Baldwin was a good dog.

When Richard Moreau had first decided to get a dog, he had his mind set on a big dog from the very get go, despite the problems that would likely come with it. He’d need a big place to stay to where not only could the bachelor live comfortably but his dog could too. He’d need to make sure he got his daily exercise in, as large dogs meant a gratuitous amount of energy to spend, and the amount of food it’d go through would be quite substantial. But Richard wanted a big dog, and what dog would be bigger than an Irish wolfhound?

The moment he set his eyes on the litter, he knew which one he wanted. Of all the puppies that scrambled on top one another, fighting for their mother’s teat, it was the tiniest one that caught his eyes, the runt that struggled to crawl himself towards the warm body and food source. He was so tiny, so pathetic, that Richard knew that he was the one. And he had to help him.

He volunteered much time at the puppy farm, bottle feeding the poor thing, coaxing him with gentle words, but not the same he shared with a potential bed partner. No, he wanted the puppy to live, to overcome the obstacles that life threw at him, so that one day he would be ready to take come, offer him a home in exchange for some resemblance of a constant companionship, something that he was certain he would never have or could ever have. Where human companionship would fail, he was certain that this one would succeed, and day by day, the runt of the litter grew stronger, and just flat out grew. He looked so silly, with big ol’ floppy ears and paws so big on lanky legs that nothing looked like it matched, but his to-be-companion seemed unaware of his misgivings and cared only for the affection of his master. Richard could never forget that day he arrived at the puppy farm, in high hopes of bringing the little fellow home. A quick trip to the vet, get him a collar, and finally, he would have a companion, a friend he could count on.

”We’re sorry, Mr. Moreau. His heart was too weak. He passed peacefully in his sleep last night.”

Richard openly laughed at the couple when they told him this, even as he pointed to the wolfhound puppy that sat alone in the corner, head in his paws and looking quite morose- likely because he was being forced to wait for the breeders to finish their little game. ”That’s him right there. With the bushy brows and speckled rump. I’d know him from anywhere.”

He swore that was the dog he cared for. Everything about him screamed that he was the dog. Even when he did not immediately come when he called for him, he rationalized it as the puppy knew he would be parting with his family soon. Or perhaps mourning the loss of his brother? Yes, his brother, not the runt that Richard had spent so much time and effort and care nursing back to health. That wasn’t his puppy that died- they must have made a mistake.

They did not argue, though, and before too long, Richard was driving home, with a very calm but curious Irish wolfhound puppy taking turns looking out the opened window and back at him. Yes, this was his puppy. This was the one he cared for. This was his Baldwin.

And Baldwin was a good dog.

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