Chapter Text
Field days with lil' Petey brought back fond memories.
The first thought that comes to mind are the picnic days he shared with his mother.
They would laugh together, share sandwiches, play in the grass and at sunset, she would play her ukulele and sing songs about a white sandy beach and pleasant weather, where there were no worries. She would dreamingly tell him about that wonderful place she once visited in her youth, wishing and promising to bring him there someday. Petey always thought that day would come after they overcame their precarious situation.
But that day did not come in his childhood.
And when his mother became ill, he understood that day would never come.
He never imagined how horrible it was for a child to see his mother drop like a dead weight, until he experienced it firsthand. He knows he can never forget that experience; the way he called out to his mother and she didn't answer, the way he let go of his hand and there was no reaction from her, to look into the white look in her eyes and clearly see a death call waiting.
And waiting.
Just waiting.
.
.
.
Petey doesn't know exactly what happened that day. He remembers that little walk they took near the park after the weekly shopping, but everything else fades into a blur of things that happened in a matter of hours.
Someone had taken them to the hospital, the nurses were talking, but he didn't understand anything they were saying, his mother lying in a hospital bed, awake, assuring him that she would soon feel better.
But she did not get better.
Years later, he discovered that what had taken his mother's life was simple genetics. He theorized that, most likely, her mother's parents died the same way she did. Unfortunately, there was no cure for that.
And although he worried at first for his own well-being, knowing that his pathetic excuse for a father was still alive after so many years offered some peace of mind in his life.
And life went on.
He discovered that life wasn't so bad after all, he had friends, a small, but loving family and although remedying his mistakes was deeply frustrating, the result was one of the greatest satisfactions of his life.
“Woof! Woof!” barked lil' Petey sitting on top of Dogman as they ran a squirrel together.
Well, life was acceptable in any case.
Looking at his watch, he decided he would soon have to call them to leave the silly squirrel alone, it was almost lunchtime and Petey had no desire to spoil his son's appetite. That and also, it was frankly disgusting to see a kitten behaving like a dog. They may have been on good terms for some time, but Petey didn't want Greg's behavior to leave bad habits in his son. Greg was a dirty dog, literally.
Petey took the food out of the basket, a couple of sandwiches, apple juice, and dog cookies, set out plates, glasses, and the jello dessert he arranged in the center of the blanket, got up from his spot and started calling them to come back.
.
.
.
.
.
.
But his voice didn't come out, and Petey didn't hear his mouth utter any words or sounds.
Why was there an absence of noise? Everything around them seemed normal, even if he stopped hearing the sound of the wind blowing, and the leaves rustling in the trees or the flapping of pigeons in the stream beside them.
Greg and lil' Petey watched him curiously, even if he hadn't called them, Petey guessed that hunger had finally brought them to their senses.
Playing it down, he would find out later about that weird moment he had, now he just wanted to eat his lunch and continue enjoying the quiet day.
Then, as he sought to sit back down, Petey couldn't move.
“Dad?”
His legs didn't... feel right, he quickly understood that there was no sensation in his body. His arms, hands, legs, feet. There was no pain, no fatigue, there was... nothing.
Everything began to fall silent, nothing responded when it wanted to.
Dangerously peaceful.
“Dad!”
Who...?
In an instant, everything came back to him. As if time had once again begun to run.
Greg-Dogman-held him in a hug, as they slowly sat down on the grass, they were not next to the picnic, as Petey thought.
The adult cat tried to push the dog, but the strength to perform such an action was suddenly gone. Exhaustion ran through Petey's bones, he could barely keep his eyes above Greg-Dogman's shoulder, not to mention try to pull away.
“Dad...”
His son's suppressed, sad cry made him quickly forget his discomfort.
His little arms wrapped tightly around him, and tears stained Petey's fur. He kept calling out to him between broken sobs and as much as Petey wanted to hold him and comfort him, his arms only shook limply.
“... Kid,” Petey said trying to get his attention.
And when his son looked back at him, he only found in it an ugly, raw emotion.
Horror.