“Well, if you were to have a dog, which one of these would you have?”

“I have all of these dogs.”

“Yes, of course you do, silly boy. But if you could only have one of them, which would it be? I mean, if I were walking down the street with a dog, what kind of dog that I’d be walking would make you want to stop and—?”

“Ssst.” Phil was standing behind the back of the kennel owner and was making wild, silent cutting motions across his throat. That was the basic problem with Casey, he thought—well, one of the basic problems. He had the subtlety of a train-crossing signal.

“You want a dog to catch men?” the kennel owner said incredulously, the light bulb of enlightenment flickering on over his head. “I breed these dogs for huntin’. These are huntin’ dogs. I don’t—”

“Well, of course you don’t,” Casey interjected with a big, placating smile on his face. “And of course that’s not what we want a dog for,” Casey added, although of course that was exactly what he and Phil wanted the dog for.

He more than Phil. Phil thought it was the most cockamamy idea he’d heard from Casey this week—and that was saying something. But Casey was Casey, Phil liked doing Casey in bed, and Casey had convinced him that having another guy with them would be twice the fun. So Phil was letting Casey run with this idea. At least he was until he could think of a better or quicker way of doing this. He’d taken Casey to Nation’s, a Richmond gay pickup bar, a few nights, saying he thought the direct approach was the best. But three nights in a row and Casey hadn’t seen anyone in the bar who interested him.

“I think we need a hunky athletic type, Phil,” Casey had said. “That’s what I’d like. Isn’t that what you’d like, Phil?”

“Yeah, sure,” Phil had answered, although the longer they’d been at it, the less enthused about trying a threesome he’d become.