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After Joyce died, friends at work tried to get me to go out with them after work, but my heart wasn’t in it, and they eventually they stopped asking. Some of the ladies who have known me for years have tried to get me to go out with them, even just casually with no romantic attachments. I know they feel sorry for me and just want to be company for a friend, but I have not been able to do it. Mercifully, some of the guys eventually spread the word that I was ‘Mr. Straight-Arrow,’ and was hopelessly still carrying a torch for Joyce. They remembered that when she was alive I would not stray an inch out of line. Even at conventions in Las Vegas and New Orleans I would not party with them after hours. Oh, sure, I would go the various hospitality suites to glad-hand potential customers and have a drink or two, but I would always excuse myself when the others wanted to hit the town afterwards. ‘Gotta call Joyce,’ is what they always expected me to say, and I always met their expectations. I. “Carry that for me to the bedroom.” I turned and began walking. He let me walk a few paces before he called me back. He leaned down and nuzzled my ear as he asked, “Did I give you permission to walk, slave?” I shook my head and mumbled, “No, Master” around the handle. He raised his eyebrows. “And now you are talking to your Master with your mouth full?!” he smiled. I moaned as I sank to my knees. I knew better than to remove the handle of the cat because Master had told me when he placed something in my mouth I was to treat it as a precious gift. But now Master was surely going to punish me for presuming to walk and for talking to him with my mouth full. I tried to articulate as well as I could around the handle, “I’m sorry, Master.” He bent down to me and held my face in his hands. “You are a very sorry puppy, aren’t you, Puppy?” I nodded. “Do you want to make it up to your Master?” I sat up straighter, excited at the prospect and nearly spit out the cat as I yelped, “Yes,.
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