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I know he feels it, too, because his brow is furrowed, and he takes a deep breath as though finding the strength to turn away from me.

Holding Juju against my chest, I look around the room. The other two men are cleaning out the kennels. The two shorgs who are apparently usually loose in this room are prancing around, but when they discover me sitting in their corner, they come closer.

My heart races. Daddy promised me they don’t bite. He wouldn’t put me in a dangerous situation. Heavens, he’s so worried about my safety that I’m attached to like a million chains.

The smaller shorg bounds up to me exuberantly, stopping just short of jumping on top of me. The larger one drops to his haunches in front of me like he did while I was in the kennel. He extends a paw, as if in greeting.

Daddy returns and squats to pet them both. “Rava, this big guy is Trobu, and the little fellow is Chinz. They know better than to jump on you. Would you like to pet them?”

I hesitate before nodding. Holding Juju tightly in one arm, I reach out the other to stroke Chinz’s fur. He’s so soft. I remember that Trobu is, too. When the big guy inches closer, I giggle. He’s breathing hot air on me.

Daddy chuckles. “If you let them, they will climb up and sit with you. Would you like that?”

I slowly nod, sucking rhythmically on my pacifier.

Daddy gives them several commands. They seem to understand him because they turn to me sheepishly. It’s so strange.

“You’ll need to make the sign for ‘come’ if you want them to approach closer,” Daddy informs me.

I tentatively reach out my hand and give the two shorgs the signal Daddy uses for all of us. I wonder what these animals think about me being both well-trained and having the authority to expect their obedience.

Both shorgs pop up and leap onto my dog bed. I squeal as Trobu wraps his huge body around my side. Chinz hops onto my lap.

“They like to be petted behind the ears and on their bellies,” Daddy says.

My hand is shaking as I stroke Chinz, nervous but enjoying the company. They’ll definitely keep me warm.

“I’ll introduce you to the marns in a bit.” Daddy pets my hair, then rises and leaves me again.

I watch him go. I don’t like the separation, but I’m not filled with as much anxiety now that I have companions.

For a while, I preoccupy myself with petting both shorgs. I prop Juju up in my lap next to Chinz to free my hand and sink into this new world; one where there are pets. I can almost ignore my predicament if I focus on these gentle, kind, soft animals.

Both of them snuggle in closer to me. I think they like me. Maybe that makes them my friends.

I watch Daddy and the other two men take care of the dozens of animals in this shelter. They train them, brush them, bathe them, and even examine them. Daddy is obviously in charge. He told me he owns not only this shelter but many others. He doesn’t simply shout out orders, though. He helps his employees, even with the icky parts—like cleaning poop out of cages.

After a while, Daddy returns. He’s holding three metal bowls. Trobu and Chinz sit up, their ears rising. The moment Daddy says, “bed,” they part from me and jump onto their own soft pet beds.

I’m only a few inches from them, but I miss their touch.

Daddy sets a food bowl down in front of Chinz and then Trobu. Finally, he puts the third one in front of me.

I gasp as Chinz and Trobu immediately lower their snouts into their respective bowls and eat.

Daddy strokes my cheek, drawing my attention. “You don’t have to put your mouth in the bowl to eat, Little pet. You may use your hands. Try the kibble. I think you’ll like it. It will be good for your dental health as well as your overall nutrition.”

Daddy lowers his hand, lifts a piece of kibble, and holds it to my chin in his palm. “Try it, Little pet,” he encourages again.

I let my pacifier fall out of my mouth and slowly reach for the bite, but Daddy clasps my wrist. “You don’t need your hands when I’m feeding you, Rava. Eat it out of my palm.”

Glancing at the shorgs, my chest tightens. In many respects, I have less freedom than these two furry creatures. I’m more intelligent than they are, and I have fingers and thumbs. I have a voice, which I could use to argue with Daddy, but I don’t have permission. I would be punished.

It takes a lot of courage to lean forward and take the piece of dry food off Daddy’s palm with my tongue, but I do, and Daddy is very pleased. He pats my head. “Such a good girl. I’m so proud of you. What a pretty Little pet you are.”

While I like the praise, I’m not fond of the way it’s delivered. I’m struggling to accept my status here. He’s happy when I’m obedient, but he will not hesitate to remind me who is in charge when I’m not.

I’ve never been in a dynamic like this. Being submissive is not in my nature. Is it?