The old man pats my head, and I shrink back in my uncertainty. I back away, giving him a quizzical look as he turns and walks out the door. This man was different somehow. He was more confident in his stride, more commanding in his demeanor. When I first met him, he ordered me into his truck, and sped off from my home. He was different from the others, alright. The other men were careful and timid when poking me and prodding me with their syringes. The other men took care of me, but I was still a prisoner. Am I still a prisoner now? Is this man keeping me here for a reason? I jump at the sound of footsteps just outside of the door. I quietly saunter over, leaning in to listen to the conversation. The words are hard to make out through the heavy door. I give up and move away from it. I don't much fancy the idea of getting hit in the face with a door. What was I saying? Oh right, the other men. The other men always wore these little masks to hide their faces, as if they were ashamed of what they were doing. However, I remember how they treated me. The fixed my broken leg after the car crash. I was laid up for weeks. I didn't have the energy to do much of anything, but the other men were always nice to me. I don't quite remember the words that they said, but I remember their tone. Like sunshine on silver. My thoughts are interrupted by the entrance of two small children, who promptly rush me. Understandably startled, a jump back. I was not quick enough to escape their surprisingly strong embraces. The old man walked in behind them. "Good boy," he says calmly as he shoves another cookie in my mouth. "That's a good dog."