s pointless following me. I mean it. I only bring enough food for one meal.”
The dog’s ears don’t even twitch. For a second, Kim Dokja feels silly talking to a dog. It doesn’t even understand him. But sometimes it barks, and after years of visiting the brick wall known as his mother, Kim Dokja can’t help but cling to a warmer reception.
Childhood was chilling; no one listened to him. But late adulthood brings a warm summer breeze in the form of a dog that barks at his rhetorical questions when he theorizes about his webnovels.
When it’s time to enter Minosoft, the dog stops before the door and stares at him expectantly. Kim Dokja shudders. It’s a dog, but he feels like it knows something
“I’ll tell you what: If you manage to find me after my shift, I’ll start bringing more food. It’ll be your dinner. Deal?”
Kim Dokja crouches down and extends his hand. The dog leans forward and takes a tentative sniff before its tongue laps at his fingers. One lick, two licks, then three and —
Kim Dokja draws his hand back and chuckles. “Okay, okay. That’s enough. We have a deal.” He wipes his now-slimy hand on his pants. “Be good. I’ll see you in four hours.”
After barking once more, the dog slips effortlessly into the crowd of people littering the crosswalk and drifts out of sight.
He must have still had sauce on his fingers for the dog to lick him that much.
Yoo Sangah greets him when he steps inside Minosoft. “Dokja-ssi, was that your dog?”
No. “Yes.”
“It’s so handsome! What’s its name?”
“His name is…” Kim Dokja hesitates.
He doesn’t know. The dog doesn’t have a collar, so there was no name tag and Kim Dokja had never bothered to name him, expecting him to simply disappear one day. But the weeks had passed and the dog followed him to work, so he supposes the dog grew attached to all the food he gave.
Yoo Sangah nods encouragingly.
“His name…”
“Kim Dokja, you filed the form wrong!” Han Myungoh roars from the doorway. “Fix it or else it’s overtime for you!”
Kim Dokja winces. He quickly apologizes to both Yoo Sangah and then Han Myungoh before scurrying to his desk — the branding iron of shame searing his chest and leaving blisters.
Cheeks burning, he types away.
…
After several days of lunch and dinner together, once the leaves of the trees have become a deep orange, the dog chooses to accompany him home.
“I don’t have enough money to pay the pet fee,” Kim Dokja says, fiddling with his keys. “I can barely afford necessities, not to mention food, so if you’re going to stay, then you need to be quiet. I don’t want both of us to be homeless.”
The dog’s head bobs. Kim Dokja imagines it's a nod.
“I really shouldn’t keep you.” Kim Dokja rubs the back of his neck. “But winter is coming and I don’t want you to freeze to death. So.” He inhales the newly crisp autumn air and braces himself. “You can come in.”
He unlocks the door and swings it wide open. The dog sniffs the air for several moments, most likely dissuaded by the stench of mildew coming from beneath the sink, before daintily stepping inside.
Kim Dokja watches with a crooked smile. “Welcome home, Hyuk-ie.”