“That’s not fair..”

You heard him grunt, a low whine escaping his throat as his ears angled backwards, an over-dramatic pout adorning his ever so cheerful face as he scooted himself between your legs under you desk.

Like every other hybrid that walk this station, Tom was treated unfairly by his human peers — nothing more than a bomb dog in their eyes; a mere mutt trained to do tricks, picked off the streets and placed into the police’s canine force.

You, however, were his handler, a respected figure within the police force he was given to. Your office, an upgrade from his own quarters, was his safe haven. A place where there were no rules to follow obediently, somewhere he felt at peace with his favorite person.

Tom’s tail thumped lightly against the floor as he peered up at you. He sat between your legs, arms snug around your waist with his cheek resting on your thigh, pouting up at you. He was most likely upset about some silly thing like usual.