[Stabbed so badly he had to change his stance to shoot a gun, stiff when the weather was bad or even when it wasn't, stiff for no reason other than an old, old, old injury. It's all he has right now; later, in the future, there will be another shoulder wound. Further down that road, something much worse, but possibly less sinister than Will being shot by one of the few people he thought he could trust, Jack being guided to do it by the only person Will trusted currently.
He doesn't know what he's saying, exactly, with the bit about influence—no, no, he does. He doesn't know how it relates to him so much he shouldn't word it like that, doesn't know how much it could sound like someone else that he should avoid sounding like but can't understand why. Dogs must be trained, broken, that's a fact. It is not something enjoyable on Will's end, so he tries to make it as quick and painless as possible. He's gotten good at it. It's somewhat like setting a broken bone: there's damage, but a few moments of severe pain to help put it back together and heal, and it's fine. Only, Will doesn't do it in a way that the dog remembers something painful forever, doesn't stare at him and recall being stuck in a crate to learn not to run away because it's for the dog's own good not to get hit by a car or get lost or get attacked by one of the coyotes near his property. Eventually, they understand, they bond, they're loyal.
Will Graham has never taken pleasure in causing mental distress in a dog for its own good, doesn't like the process but recognizes it has to be done. He hasn't yet realized that the last few months of his life were something similar, though without what was good for him in mind. If he knew, if he had been told and given time to recognize it—his phrasing would have been
different.
He doesn't want to force her; she's not a stray, he doesn't think she needs to be "broken" into fun. Fun's something he finds hard to come by, but something that's informative about life can be enjoyable. Enjoy it, perhaps, would have been a better thing to tell her.]
Yeah. Lucky ones. The, ah, not so lucky ones don't end up in shelters. Or, they do, but...don't get out. [He's used to picking his dogs up off the side of the road or finding them curled in his bushes, cold and thin and sickly and starving. Abandoned. He doesn't have the luxury to go back to that just yet. It's a sad fact that he recognizes for what it is, and his smile reflects as much.] He's learning that the birds aren't to be messed with the same as I'm learning that living with other people isn't. Awful.
[It is.
God, but it is.]
And it's not an imposition at all, Annie. You can stop by whenever you want. Open door policy.
[A few minutes' warning would be nice, if he was in his room. The sound of him hopping around because he was laying around in boxers and that's not how he wants to be seen isn't a flattering one.
There's no desire to devour here, not person or dog or beast of any kind. There's a desire to share. A well of caring, one might say, that comes and goes in waves and relates only to a few while letting others dry up and die of thirst.
Is it better to be eaten or pass away slowly and painfully? Will should regret not saying certain things. He doesn't. Not yet, not now, perhaps not ever.
But he seems kind enough. Just a shaggy guy who likes dogs and fishing and has a heavy job. A well of sea life and fur and bodies. He's just never mentioned the ones that float or drown because of him.]
wow excuse you what a glorious tag you gave me
He doesn't know what he's saying, exactly, with the bit about influence—no, no, he does. He doesn't know how it relates to him so much he shouldn't word it like that, doesn't know how much it could sound like someone else that he should avoid sounding like but can't understand why. Dogs must be trained, broken, that's a fact. It is not something enjoyable on Will's end, so he tries to make it as quick and painless as possible. He's gotten good at it. It's somewhat like setting a broken bone: there's damage, but a few moments of severe pain to help put it back together and heal, and it's fine. Only, Will doesn't do it in a way that the dog remembers something painful forever, doesn't stare at him and recall being stuck in a crate to learn not to run away because it's for the dog's own good not to get hit by a car or get lost or get attacked by one of the coyotes near his property. Eventually, they understand, they bond, they're loyal.
Will Graham has never taken pleasure in causing mental distress in a dog for its own good, doesn't like the process but recognizes it has to be done. He hasn't yet realized that the last few months of his life were something similar, though without what was good for him in mind. If he knew, if he had been told and given time to recognize it—his phrasing would have been
different.
He doesn't want to force her; she's not a stray, he doesn't think she needs to be "broken" into fun. Fun's something he finds hard to come by, but something that's informative about life can be enjoyable. Enjoy it, perhaps, would have been a better thing to tell her.]
Yeah. Lucky ones. The, ah, not so lucky ones don't end up in shelters. Or, they do, but...don't get out. [He's used to picking his dogs up off the side of the road or finding them curled in his bushes, cold and thin and sickly and starving. Abandoned. He doesn't have the luxury to go back to that just yet. It's a sad fact that he recognizes for what it is, and his smile reflects as much.] He's learning that the birds aren't to be messed with the same as I'm learning that living with other people isn't. Awful.
[It is.
God, but it is.]
And it's not an imposition at all, Annie. You can stop by whenever you want. Open door policy.
[A few minutes' warning would be nice, if he was in his room. The sound of him hopping around because he was laying around in boxers and that's not how he wants to be seen isn't a flattering one.
There's no desire to devour here, not person or dog or beast of any kind. There's a desire to share. A well of caring, one might say, that comes and goes in waves and relates only to a few while letting others dry up and die of thirst.
Is it better to be eaten or pass away slowly and painfully? Will should regret not saying certain things. He doesn't. Not yet, not now, perhaps not ever.
But he seems kind enough. Just a shaggy guy who likes dogs and fishing and has a heavy job. A well of sea life and fur and bodies. He's just never mentioned the ones that float or drown because of him.]