Date: Mon, 06 Feb 2006 19:36:18 +0000 From: Jeffrey Fletcher Subject: Walking the Dog This story has one brief sexual episode in it of sex between two adult men. If the prospect offends you, or is illegal for you to view, then you have been warned. I am grateful to John and Nels who have diligently scrutinised the story, I try to reply to all communications, jeffyrks@hotmail.com WALKING THE DOG In the Spring 2001 Paul was nineteen. His parents had reluctantly given way to his prolonged appeals, and allowed him to get a dog. He had wanted one for years, but they had always said 'no', because they feared that the responsibility of looking after the dog and taking it for walks would fall on them. But now he was working, soon to have his own car, and proving himself a reliable young man. So they had conceded to his request. It must be said that to their surprise they grew very fond of the dog, and Paul's father found himself enjoying taking the dog for a walk. But that is not the subject of this story. Paul had got the dog from the dog's home. She was a stray. When Paul had gone to choose a dog, and had looked at various ones, this particular bitch had made a special appeal to him. She gave him a plaintive look with just a hint of fun. She was a bitch of indeterminate breed. There seemed to be a bit of collie, a strain of spaniel, a hint of Labrador, and several genes of terrier in her. When he brought her home and his father saw her, he said, "You'll have to call her Heinz - there must be at least fifty seven different varieties in her!". Heinz was an energetic affectionate dog, always ready to play, and always wanting a walk. Every Saturday morning Paul took Heinz for a longer walk than he did during the rest of the working week. In the winter afternoons he played football, and in the summer cricket, so this meant that it was an early start on Saturdays. Very soon he found himself doing the same walk. It involved walking across a stretch of open land where Heinz could run free. Paul could never remember when he first saw Barry. Was it on the first Saturday morning that he did the walk. Barry did a similar walk at the same time but in the opposite direction. So they always met somewhere along the stretch of open ground where there dogs could run free. Barry's dog was a pedigree Labrador, called Grenville, or Gren for short. He had cost him a lot of money. The first two times their paths had crossed both Barry and Paul slipped a lead on their dogs while they walked past each other. At some stage over those first weeks, they must have greeted each other, first with a nod, and then with a 'Good Morning'. It must have been by the early summer of 2001 that Paul and Barry stopped for a short conversation. The dogs greeted each other in the intimate way that dogs do. The next week the leads were not put on the dogs, while the two men talked. They were very different men. Paul was in his late teens, Barry in his early sixties. Paul at the beginning of his working life, working for the Water Company. Barry, after a life time in teaching, including schools and latterly college lecturing, was in the first months of retirement. Paul was the youngest of three, he had a sister and a brother, but both had now left home. His family lived in a small three bedroomed semi-detached house, with small gardens front and back. Barry was unmarried, and lived alone in a four bedroomed detached house, that had a large well kept garden. Paul had rarely left his home town of Wolverhampton, and certainly never been abroad. Barry was well travelled, having visited at one time or another every continent except Antarctica. Paul was into pop music, and film going; Barry was into classical music, the theatre, and only occasionally going to the films. Slowly over that summer they got to know each other. Their conversations got progressively longer. While they talked their dogs enjoyed themselves chasing each other around, first one being chased, and then becoming the chaser. There came a time in the middle of that summer when both began to look forward to the meeting. Paul was attracted to Barry's openness, interest and gentle kindness. Barry was attracted to Paul's shyness and freshness. Paul would talk about his work, and his sporting activities, and Barry would listen. Both became subconsciously aware of the loneliness of the other. Neither of them had any close friends. Barry had had close friends, but they had died or moved away. Paul had always been something of a loner. Summer progressed and the days began to shorten. The leaves began to change colour and to fall. It was a Saturday in mid November when the next stage in the relationship between the two men was reached. It was a grey cold day. The wind was in the east. 'Straight off the Urals' as some of the locals described it. Other locals, without a geographical knowledge described it as a 'Lazy wind' because it blew straight through you, rather than taking the effort to blow round. They stopped and talked for a few minutes, both conscious of the cold wind. "It is too cold to stand around talking today," remarked Barry. "It's going to be cold playing football this afternoon. Though it makes you appreciate the shower after all the more." Barry was sorry to see their conversation cut short. "What are you doing this evening?" "Nothing much, why?" "Would you like to come round for a meal?" Paul hesitated before answering. "Yes, that'd be nice." Paul's first visit to Barry's house was an eye-opening experience for him. He was immediately conscious of the difference in life styles, or as even an Englishman at the end of the twentieth century would put it - class. Now it is important not to give the wrong impression in describing the differences between the ways the two men lived. It could easily be unjust to Paul, his parents and his background. Paul's parents lived in a small three bedroomed semi-detached house, that was the same as many others, and similar to countless other homes in the United Kingdom. His parents were hardworking. There had never been an abundance of money, but so also they had never experienced real poverty or hardship. There was always enough food to eat, the house was always warm. Paul's mother kept her family and the house clean. She was a good cook, but within her limitations. The main meal of the day, which was eaten when the men had returned from work, usually consisted of meat and two veg. There was always a roast on Sunday, with the changes being rung between beef, lamb, pork and a chicken. Monday was usually a cold meat day. There were days when there would be a stew, or liver and bacon, or chops or some steak. On Fridays it was usually fish, and for a reason that Paul's mother would have been unable to give, except that her mother and grandmother had always served fish on Fridays. It was strange how this custom had persisted in so many families. Only in recent years had convenience food begun to make its appearance on the family menu. In the old days Monday used to be washing day, when the week's washing had been done. But those days were long gone; automatic washing machines had revolutionised life in almost every home in the land. Washing could be, and was done, on any day, or indeed any hour, of the week. Often Paul's mother would put some washing on to be done in the evening, or just before going to bed. But above all it was a good, hard working, and loving family. When Paul arrived at Barry's house he was soon conscious of the difference. The entrance hall was spacious. There were doors leading to rooms on both sides. Paul took off his anorak, and Barry took it and placed it in a hall wardrobe, and not on some hooks in the wall at the bottom of the stairs as would have happened in his own home. Barry's dog was effusive in his welcome, but then appeared to be looking for Heinz, and was obviously disappointed. The two men laughed. "The meal is almost ready, Paul. Come through and sit down." Barry showed him into sitting room that was as large as the total ground floor area of Paul's home. "What would you like to drink? Sherry? Pyms? Beer?" Paul had only occasionally drunk the first, never the second, but usually the third. He thought quickly and asked for a sherry. "Sweet or dry?" That flummoxed Paul. He could understand a 'sweet' drink, buy a 'dry' one! That seemed a contradiction in terms. Barry immediately detected the dilemma. "I usually have a dry one." "Same for me, please." Barry went across to where the drinks were placed, and poured out the sherry into a couple of heavy glasses. They sat on easy chairs either side of the fireplace. They talked for several minutes about every day things like the weather and Paul's football match that afternoon. Paul began to feel slightly uncomfortable. There was an air of sophistication about Barry's house that made him feel in the wrong place. "Will you excuse me for a couple of minutes, while I finish off the meal," said Barry. "There's a paper there, and some magazines on the table back there." He left the room. Paul looked round the room. He noticed that the pictures on the wall were actual paintings, and not photographs as back in his own home. There were a couple of candle sticks on the mantelpiece and he thought they looked silver. The furniture looked old and more expensive than he was used to. Paul reached out for the copy of the newspaper. It was the Times; a paper that he had heard about but never read. Paul's family read the Daily Mirror, a very different paper to the Times. He opened it. The first thing that struck him was how few the pictures were, and how long were the news items and articles. He glanced through it. Five minutes later Barry appeared in the doorway. "We are ready to eat now, would you like to come through." Barry directed Paul across the hall into another large room. In the middle of the room was a large dining table, that could easily seat eight people. There was a white linen cloth at one end, with place settings for two. In the middle of the table was an attractive arrangement of flowers. In the background some soft piano music was playing. Paul paused in the doorway. This was not what he was used to. He began to feel embarrassed and fearful that he would in some way do the wrong thing. Barry detected the hesitation. He had realised that Paul was in some ways still a rather gauche teenager. The last thing he wanted to do was to embarrass Paul or make him ill at ease. "What's the matter, Paul? Not what you're used to? Too posh?" Paul just nodded. "Paul, I am a rather lonely man. I like cooking, but cooking just for myself is not fun. I want you to enjoy the meal. We have enjoyed chatting to each other when we've met while walking our dogs, have we not?" Paul nodded again. "So let's enjoy this evening. What are you afraid of?" "Of not knowing the right thing to do. Which knife, or spoon should I use?" "Paul, there are just the two of us here. It doesn't matter if you do the wrong thing. I won't tell anyone. If in doubt, follow what I do, or ask. I want you to enjoy this evening. I have enjoyed preparing this meal for us, and now I look forward to eating it with you." Barry showed Paul where he should sit. They sat at right angles to each other at one end of the table. It was not an elaborate, or unduly special meal. It was cooked well, and beautifully presented. The first course was home made celery soup. Now Paul was used to soup, but soup was always something from a tin, either with a labels 'Heinz', 'Campbel's', or 'Bachelors' on it. This soup was something different. Paul knew the correct way to use a soup spoon, that was something his mother had taught him, so there was no embarrassment or need of advice there. "Did you make it, Barry?" "Yes, I had some good chicken stock, and made it this morning when I got back from the walk. It is quite easy, celery and celeriac." "Celeriac, what's that?" "It's a root vegetable. Round, bigger than a cricket ball but not as big as a bowl, as used in a game of bowls. Did you like it?" Paul nodded. "Very much." They sipped the rest of their soup in silence. "What's the music?" asked Paul. "A Schubert piano sonata. One of the last ones he composed. In B flat to be exact." "I'm not into classical music." "You like pop?" "Yes." "I'm afraid I don't know much about pop music. Do you like this?" "It's all right," said Paul conveying a note of uncertainty. "I think you need to hear some pieces two or three times before you really begin to appreciate it. Do you have many pop records?" "Quite a number of CDs." "Perhaps you should help me appreciate pop, while I do the same to you with classical music." They looked at each other and laughed. Both realised the implications of Barry's words, that there would be further opportunities. They chatted freely over the rest of the meal. Paul had a couple of glasses of wine, and when the meal was over Barry suggested that they had coffee in the drawing room. "Can I help with the washing up." "Not on your first visit." Paul realised that Barry was expecting and hoping for further visits. A moments thought made him realise that he was actually enjoying himself. "I will leave everything in soak," said Barry, "so it will not take long to do." Again they sat in the easy chairs, facing each other, either side of the fire place. Barry questioned Paul about his work, and listened to an account of the work and of some of the people Paul worked with. It was just after eleven o'clock when Paul said that he must be going. He stood up, but they continued talking for another ten minutes before Barry fetched Paul's anorak. "Thanks for a super meal. I have enjoyed this evening." "Really?" "Yes! Really," said Paul with a grin. They shook hands and Paul made his way out to his car. Barry stood in the doorway, and they waved to each other as the car pulled away. *** The following Saturday morning they were both walking their dogs as usual. "Have you had a good week?" asked Barry. "Yes, thanks. And thanks again for last week." "You enjoyed it, even having a meal with an old codger like me." Paul laughed. "You're not that old! I enjoyed it." "Want to do it again?" "Yes, please." Paul smiled. "This evening?" "Yes, please." "Well, you bring round one of your pop records, and you can begin my education, and I'll continue yours." "Fine, same time?" "Yes." They parted, each continuing his own walk. "Have a good game of football this afternoon," called Barry after Paul. So through that winter of 2001/2 a pattern was established. There were very few Saturday evenings when Paul did not go round to Barry's for a meal. . Every time Paul brought round one of his pop records, which was played and discussed. Every time Barry played one of his classical records which was played and discussed. There were breaks when Barry went off on holiday for two or three weeks. For Paul a holiday was just a time when he did not have to go to work. He would go out for the day, but he had never been abroad, and only twice had he been to London But the education of Paul, or rather the broadening of his horizons did not just consist of classical music. Paul's reading had been very limited: Barry was widely read, so soon Paul was taking home a book to read. On a cold Wednesday evening in March 1976 their friendship went a stage further when they went to see the film, Iris, which had won one Oscar, and in the opinion of most British critics should have won more. Paul enjoyed the food and the wine. Soon he was asking questions about how something had been cooked. "Why don't you come round earlier and join me in preparing the meal," suggested Barry. For the first few weeks after that Paul had gone home after the game to change. He did not need to shower as he had showered with his team mates immediately after the game. So that he could do more he started going straight round to Barry's after the football match. Things became more difficult in the summer of 1976 as the cricket games went on into the early evening. During the summer it was often quite late when they eventually sat down for a meal. Over the months they learnt a great deal about each other. Barry described his schooling, and days at University. His work in the field of education. He told Paul about his travels. Politics and world affairs were discussed. But there was one subject that was never discussed - sex. Paul was like every other normal teenager. He used his hand to give himself relief and pleasure at least once every day. He knew his contemporaries did likewise. But for him it was always a solitary activity. On what did he fantasise when he pleasured himself? It would be difficult to say. He did not imagine encounters with any person, male or female, he was only conscious of the pleasurable sensations of his own body. He was a rather shy young man. Yes, he did take a glance at the endowments of his team mates when taking the shower after a game of football, but what he saw was not borne in mind when his hand was active on his cock. Barry did not like to think of himself as gay, but he was definitely not heterosexual. He had never shown any interest in women, even in his younger days when his contemporaries were getting hitched left, right and centre. In the course of his life he had a number of short relationships with males of his own age. It was with one or two boys when he was at school, and later with men. The last relationship had been some eight years before and had lasted six months. Did he ever think of Paul is sexual terms? A completely negative answer would be too strong, and a positive one would give the wrong impression. He liked Paul, and found himself liking him more and more, but he was so much younger than himself. He was more than old enough to be Paul's father, he could almost have been his grandfather. Barry now always found sexual relief by himself, but this was increasingly infrequent. So the weeks and months went by. In November 2002 the first anniversary of the first meal together passed. Barry realised they had been meeting for a year: Paul did not remember. Paul steadily became more interested in what he ate and drank at Barry's. As he learnt and became involved in the cooking he came to be more critical. "I think I should have put more salt in that." "Do you think I put too much origano in that sauce?" He began to appreciate the different wines, and detect the various flavours. The wines were not bought at the local supermarket, or even bought in a local specialist shop. They were carefully ordered from London. Every two or three months an order was placed. It was always a matter of mutual decision. It was the one time when the two of them sat on a settee close together, otherwise they sat in their usual chairs either side of the fireplace. Birthdays were observed, and small gifts were exchanged. At the end of every Saturday evening Paul thanked Barry, and they shook hands. There would be a quick wave as Paul pulled away in his car. Both men were creatures of habit, so it is difficult to say how long this pattern of events would have continued without modification or alteration had not the events of Saturday 15th March 2003 occurred. It had begun like every other Saturday. They had met on their walk, the dogs had played briefly together, they had talked for a few minutes about the feel of Spring that was in the air. Paul's football match was an away game. In fact it was the fixture that was furthest away from his home town. It was a tough game, and Paul was more tired than usual. It was slightly later than usual when he arrived at Barry's. "The meal will be a little longer than usual as I was not sure what time you will be back. I think about half an hour. Did you win?" "Yes, just. It was a tough game. I shall have some lovely bruises in the morning." "Well, come on in, and sit down." Barry poured out a couple of dry sherries, and they sat in their usual chairs facing each other. They talked about the day, and Paul gave Barry more details of the game. They both drank their glass of sherry, so Barry re-filled their glasses. After half an hour they moved into the dinning room for their meal. Barry served the food, while Paul dealt with the wine. It was a white wine that he especially liked. The music played in the background, they ate their food, and finished the bottle of wine. "I enjoyed that," said Paul, sitting back for a moment. "You like that wine, don't you!" "Yes, very much. Is there another bottle?" "I think so. Why? Do you want to open it?" "Yes, why not." "Remember you've got to drive home." "Oh, I'll be all right." But Paul was forgetting the second glass of sherry, and the fact that he more tired than usual. Barry went out of the room, and brought in another bottle of wine. They consumed most of this during the rest of the meal. When they adjourned to the other room Barry went to pour them out a liqueur. "Are you sure you should drink this, you have had slightly more than usual this evening?" "Make it a smaller one that usual then; but I'm all right, really I am." Barry poured out the to glasses, but with a slightly smaller quantity than usual in Paul's glass. They sat and talked, each sitting in his usual chair either side of the fireplace. The conversation did not flow with its usual fluency, and much to Barry's amusement Paul dropped off to sleep for several minutes. It was about eleven o'clock when Paul stirred, stretched and yawned. "I'm sorry about that. Was I asleep for long?" "Only about ten minutes at the most." Paul looked with a bleary eye at his watch. "I suppose I should be going." He stood up and immediately reached out to hold the mantelpiece. He shook his head. "Oh dear. The room swam for a moment." Barry had jumped up. "You all right?" "I think so." He shook his head again to clear it. He took his hand off the mantelpiece for a moment and promptly put it back. "Oh dear. I think I've had too much to drink. That on top of the game this afternoon." "Are you fit to drive home?" "I'm not sure. I'll sit down. Could you get me a black coffee, that'd sober me up a bit." He sat back down in his usual chair. "I'm not sure about the black coffee. It'd deal with tiredness, but not with the alcohol. I don't want you to have an accident on the way home, or get caught by the police and breathalysed. You know what they're like on a Saturday night." "I've got to get home, and it's too far to walk, at this time of night." "Okay then. I'll get you a coffee." Barry went out to the kitchen to make another coffee. When he came back a few minutes later Paul was lounging, head back in his chair, gently snoring. Barry smiled to himself. "Here's your coffee, Paul." First one eye opened and then the other. He shook his head. "I've never felt like this before." "You my friend are the worse for wear. You're not fit to drive home. And I wouldn't like to drive on what I've drunk tonight, and I'm not as bad as you. Remember we had that second glass of sherry, as well as more wine than usual." Paul looked up and smiled. "You'll have to stay the night." He paused. "The only problem is where to put you. I know I've got four bedrooms, but I'm not used to visitors. As you know, one of the bedrooms is the office, one is a junk room, and the spare bed is covered with boxes, books and papers. Unless you sleep with me. It's a big double bed. Would you mind?" Paul shook his head. "No not at all." "Should you let your folk know that you'll not be home tonight? Will anyone be up at this time?" He looked at his watch. "It's a quarter past eleven." "Dad'll still be up watching football." "Are you fit enough to phone?" "Just about." Barry brought the phone over to Paul, who punched out the numbers. "Hi Dad, it's me. I have had slightly too much to drink, and Barry doesn't think I should drive, so I'll be staying the night. See you in the morning." He looked at Barry. "It's okay. Dad was up." Paul stood up, and Barry gave him a helping hand up stairs. "I need a pee, but I think I can manage that." He was about to go into the bathroom when he turned. "I haven't got any pyjamas." "Don't worry, sleep in your pants. I usually do." Paul went into the bathroom. When he emerged Paul was standing outside. "I've turned down the bed. Can you get undressed and into it, or do you need a hand?" "I think I can manage." "Fine then. I'll go down and settle the hound, and make sure everywhere is locked up." Barry left Paul to get into bed, while he went downstairs. It was about ten minutes later when he came upstairs. He went into the bedroom to see Paul lying on the edge of the far side of the bed. He appeared to be fast asleep. Barry went to the bathroom for his final pee, and cleaned his teeth. He slipped back into the bedroom, undressed, down to his pants and slipped into the bed. He turned out the light, and whispered "Good night." There was no response. He too lay on the edge of his side of the bed, and like Paul with his back to the middle of the bed. He took slightly longer in getting to sleep. What happened was for ever a bone of contention between the two of them. They appear to have come to full consciousness at the same time, sometime in the early hours of the morning. Barry came to feeling Paul's lips pressing against his, and his own cock pressed hard against Paul's hard cock. Paul came to feeling Barry's hand over him and feeling down his back and under his pants towards his buttocks, as well as his cock against Barry's. Both were still wearing their pants. Barry responded to Paul's kisses by kissing positively in return. His hand went firmly under Paul's pants and began to feel his buttocks and the crack between. This brought a groan of pleasure from Paul, who put an arm round Barry to clasp him even closer. What followed was ten minutes of suddenly released and unrestricted passion. Both pairs of pants were soon removed and thrown out of the bed. Cocks and balls were felt, and caressed. Kisses abounded, in the dark they landed all over each other's faces, and elsewhere. First Barry rolled on top of Paul, and then Paul on top of Barry. "You're wonderful, Paul. Your cock feels huge, so long and thick and hard." "So's yours." "I didn't know you had such a hairy body. It's so wonderful to touch." Barry's exploring fingers found one of Paul's nipples. He played with it. This brought a groan from Paul. "Like it?" "I should say. Even harder." Barry pinched Paul's nipples harder. This brought loader groans of ecstasy from Paul. Barry then pushed Paul on to his back, and placed his mouth over the nipple and sucked strongly, with his hand he found the other nipple and began to pinch that. "That's great. Wonderful!" Barry just carried on. The climax came with Barry on top of Paul, belly to belly, and cock against cock. Barry was landing kisses all over Paul's face. He thrust once too often, with a great cry he went rigid for a couple of seconds, and then his cock pulsated, and a huge gush of cum jetted out onto Paul's stomach. Once, twice, three times, and four, the fourth only slightly less strong and copious than the first. Paul felt the hot liquid pour out on to his stomach, and that did it for him. Almost immediately his cock was pouring out large jets of cum into the constricted space between them. Gasping for air they lay in each others arms. No words were said, they were happy just to be close and in each other's arms. Barry rilled off Paul, and promptly pulled out the little draw at the top of his bedside table, where he always kept a supply of handkerchiefs. He handed a couple to Paul. "Clean yourself with these, or well be stuck together in the morning." Within a few minutes they were settling down for sleep again, but this time in each other's arms. It was Paul who awoke first on that Sunday morning. At first he did not realise where he was. In the light of early morning he looked around. He was in Barry's bedroom, in Barry's bed, and Barry was there asleep beside him. The enormity of what had happened during the night swept over him. He realised he had taken his pants off during the night, he was naked in Barry's bed, and they had had sex together! He felt such shame. He was a young man, who had abused the generous hospitality of an old man. Abused in such a way. There had been no talk about it all before hand. Some deep carnal instinct had driven him to seduce Barry. He was convinced that it was all his fault. He lay on his back for a few moments, feeling hot with shame. He started to think about what he should do. He felt he could not face Barry now in the cold light of morning. What would he say? He did not have the same verbal dexterity as Barry. He eased himself out of the bed. He found his pants where they lay when they had been thrown out of the bed. His face flushed with shame as he picked them up and put them on. He dressed, and with a softly muttered 'Good bye, Barry' he left the bedroom, and made his way down the stairs. He unlocked the front door and made his way out into the cold raw damp of that November Sunday morning. It was about half an hour later that Barry woke. The first thing that surprised him was that he was completely naked - he did usually sleep in his pants. He turned over, the pillow beside him was disturbed as though someone had been in the bed beside him. It was only then that the memory came flooding back. A feeling of tremendous guilt swept over him. He had seduced a young man barely out of his teens. It might now be legal, thanks to the Labour Government, but that did not lessen his personal sense of guilt. Did Paul think that he had been given so much to drink in order to be seduced? What would Paul be thinking? Paul must be disgusted, infuriated, because he had obviously fled as soon as he had waked that morning. Barry sat up in bed, rubbing his eyes, and saw his pants discarded on the bedroom carpet. Why, or why had he done it? He liked Paul, the friendship meant a lot to him. He was essentially a rather lonely man, and Paul's coming into his life had brought a friendship and purpose into it. And now he had wrecked everything, by letting his wretched sexuality get the better of him, so that he had seduced and abused the young man who he had liked as a friend. How could it have happened? He cursed himself for being an impulsive silly fool. He got out of bed, and began the rituals of the day, first the necessary bathroom activities, and then breakfast. He did these things automatically, his mind all the time on what had happened and what Paul must be thinking of him. He took all the blame on himself. He was the older man, Paul was young. He was the host, and Paul a guest in his house. He had had sexual experiences with other men, but he doubted whether Paul was experienced in any way. No, he was responsible, and he was guilty. He even began to fear that Paul's father might appear on his doorstep, furious at the seduction of his son, and out for revenge, with fists, or even something worse. When Paul got home, he told his mother he had a hang over and needed some sleep. So he spent most of the day in bed. What hang-over there was was slight, though it could be played up to cover the way he was feeling about the events in the night. The following days were miserable for both men. Barry was full of guilt, and Paul full of shame. Paul had the advantage of work to go to, which helped take his mind off what had happened. But as soon as work was over, it all came back to him. His mother sensed that something was wrong, and started to enquire. Uncharacteristically Paul snapped at her. That made her realise that something serious was wrong, and that it must have something to do with this friend Barry. But she had never met him, and Paul had told his parents very little about him. Never in a month of Sundays would they have guessed what actually had happened. So the working days of that week slowly passed. Barry did not have the alleviation of having his mind distracted by paid employment. He spent a disconsolate week in the house, except for necessary outings like taking his dog, Gren, for a walk, and shopping. Even the worst of weeks do eventually come to an end. Both men had to face up to the question whether to do the usual walk on Saturday morning or not. Barry had the advantage of the experience of his years, and some understanding of himself, so it was on the Wednesday evening that Barry made the decision that he would go for the usual walk on Saturday morning. He hoped he would meet Paul. The agony of the week had underlined for him just how much he valued the friendship with Paul. Though he realised that the friendship was now over, he wanted an opportunity to say sorry, and perhaps to get some understanding and possibly forgiveness for what had happened. Paul did not have Barry's maturity of approach. He was consumed by his shame, and he did not want the embarrassment of coming face to face with Barry. He just would not know what to say. He would have to walk Heinz, but he decided he would go on a different walk, that avoided the stretch along which he used to come face to face with Barry. Saturday 23rd March 2003 was a bright sunny morning, there had been a frost during the night, and in the sheltered places untouched by the sun the ground was still white. Both Paul and Barry were creatures of habit in that they left for their walks at the usual time. But whereas Barry set out to do the usual walk, Paul had a different resolve. Heinz however had no intention of allowing a change of routine. When it came to divert from their usual Saturday morning walk Paul walked on and realised she was not following. He called her, but she would not come, but sat looking at him perplexed. He called two or three times, but she just sat there. When he walked back towards her she stood up and started wagging her tail. He put her on the leash, but when he started walking in the new direction she just sat down. "Come on, Heinz, we're going on a new walk today." No encouragement, no threat, and even gentle pulling, would get her to move. After several minutes of trying to coax her, Paul gave up. He looked at his watch, and thought that if they hurried they might get along the stretch where they usually met Barry and Gren before they came along in the opposite direction. Once he resumed walking along the original route, Heinz was no immediate problem, but when he tried to hurry she had other ideas. She usually ran free, but this morning every tuft of grass, tree and bush must have had the most alluring scents. She was not to be hurried. Paul decided to put her on the leash, but then she sulked and would not be hurried. Then round the corner came Barry and Gren. Paul blushed with embarrassment. It is difficult to untangle what followed. It was no conversation because both men spoke at once, at first not listening to a word the other one was saying. Barry poured out the pent up guilt. "Paul, what can I say. I am so sorry for what happened last Saturday night. It was totally unforgivable of me. You are younger than me, you were my guest, I abused all the laws of hospitality. I just don't know what over came me. It is too much to expect your forgiveness, but I just want you to know how sorry I am over the whole thing." At the same time, Paul poured out what was on his mind. "I don't know what to say. I am totally ashamed at what I did last Saturday night." He looked down on the ground, and just kept saying, "I'm sorry, Barry. I'm so sorry." Fortunately Barry heard what Paul was saying, and had some wisdom and maturity. "Paul! Paul! Listen to me." Paul slowly raised his eyes so that he could look into Barry's face. "Paul, tell me this. Did you enjoy what happened last Saturday night?" What Barry saw was a slow transformation on Paul's face. At first a doubt as to whether he should tell the truth. The look on Barry's face encouraged him to tell the truth. He gave a slight nod, a small smile followed. "Yes, I did. It was wonderful." "Well then, come for a meal this evening, and stay the night." Walking the Dog ************************* There is no planned sequel to this story. Jeff at jeffyrks@hotmail.com