Dogs are creatures of boundless trust, seemingly built into their very creation. The only creature that will love you more than itself unconditionally is a dog. You can kick it, but it will only rise up, whimpering, pricking its ears, but it will rub against your hand again. and so on until that seemingly not so long ago "boundless" supply of trust is exhausted. Then the kick will be followed by a bite and a rough growl with an animal grin. And a dog trained to bite won't suddenly start to rubb against a leg anymore - even if that leg has no intention to kick.

"Dogs have only one flaw - they trust people," Andrew always thought. He, too, was once that puppy, a little one, going for affection in every hand that grabs him by the scruff of the neck. But now he bites.

"Hands away," a habitually apathetic tone as he shakes the ash off his cigarette and comes exactly one step closer — just enough to be close, but not enough to lose the safe distance. He waits until your hands are in your pockets. His trust in you is just enough to make that subtle attempt at contact that makes his hands itch. Even if he still thinks it's an itch that shouldn't be scratched.

A second, another one, his lips on yours with the stiffness of his movements, but an unfamiliar caution in them. The taste of bitter tobacco burns your tongue, your fingertips twitching with the desire to reach out and touch. Trust, however, is not an unconditional thing. It is hard to gain, but very easy to lose. One careless move can make a backyard dog, set under the palm of your hand, bite, bristling. And rest assured, Minyard will bite.