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In the low light of the drawing room, Ed sank back into the deep red armchair that had grown to become his new favourite in Oswald’s manor. Upon the restoration of Gotham, Oswald had also created the opportunity to restore the manor, returning it to its former glory and erasing any trace of the dilapidated state they had found it in upon their return. With a sigh, Edward clasped his hands in his lap and prepared himself to mentally revisit his most recent idea—a particularly clever play on words that he could weave into the shape of a most impressive puzzle.
He should have known better than to hope for a moment of peace—something impossible to find when that Godforsaken dog was around.
The disgusting, slobbering thing had lumbered its way into Ed’s corner of the room, its flappy face staring up with a gormless gaze and a lolling, dripping tongue.
“Ugh.”
Ed used the tip of his foot to shoo it away, leaning back in his chair with a grimace. The creature seemed not to register the movement, planting its butt onto the plush rug and panting with an empty-headed glaze to its eyes. It was pure luck that Ed managed to tug his foot back into place before a dollop of slobber landed on his meticulously shined shoe.
“No. No—” Ed’s legs began to travel up onto the armchair of their own accord, knees and feet hovering gawkily in the air as the dog invaded his personal space. “Go away—Oswald!”
“What was that?” Oswald called. “I can’t quite hear you.”
“Oswald, come get your dog.”
“Come again?”
Edward groaned, realising that Oswald’s voice was too loud for him to be out of earshot.
“I know you’re hiding behind the door. Just come over here and get this thing off of me.”
“Fine, fine.”
Oswald limped out from around the corner, scooping the dog up in his arms and baby-talking into its little ears.
“I’ll save you from the big meanie, won’t I, Edward? Yes, I will!”
“That thing needs a new name.”
“And to think there was a time when you hated being called Edward.” He ducked his head to speak to the dog. “Perhaps he needs a new name, hm? What do you think?”
He bounced the dog a little bit, like it was a big baby.
“I don’t need a new name,” grumbled Ed, folding his arms like a petulant child. “I don’t get it. Out of all the things you could have called it, why—”
Oswald cut him off with a raised hand, eyes closed and mouth pressed shut as though he was physically blocking out the question.
“No matter. That’s his name, so you’re just going to have to deal with it.”
“Is there any way you can train it to stay away from me? It keeps slobbering all over my shoes.”
“That just means he likes you.”
“Well, the feeling is not reciprocated.”
Oswald chuckled, jostling the dog in his arms and tucking his chin to receive a few happy kisses.
“He’s just grumpy, isn’t he, Edward? Yes, he is!”
“Am not,” said Ed, feeling ridiculous.
Oswald walked away to place the dog down elsewhere. Ed watched suspiciously, eyes narrowed. He could never seem to get enough distance between himself and the creature before it showed up at his feet once more. One would expect it to behave like this only towards its owner—rather than Ed, who had been making an active effort to be as off-putting and unwelcoming towards the creature as possible. The tactic didn’t seem to be working, thus far.
Edward was certain that he had made no indication whatsoever that he could be a source of affection to the thing. Its persistence—and blatant disregard for personal space—was baffling. As he settled back into his chair, he found it impossible to return to his puzzle, his attention now on the disruptive creature that shared his name. Oswald obviously liked it, which meant Ed would just have to endure its presence.
He accepted this thought with a deep breath of resignation. Noticing movement in the corner of his eye, he turned his head to see the peek of a wrinkled, snub nose around the doorframe.
As the cool, dark Gotham days inched closer to summertime, Edward (the person) became increasingly aware of Edward (the dog) and his—its—reaction to the rising temperature.
“It’s called brachycephaly,” grumbled Edward, pinching a cold, wet cloth between his finger and his thumb. His elbow-length rubber gloves squeaked with every move, and he cursed quietly under his breath as the cloth threatened to drip onto his trouser leg. “A short snout like that is also found in shitzus and pugs—”
“Uh huh,” hummed Oswald, bemused. He had a fork in one hand and his chin in the other, watching his partner with half-lidded eyes.
The two of them were sitting at the dining room table, Edward fussing over whatever project he was obsessed with this time. Between them sat their shared breakfast, Oswald eating at a leisurely pace while Ed’s plate had been pushed aside, making way instead for a basin of chilled water filled with floating, soaked-through cloths and a smattering of ice cubes. Edward spilled another few drops onto the table as he wrung the cloth over the basin, shaking it out and sending a little spray of droplets into the air.
Teeth bared, Ed removed a glove to poke at the cloth, giving a minute nod. “It’ll do.”
“And what great plan is all this for?”
“Brachycephaly obviously increases the risk of brachycephalic obstructive airway syndrome,” Ed continued, unfazed. “The upper airway is obstructed and they end up breathing through their mouth, which is why he—” Oswald’s face turned smug. “It pants so much. It’s disgusting, by the way.”
The latter comment was aimed at the dog in question, who was splayed out luxuriously on the floor, legs akimbo. Oswald chuckled at the sight, earning himself a sharp glare and a huff from Ed.
“All this to say…?”
“Dogs pant to regulate temperature. Bulldogs are at higher risk of hyperthermia in hot weather due to the narrowness of their airway.”
Tugging his rubber glove back into place with a snap, Ed held the sopping cloth at arm’s length between both hands before kneeling uncomfortably next to Edward.
“Upsy-daisy.”
He pushed at the dog’s side until it rolled over onto its back. Edward went happily, paws flopping in the air. Ed took hold of one of Edward’s front legs, pulling it up to tuck the cloth under its armpit with a put-upon grunt.
“Stay,” he said, gesturing with his hand, before turning back to the basin for a second cloth.
Soon enough, the dog was covered in cloths, one tucked under each armpit, another few on his stomach, and Ed was trying and failing to wrap the rest around the dog’s paws without them plopping onto the floorboards with a squelch.
“The axillae and paw pads are best for optimal thermoregulation. If only this darned thing would stay in place—”
To his horror, the dog started to move, its legs flailing uselessly in the air before it managed to flop up and land a wet, sloppy kiss on Ed’s chin.
“Ugh!” Ed startled. “No—Oswald, do something!”
“I’m eating my breakfast, Edward,” Oswald said, a thoroughly amused smile forming around his fork.
Shifting to stand, Edward lost his balance, hands slipping in the self-made puddle now accumulating under him from the dislodged cloths. Edward the dog took advantage as Ed fell onto his back, plopping itself happily onto his chest. The cloths slapped down onto his suit, immediately soaking through.
“Oswald—help!”
Ed lifted up both hands to defend himself as a deluge of kisses descended upon him, all aimed squarely at his face. His glasses dislodged at one particularly strong lick, and his ears rang with the sound of Oswald’s shrieking laughter, his cutlery clattering as he fought to contain himself at the sight before him.
“Well. I’m so very glad that you find this funny, Oswald,” Ed wailed, trying and failing to dodge another kiss. “Ugh—this is completely unsanitary.”
Finally defeated, Ed let his head fall with a thud onto the floorboards, begrudgingly accepting his fate. The weight of the dog was too much, and the wet cloths were everywhere. So much for his good deed.
“Oh God, I’m getting a stitch,” wheezed Oswald, clutching his side.
“Ha ha,” said Ed drily, weakly pushing at Ed the dog’s chest. “I swear to God, Oswald, if you don’t come over here right this instant—“
“All right, calm down, I’m coming.”
One eventful rescue mission later, Edward was swabbing his face clean at the table while Oswald patted Edward the dog along its stomach and paw pads with a fresh set of cool cloths. The dog was much more collaborative for its owner, Ed noted with a huff. No more sudden attacks, so far.
“It was good of you to do this, you know,” said Oswald.
“I know.”
“And his temperature does seem to have gone down, as well,” he continued, holding the back of his hand against the dog’s mouth to feel its breath.
Edward realised after a beat that Oswald was attempting to placate him after the ordeal. He was begrudging to admit that it was working.
“Olga should change its water more frequently. And it needs to get walks later in the evening when the sun isn’t as bright.” He nudged his glasses up a smidge, now clean. “According to my research.”
“If you’re so worried, change the water yourself. You needn’t wait for Olga to do it.”
“I’m not worried,” Ed blustered. “I just know that if anything were to happen to him, I’d never hear the end of it.”
Oswald looked over his shoulder at Ed then, looking very much like the cat that got the cream.
“What?” Ed snapped.
“Nothing,” Oswald hummed in a singsong tone.
Upon returning his attention to the dog, Oswald gave a little gasp.
“Look, Ed! He’s smiling at you!”
Edward the dog had rolled over onto his side, mouth wide open, with his tongue dangling from the corner of his mouth. His wrinkles had all sagged sideways with gravity, his droopy eyes pointing Ed’s way.
“Dogs can’t smile,” Edward murmured, reaching for a damp newspaper and shaking it out just in time to hide the quirk at the corner of his mouth.