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It starts with Tommy helping his neighbor with a colony of feral cats. That had been something Buck found out about after they got back together. He'd helped a few times, carefully trapping skittish cats to bring them to the vet because they're hurt or sick or need to be fixed. They're good at getting ahead of things, avoiding litters entirely most years.
This is not one of those years.
“Well, fuck,” Tommy sighs, scratching his neck and looking at the tiny, squirming kittens climbing all over their shell-shocked mom. “Know anyone who wants a cat?”
Buck’s already got his eye on the little calico on the end, she's a little smaller than the rest. “Yep.”
“Yeah, I was afraid you'd say that.”
—
Her name is Splotch, because she's splotchy. Buck looks up how to introduce a baby and a kitten. He tucks Robbie’s onesies in with Splotch when she sleeps and shows her videos of Robbie crying and cooing and screeching so none of his noises surprise her.
When they let them meet, Tommy is holding Robbie on his lap and Buck is cradling Splotch in his hands. She sniffs Robbie's foot, and Buck can feel her purr immediately.
“Good girl,” he coos, offering her a tube of cat treat.
She licks at it eagerly and then sniffs Robbie some more. When she rubs her cheek against his knee, Buck and Tommy exchange grins over their heads. Robbie's eyes are huge, and he flails a hand, letting out a little grunt. Splotch backs up a bit before sniffing his hand, and Tommy carefully guides Robbie’s hand to the top of her head.
“See? Gentle,” he murmurs, and Buck wishes he'd set up his phone to record this.
They consider the meeting to be a success, even though it ends with Robbie sneezing mightily and Splotch running away.
“I hope that wasn't an allergy sneeze,” Buck says, wincing. “Shit, should we have taken him in or—”
“We'll see what happens,” Tommy says, shifting closer until he's pressed up against Buck’s arm. “He's breathing normally, so if it's an allergy, it's mild. We'll keep an eye on him all day just to make sure.”
Buck nods and looks at their small, breakable son. “Please don't have any life-threatening allergies.”
Robbie blows a spit bubble in response.
—
Not only is Robbie not allergic, they have to start closing the nursery to keep Splotch from climbing into his crib. When he's in his bouncy chair, she's curled around him. When he's having tummy time, so is Splotch.
“Shut up!” Maddie whispers, covering her mouth as she watches them snooze together in the bouncy chair. “That's so cute!”
“Right?” Buck whispers, grinning. They sit on the couch and just watch them.
That's how Chimney and Tommy find them fifteen minutes later, and they settle in for some baby and kitten watching time. Except about thirty seconds later, Splotch wakes up, sniffs, rears back, and runs.
“Well, that's one way to find out someone needs a diaper change,” Tommy sighs, getting up and carefully lifting their son out of his chair just before he wakes up and starts squirming, his face getting red like he's ready to wail. “Don't worry, little man, the scout warned us.”
“Aren't babies great?” Chimney says cheerfully as Tommy walks back toward the nursery. “You guys find a blowout-proof brand yet?”
“Nope,” Buck sighs. “You need reinforcements, babe?”
“Possibly!” Tommy calls.
“Have fun,” Maddie says, patting Buck's back as he gets up.
Splotch weaves through his feet but stops at the nursery threshold and sniffs the air.
“Coward,” Buck accuses her as she turns and walks away.
—
When Robbie's eight, he brings home a puppy. Buck is staring into his son's big brown eyes and the big brown eyes of this puppy and trying to figure out where to even start.
“Sweetheart,” Tommy says calmly, “where did you get it?”
“He was in a box behind the big dumpster by the cafeteria,” Robbie says, and Buck gets up to grab a sacrificial towel. “I heard him crying, he was sad.”
Buck can hear the tears in his son's voice and feels his own coming on, and he grabs a towel from the linen closet and the box of exam gloves and kneels next to them. “Was he alone?”
“Yeah,” Robbie says, sniffling.
“Let me see him, and Papa’s going to take you to wash your hands,” Buck says, and Robbie nods, handing the puppy over.
Tommy takes his wrists, leading him into the bathroom and talking quietly to him.
“Alright, let's see,” Buck says, putting on gloves. The puppy’s thin but has a wormy belly, there's fleas, and his ears aren't looking great either. It's shaking and whining pitifully. He's probably a few months old. “Welcome to the family.”
They bathe the puppy in some Dawn to kill the fleas, and Splotch watches reproachfully from the doorway.
“Be nice,” Robbie tells her sternly.
“She's going to be a little upset,” Tommy warns him. “Cats and dogs aren't always friendly.”
Robbie sits on the tile and pulls Splotch into his lap, petting her. She never tries to escape when he does this, even though he treats her like a stuffed animal. “He needs a family, okay?”
Buck smiles and uses damp cotton rounds to clean the puppy’s ears. “You've got a vet appointment tomorrow, little guy.”
He silently hopes that there's nothing seriously wrong with the puppy, because none of them will take it well. Buck can already see Tommy rotating names in his head, Buck is leaving it to him and/or Robbie because he'd named Splotch.
“Alright, let's go to the store and get him some food,” Tommy says as Buck dries the puppy with a towel.
While Tommy and Robbie are gone, Buck has a very serious conversation with a very sleepy puppy about needing to disclose any pre-existing conditions.
“That little boy cannot have his heart broken yet, he's eight,” Buck says, and the puppy yawns. “You're very cute. What are you?”
The puppy doesn't answer any of his questions, and Splotch glares from the window bench.
“This wasn't my fault,” Buck says, and she shows him her butt as she turns her back to him. “Gross.”
—
The puppy is in good health, just underweight and a little anemic. They get a chewable for the worms and any remaining fleas.
“How old, do you think?” Tommy asks.
“Maybe six to eight weeks, he's going to be big,” she says, squeezing a paw gently to illustrate the size of them. Buck winces, because they'd been thinking he was at least five months. “He's probably got some Shepherd in him, but it's hard to say. When you bring him back in a couple weeks, we'll see how much he's grown. Did you settle on a name yet?”
“His name's Kermit,” Robbie announces.
The vet smiles and looks at the puppy. “Hello, Kermit.”
Kermit sneezes so hard he almost unbalances himself.
—
It turns out Kermit is a mutt with some Leonberger in him, and that's how Buck ends up with a dog that's over a hundred pounds.
“No more animals,” Tommy says firmly after he catches Kermit trying to grab their defrosting dinner from the counter with Splotch watching eagerly. “Nothing that can make plans.”
“Agreed,” Buck sighs, herding Kermit out back while Tommy carries Splotch out of the kitchen.
“Joey's rat had babies,” Robbie announces when he walks into the house twenty minutes later.
“Fuck,” Tommy hisses at the ceiling as Buck tries and fails to stifle his laughter.
—
Cher and Celine are adorable, they have gigantic ears and little paws. Tommy had taken one look at them, left the house, and came back an hour later with a gigantic cage and names.
“We were supposed to be a united front,” Buck reminds him teasingly as they put the cage together.
“Shut up,” Tommy mutters, hanging a little hammock from the cage’s ceiling.
—
At any given moment, Robbie has an animal with him. He's being followed by Splotch or Kermit or he's carrying Cher and/or Celine. More than once, they think one of the rats escaped only to find out she went to school in Robbie's hoodie.
“Your house is a zoo, boys,” Hen says, shaking her head.
“Not yet, we don't have any birds or reptiles,” Buck says, and Tommy's eyes narrow at him. “Just saying. There's also no fish or bugs. Even though a stick bug—”
“We can get one when you retire,” Tommy says. “Because I'm not taking care of the stick bugs.”
“We're getting a stick bug?” Robbie asks excitedly, having apparently decided that was a great time to walk into the living room with Splotch cradled in his arms.
“No.”
“Not yet,” Buck adds.
Tommy sighs and pinches the bridge of his nose as Hen snickers from the couch. “Not yet.”
—
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