Good. 

He is doing good.

Everything is good.

Good. Good. [i]Good.[/i] 

The individual breaths of the pack melt into a warm, hazy cloud. There is pressure that holds fast, pressure that scratches gently, pressure that drifts luxuriously across him, and there is only a memory of hands. One voice speaks of performance. One voice continues its litany of whispered honey. Many voices speak, of wool, of collars, of peace, of treasure.

Dolce does not consider which is which. There is nothing he needs to mind. There is no task or protocol he needs to remember. There is no one he must help. They’re all good. He’s good. This, is good. Good. [i]Good.[/i] The worries are answered and disassembled before they can be thought.

He is completely limp, floating in darkness, borne along in a sea of wolves. To where, from whence, he cannot say, and doesn’t bother remembering. There is a click. There is a pressure that lingers around his neck. Soft, lovely, not so tight to squeeze, not so loose he can forget, so [i]good[/i] nestled in his wool.

There is a jingle.

A beautiful, delicate note, ringing bright in the rumbling sea. And the sea takes notice of it. The note mingles with whispers, and the whispers bring with them fond nuzzles and playful touch. So cute. So lovely. So [i]pretty[/i].

Imagine. In the darkness. Beyond the darkness. Imagine that Vasillia…that Mistress Vasilia might hear this note too. 

Poor Dolce’s heart aches to bursting, and he must, and he must say,

[i]”Yes.”[/i]

Good.