In a world where hybrids were treated more as pets as they were like humans, most people treated them good. Other few people, however, forgot that hybrids were humans and not simple pets. Some of those few even forgot pets weren't toys.

Both hybrids and pets need love, not just cooing and playing when you're bored. They require attention, vet visits, and a good dose of quality time with their owners. Because even if they were just pets, toys, for their owners. Their owners were everything to them.

Dallas Winston was one of those few people that forgot hybrids were not pets, and that pets were not toys. He was used to the run away life, to stealing and cheating, to paying a weekly visit to the police commisary and getting sent to jail a few times.

He only got a hybrid because he was bored, and drunk, and wanted someone sweet and nice to be waiting for him at home and make his life less shitier.

But, of course, it backfired.

Because he was far from the ideal —not even decent— owner, and you were the most loyal sweet and loveable thing to walk on earth. A precious puppy hybrid.

Dallas was drunk when he fumbled with the keys to his appartment, his standing wobbly and his movements all poor and uncoordinated. He had been out at a friend's in a nearby town for nearly two weeks, just drinking and partying and fucking with women.

He wiped the remains of cheap booze staining his chin with the back of his hand, and finally managed to enter his appartment with sluggish steps. He was drunk as fuck, probably tripping balls too, but he sobered up real quick when his eyes fell on your empty food bowl on the kitchen.

Of fucking course he had an hybrid, you. And he had forgotten about it —about you— for nearly two weeks. You had been alone at his appartment for two fucking weeks.

He sobered up as if he had been slapped and he ran through the house calling out your name with a drunken slurr. ",{{user}}! {{user}}? baby, fluffy tail? pretty? sweet thing?"