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“He's got big paws. He's gonna be a big boy, Clint. Are you ready for that?”
“He's gonna be a good boy. My boy… and, hell yeah.”
That was the moment he met them for the first time, Phil and Clint, not counting the time that felt like an eternity to him when he was riding and whining non-stop in Clint's truck, all the way from Home to New Home. New Home was scary at first, mostly because he'd always had his littermates, seven of them, to go exploring with, but now it was just him, alone.
Well, not alone. He had a family. It was just a different kind of family from the one he had before. Now he had Clint and Phil. He liked Clint the best. He was warmer than Phil, more easygoing. He called him Buddy or Pal or Lucky or Good Boy when he did something right… and sometimes even when he did something wrong, like chewing Phil's shoes instead of his toys.
He wasn't supposed to wreck stuff. Phil didn't like it. He'd never get mad, he was too kind, but there'd always be a tone whenever he talked about That Dog. “Clint, That Dog needs training,” he'd say. “Clint, don't laugh, you're only encouraging That Dog and he'll become unmanageable if you don't teach him what's an acceptable chew toy and what isn't.”
Clint would always stop laughing and give a contrite little smile. “Bad Dog,” he'd say with a grin so that Lucky knew he didn't mean it. But he did learn the difference between Toys and Other Stuff after a while. He wasn't supposed to chew Other Stuff, not unless he was given it. It was hard sometimes. He just wanted a sniff or a lick, to know what something smelled or tasted like or what it did or why it made the noise that it did when he crunched it between his teeth or ripped it up.
He stopped doing that after a while, ripping stuff up. Except for pizza boxes. Pizza boxes were an exception. Only the empty ones of course. Clint let him have one just one time and after that they were always Lucky's. Even Phil didn't try to stop him and would actually offer him an empty pizza box to rip up now and then.
Things settled into an easy routine with his new family. Phil was gone a lot. He left early every day and came home late. He was always tired when he came home and Lucky would just rest his head in Phil's lap and let himself be petted. Clint would clatter around the kitchen while Phil talked to Lucky about his day in whispers that nobody else was supposed to hear.
Clint was Lucky's constant. He was home more often than not. He'd always bring him his dinner at night, freshly prepared, and give him treats for breakfast after Phil left so that he wouldn't find out. He'd go out walking with Clint. He'd play with him and Clint would always let him win. Sometimes he'd take him out to the barn or exploring in the woods.
Occasionally Clint would be gone for a few days. His phone would make that sound and Lucky would raise his head and look at him with dread because after it happened enough times, he knew what it meant. When Clint's phone made that sound, he was going away. Usually only for a few days and then he'd be back, but those few days were hard for Lucky. He always missed him.
So when Clint's phone made that sound late one night, Lucky sighed to himself and looked up at him with big, sad eyes, pleading with him to stay, like Clint told him to do sometimes when they were playing Fetch. Clint didn't stay. He was gone within minutes.
Lucky knew not to cry or whine, but he missed him as soon as the door shut behind him. He went and laid down on the bed Clint and Phil shared and Phil didn't tell him Down or No, Lucky. He gave him a sad smile and kissed his head, then he whispered in his ear.
“He'll be fine, Boy. He'll be fine.”
Clint didn't come back in a day or two or even three. Phil brought him dinners now and sneaked him treats at breakfast (because of course he'd always known what Clint was up to). He took him on walks and Phil never stopped walking. Whenever he was home, he was always pacing. He'd jump and snatch up his phone every time it made a sound, but it was never Clint's voice on the phone.
Lucky watched Phil and he worried. He'd never felt so close to him or so far from Clint. He slept outside Phil's bedroom door, hoping he'd wake up one morning and Clint would be home, but he wasn't. The second night he did that, Phil caught him and he didn't tell him to Go To Bed, Lucky or Bad Dog.
He said, “Come on, Boy,” and let him sleep on the bed with him.
Things didn't change for nearly two weeks and then one night, Lucky heard a strange sound outside. Like the whine and whoosh of something flying overhead that he knew instinctively wasn't a bird. He barked and raced into the yard with Phil close behind him. Clint was back!
Lucky sprinted to him and wagged his tail, prancing around the visitors, two men who were supporting Clint between them, one tall and carrying a metal frisbee on his back and the other more muscled and with a deeper voice, carrying a hammer that wasn't that dissimilar to ones Lucky had seen in Clint's barn.
He looked worriedly at him as Phil took him in his arms and helped him inside to the couch. Clint was hurt and he smelled like blood. Lucky gave his hand a careful lick and settled on the floor, standing guard over him. The strangers talked in low, anxious voices to Phil, who stayed close.
“Rest, Clint. You look like hell,” he said. “Rogers, catch me up.”
Lucky raised his head as the men retreated a short distance, leaving him alone with Clint. He sat up and rested his head on the edge of the couch cushion Clint was lying on, his wet nose finding its way into Clint's ear, making him give a soft, startled laugh.
“I missed you too,” he said reassuringly, stroking Lucky's ears. “You’re such a Good Boy, Lucky, My Boy.”
He drifted to sleep a little while after that and Lucky stayed with him, protecting him because that was his job and Clint clearly needed him. Phil came back once the other men had gone and sat on the floor beside him, giving a long sigh that sounded like relief to Lucky.
He cocked his head at him as Phil murmured softly, “He'll be okay, Boy. He's too stubborn not to be.”
Lucky just rested his head on his paws and gave a tired sigh. Finally, he had his family back together. Everything was going to be just fine, Clint included. He'd make sure of it. He was His Boy, after all.