Here's a bit of trivia. The Italian word "coda" describes any concluding event or summation of an artistic endeavor, like the final melodic tag in a piece of music, or the last little bit of a work of literature.

In English, it translates as "tail."

2010.

On the morning of July 13th, Neal removed his fedora as he padded into the office behind Peter. He looked dapper and sharp in a gray Devore with a blue pocket square. It was one of his favorites from June's collection. She'd shown up at the Burkes' house in early May with several garment bags full of her husband Byron's old suits insisting that Neal take them because they fit so well. It didn't hurt that they were really beautiful clothes. He was happy to wear them.

He checked his pant leg and flapped it out so it would settle properly and cover his anklet. Back in April, when he was still stuck in bed, Hughes, Cruz, Jones and two U.S. Marshals had stopped by the house to finalize the paperwork and make all the arrangements for his employment with the FBI. It was a very peaceful arrest. There were no handcuffs involved, only signatures and questions. The Marshals put the anklet on, tipped their hats and took off, and Neal got a chance to "meet" Peter's cohorts at the FBI, even though they were already familiar with him. It amused him a little to watch them readjust their perceptions, and he found himself looking forward to collaborating with them. It appeared the feeling was mutual.

The White Collar office was busy and he said hello to a few coworkers as he followed Peter into the conference room; he'd been working here since mid-May with great success, and almost everyone around him had come to respect him as a person, in spite of being introduced to him as a cat. It took them awhile to dispense with the customary ribbing and embarrassing stories, and a saucer or two of milk had appeared on his desk in the bullpen, but he just poured it into his coffee, stayed well clear of Ruiz, made conversation and did good work.

His only worry was the new agent on Peter's team. He just hoped she wasn't a hard-ass, and that she wouldn't hold his past against him too much. Her name was Diana Barrigan and she was coming in from D.C. tomorrow to replace Cruz, who had just transferred out to Las Vegas to be near her mother. She'd departed last week with warm goodbyes for everyone, but Jones had looked so depressed at her leaving that she bequeathed him her fish … and gave him her new number. He was doing fine now.

Neal looked through the glass walls of the conference room as he and Peter headed up the stairs; Hughes was prowling back and forth at the head of the table while Jones and a handful of other agents seated themselves and got ready for the day's dispatch. Peter was quickly handed a file and directed to interview a wealthy investment banker who'd been burglarized last night (it was a Matisse). Without even thinking about it, he handed the file to Neal for perusal and they left the office, strides matching, to take care of it.

As they drove down a historic tree-lined street, Neal realized they were within walking distance of June's house. He quietly started plotting but was distracted for a few hours by the interview and initial overview of the crime scene. Neal pointed Peter towards a lot of helpful information and a few possible leads, and it was lunchtime when they finished. Peter sniffed the air a little.

"I want a hot dog," Peter said. "You hungry?"

"More in the mood to walk than eat," Neal replied. The lie was as smooth as ever. "Actually, there's this amazing modern art gallery a few blocks from here that I've been dying to visit. You mind if I go over there for a bit and then meet you back at headquarters?"

It was the perfect cover. Peter hated modern art, and no amount of Neal calling him a philistine would change that. He could slip away, go visit June, and be back at headquarters with no one the wiser. Unfortunately, Peter could read him like a book.

"Please," Peter said. He sounded almost amused. "There's no art gallery, you're starving, and the only reason you're trying to weasel out of hot dogs with me is because you want to visit June on company time. Alone." He raised his eyebrows like tell me I'm wrong.

Neal had to admit it; Peter Burke was good. He had the grace to look ashamed. "Yeah," he said, and shrugged. There was no point denying it. "Is it okay?"

Peter let him dangle for a moment and then smirked. "Yeah, it's okay. Come on. I saw a cart a block that way." Neal nodded and followed. "Tell June hello for me. Oh, and by the way, if your rat packy ass isn't back at headquarters by two, I'm coming after you."

"All right." Then … "Rat packy?"

"Two o'clock."

"Got it."

Fully loaded hot dogs in hand, Neal and Peter parted ways. The agent headed for his car and the ex-con continued in the same direction until he reached June's mansion. He trotted up the steps and rang the bell, and managed two bites before the door opened, revealing Mozzie. His follicle-challenged friend looked rather harried and exasperated.

"Oh, for… Come on in."

Neal took off his hat and stepped inside. "Everything all right?"

"Well, Max isn't doing so well, but otherwise, yeah, we're okay," Mozzie said as he backed up into the hall, inviting Neal to follow. "He's finally awake for real, but I think he caught something in the middle of the withdrawal. He can't stop coughing, and he's bringing stuff up."

Neal made a face as they tromped up the grand staircase to the second floor. He took another bite of his hot dog at the top. "That's not good. He should get antibiotics. Need me to forge a scrip?"

Mozzie smirked as he opened the door to the upstairs guest suite. "No need. One of Hank's friends is helping us out on this one. He handled it. Elsie went out to pick up his medicine. I thought that was her at the door. That's why I came down." He gestured inside. "After you."

Neal went in and looked around, rather impressed. At June's request, Mozzie had taken over the spacious rooms; he'd become a full partner in her rescue and release operation. Since he could provide full-time live-in help, June was now able to take on more "boarders" at once, and currently they had three cons recovering in the mansion's other bedrooms. Mozzie had also explained to June that while he owed her for the rest of his life, and say anything, it was hers, living as a law abiding citizen was impossible for him. He had contacts to maintain, and things to do. She completely understood. But she also begged him to be careful. He promised to keep her and her house out of whatever business he got himself mixed up in, and so far, things were working out.

There was nothing to do until Elsie came back with Max's medication, so Mozzie started to rummage around in the refrigerator. "Want anything? I've got water, juice, wine, soda…"

"Nah, I'm good."

Neal wandered around with a distracted air as he demolished his hot dog. A nice chess set decorated the dining table and a sturdy oak bookshelf was stuffed to the gills with great works of literature and technical manuals. Beyond that, Mozzie's decorating choices tended towards the industrial and eccentric. But Neal was a teeny bit envious of the place's generous open floor plan, not to mention the attached stone terrace with an incredible view of Manhattan. The guest room at Peter and Elizabeth's house was very comfortable and unconditionally his until he found himself an apartment, but still, these digs were really nice.

As he swallowed his last bite of hot dog, he saw that Mozzie had his back to him. There was no better time. He pulled a fat envelope out of his inside jacket pocket. (A few days ago he'd seen it in the bottom of a drawer in Peter's office. Curiosity got the better of him because it said Neal, so he liberated it.) He walked through the glass doors to the balcony, plopped himself down at the little wrought-iron table, and carefully ran a finger under the flap. Soon he was lost in the contents. Mozzie came up behind him silently, holding two glasses of orange juice despite what Neal had said, saw what had his friend so engrossed, and gave himself away with a snort.

Neal flushed and glared. "What?"

"When were those taken?"

"When do you think?"

The envelope was full of pictures, a half-inch high stack of 4x6's that were probably developed at Walgreens. Obviously, these would never be going in a photo album, and Peter hadn't known what to do with them, so he'd kept them in his desk at work.

The picture Neal held was an extreme close-up of his eye and nose, because he was sniffing curiously at the camera. Another was a full shot taken from a high angle; he was sitting on his haunches like an animal and staring up at the lens, hypnotized. The picture was slightly blurry and while his irises were clear blue, his pupils were little red dots. Mozzie set their drinks down, took a seat, snapped up some of the pictures Neal had already looked at, and tried to hide his grin at the one on top of his pile. It was a sad attempt at a family portrait. Peter was leaning over trying to grab Satchmo's collar as the lab wandered away, and Elizabeth, halfway off the couch, was grabbing a struggling Neal by the back of his sweater because he was trying to escape, too.

Mozzie didn't stop laughing for a good minute. Soon Neal was laughing with him. It was absurd. It was a life that he didn't remember, a life that he'd had to have explained to him, and seeing it was even wackier than hearing about it. Messy mealtime photos intermingled with shots of him dressed smartly for work with Peter. In one picture he was silhouetted against the back window, pawing at the glass as some birds took flight outside. There were photos of him sleeping in a laundry basket and napping next to Satchmo. There was even a shot of him in the shower, in a full crouch on the tile, scrunching his face up against the pounding spray and trying to clean himself with his cupped hands. A bit of someone else's bare leg – it looked like Elle's – was in the frame. Thankfully, the shot cut out just above anything offensive.

"Peter said he and Elizabeth used to take me in the shower with them. Can you believe that?" Neal said, showing Mozzie the picture.

"Well, you had no shame, and it probably lowered their water bill," Mozzie said sensibly.

Neal was getting to the end of the stack. He leafed through a few blurry offerings of Peter's thumb and two showing the top of Elizabeth's head, a couple of random shots of their tiny garden out back – really, he'd have to show Peter how to take a proper picture, because this was crap – and then he saw the last shot and his criticism slammed to a halt.

Elizabeth, haloed by the warm light seeping in through the curtains, was sitting on the couch with him in her arms. She faced the camera. Because he was basically in her lap and resting his chin on her shoulder, he faced away. Their two heads were gently knocked together, and he liked the stark contrast of her soft, peachy face next to his rich brown hair. The gray sweats he wore in the picture were probably boxed up somewhere with all of his old cat toys; from what Peter had told him, he'd worn those things down to the weave. His sweatshirt was riding up, exposing his lumbar. One of Elizabeth's small hands cupped the back of his head, making little furrows in the short waves there, and she had her other arm around his ribs. Her eyes were closed.

Neal felt a lump rise in his throat as he remembered one of their conversations. She'd told him that when he wasn't feeling too wiggly, he really enjoyed being touched and held. Perhaps he hadn't been given enough affection growing up, she teased. His reply was very careful and academic: statistically speaking, most people who made a career out of stealing stuff from other people didn't have happy, stable childhoods. She left the topic alone after that. But she'd never stopped touching him – a random hug here, a gentle swat on the arm there, a tweak of the nose if he was being silly – and he'd never objected. He never would.

"Oh man, these are priceless," Mozzie said, interrupting his thoughts. "Wanna burn 'em?"

"What? No! No, we can't just burn these. They're Peter's. The only thing I don't understand is why he kept them. I mean, look at them. They're terrible."

Again, it was a good cover, but Mozzie knew Neal, and he just smiled. His own relationship with June was four fathoms deep and incredibly complicated, and the longer he stayed with her, the stronger it made them both. He knew full well why Peter had kept those pictures in his desk.

"Well, technique carries a lot of weight in photography. But the subject matters, too."

2013.

The day before Neal's birthday was national "Bring Your Pet to Work Day," and the Bureau had been participating since 2005. Neal liked it. Peter always brought Satchmo and it was fun to see what Jones showed up with, because he would inevitably bring something interesting from the local shelter where he volunteered. Neal tipped his hat to Diana as he entered the office and made his way over to his desk. Out of habit, he checked his pant leg before realizing that he didn't need to anymore.

After three years with the FBI the anklet was finally off (there had been a small party to celebrate) and he had stayed on in a consulting position. Hughes was trying to make him permanent and salaried. An agreement was slowly taking shape, but between the departmental infighting and the red tape headaches, Hughes despaired of Neal getting a contract before the decade was out. Until something official happened, he had his orders to just "keep on keepin' on," combining his consulting paycheck with the small profit he made selling his own paintings, because he was getting more and more commissions these days, and his part-time work as an assistant buyer for the Dettweiler downtown. It was right up his alley; the gallery's main collecting interest was the late European Post-Impressionist movement. He still took the subway because that sleek gray Maserati in the window was just slightly out of reach, and he brown bagged it to the office most days, but he was now the proud owner of a nice two-bedroom apartment in SoHo. While he'd converted one bedroom into a private art studio, he preferred to sketch in a nearby park, and did so whenever the weather cooperated. He found excuses to entertain the Burkes at least three times a month and they often had him over to their house for dinner.

Diana smiled in response to Neal's hat-tip. She had turned out to be beautiful, smart, half Jamaican and all lesbian, which sort of put the kibosh on what a man naturally wanted when meeting a gorgeous woman, but they had become very good friends nonetheless. Over the past three years she'd been a real asset to Peter's team, and she was in this for the long haul.

As for today's social holiday, Neal was very pleased to see that not a single person had shown up with a peet. The grassroots movement to free convicts and stop making more of them was slowly but surely taking hold. After a few hours of paperwork interrupted by various squawks and other noises, he decided to go for it, because it was fun to rile up the office on occasion and he had the perfect excuse.

"Excuse me, everybody?" He stood up on his chair and got the attention of the bullpen. "Hi. Okay, look, there's no need to be alarmed," he said with splayed hands, "But I seem to have lost my boa constrictor. Has anybody seen Chester?"

Mass panic ensued. People started searching under their desks. One of the interns actually ran out the door screaming and Diana yanked Neal down to ground level.

"You don't have any pets, Caffrey."

"Yeah, but they don't know that," Neal replied through a killer smile.

Diana rolled her eyes and Jones wandered in to watch the chaos, cradling a kitten in one arm and a dangerously wobbly stack of files in the other. Neal didn't want Jones to drop his stuff, so he took the kitten while the agent set everything down. The gray, sandwich-sized ball of fluff made a tiny "nyee!" noise at Neal and its wide eyes were even bluer than his.

"You're such a jackass," Diana said, but she couldn't stop a smirk as a hapless junior agent, eyes on his feet and searching for a non-existent snake, smacked his head into a filing cabinet drawer that someone had left open.

"Oh, come on. Somebody had to do it, so why not me? It was destiny. It was … HEP-choo!"

Neal blinked in the wake of his outburst and the kitten looked vaguely offended. Jones came back over with his arms out. Neal immediately handed the thing over. Two years ago, while working a case with Peter, he'd gotten stuck in a small poorly-ventilated room with a cat and discovered he was allergic. The irony was not lost on him.

Jones laughed as he took the kitten back from Neal. "Muffin's a shedder. Sorry, man."

"S'okay." He whipped out a handkerchief from his pocket and honked into it.

"Oh! Did de itty bitty kitty make you sneeze?" Diana said this like she was talking to a five-year-old.

Neal blew his nose again and glared at her.

"I heard Sanders was coming in today," Jones said to diffuse things. "Wonder how he's doing."

Diana shrugged. "It's been two years. If he's not okay by now…"

The New York White Collar office had been instrumental in the disbanding of CAP back in 2011, because the organization was a total scam. The leadership had been arrested, but before their downfall they'd managed to turn a tidy profit by luring in a lot of innocents with false promises and taking a lot of money.

Agent Sanders, to his everlasting humiliation and grief, had been one of their patsies. He knew that freeing Tweety was the morally upright thing to do, so he plunked down the two thousand dollars, rode along on hope and faith, and failed to notice that CAP had actually sent him a borderline incompetent med student with a dull scalpel and a cache of useless drugs. Tweety didn't survive the withdrawal.

But Sanders was doing a lot better these days. After a quick meeting with Hughes, he came back out into the bullpen, said hello to Neal and Diana, and asked Jones about the local shelter.

He wanted to know if they had any birds.

The next day, Neal put his hat down on a corner of his very messy desk, hung his suit jacket neatly on the back of his chair as usual, and noticed that there was a large cooler on the floor of his work station. Diana was looking at him steadily, as was Jones. After a wary look at both of them, he hefted up the heavy cooler and plunked it down on top of all his paperwork. Inside was a whole 10-pound salmon, head and tail included, buried in ice.

Apparently somebody couldn't resist a dig. (This happened every year.)

Peter wandered over, looked into the cooler, and snickered. Neal wasn't so amused. "What?"

"Who gave you a salmon?"

He shrugged. "Someone with expensive tastes, I guess. This is a big fish."

"What are you gonna do with it?"

Neal looked at Peter like he was nuts, and spoke slowly. "Eat it." Peter grinned. "Not all at once. And yes, smart aleck, I'm going to cook it first. You..." Then it dawned on him, and he shoved Peter. Diana and Jones were giggling now. Neal licked his lips. "You know, it's times like this when you really hurt 'teh kitteh's' feelings." He crossed his arms and said this with great dignity and pathos. "Don't cross 'teh kitteh,' Peter. You won't like what happens."

The stare-down didn't last very long; Peter was amused rather than afraid. "Look, just bring it over tonight, Garfield. You can use our oven. I promised Elle dinner in honor of your birthday."

"Peter, I know the concept of gift-giving is difficult for you, but I'm not your personal chef, and I'm not making my own birthday dinner. That's stupid."

Peter snorted. "Oh, please. We all know that you like to cook, and I'd rather not burn the house down in the attempt, so just show up, all right?"

Neal was secretly amused. He did enjoy entertaining, and it wasn't often that Peter the Great admitted to any sort of fallibility, but he had to keep up appearances. He gave a gusty sigh. "Fine. But I get to bring Mozzie and June, and Barrigan and Jones are coming too." When Peter raised an eyebrow he added, "This thing will feed a lot of people, trust me. How's six o'clock?"

Peter nodded. "Six is perfect. I'll bring the wine and buy the cake."

"That's more like it," Neal said.

Peter just smiled and walked off towards his office. Neal set the cooler back down next to his disaster area of a desk. If he was going to make any headway on this mortgage fraud case, the mess had to go. He started by making a pile of correspondence from Al, who was supervising his work on restoring a large mural for a youth organization up in Harlem, and made a mental note to call him. He stacked up the files that he'd borrowed and had yet to return to Records, which cleared more space, and when he swept all his various doodles on napkins and scratch paper into the circular file, it was looking a lot better. Once he was comfortably slouched in the chair with one well-leathered heel solidly on his desk, he brought his other leg up, crossed his ankles, and settled down to examine the evidence.

2020.

On April 2, 2014, the ASPCA also officially declared itself the ASPCP (the American Society for the Prevention of Cruelty to Prisoners) and took up the cause of those who were advocating for Responsible Release. The organization aggressively recruited public figures and wealthy donors to get involved in the campaign. It was a three-pronged mission: free existing animalized convicts, declare the animalization process illegal, and overturn laws that reduced human beings to property. It went about this while continuing to publicly distance itself from radical groups like CLF and PET-P, and alerting the public to scams like CAP.

Once it had the support of the American Humane Society and countless small non-profits, the fight against keeping peets went national. It was quickly dubbed the Ex Con Movement, or ECM, in the press. Neal Caffrey was a major part of the battle's opening salvo. After speaking to his coworkers, friends, and business associates and getting their full support and blessing, he overcame his reluctance to be in the public spotlight and allowed 60 Minutes to do a piece on him. The sympathetic segment began with his work at the Dettweiler gallery, moved on to his commissioned paintings and successful consulting work with the FBI, and finally revealed his shocking story. It garnered a record-breaking audience response and a Pulitzer nomination.

Also instrumental in the change in public sentiment were powerful advertising campaigns featuring other former convicts. (One ex-con who also happened to be a male model quite famously posed for a print ad in nothing but handcuffs, under the slogan "I Might Be a Convict, But I'm All Man.") The efforts of the coordinating animal and human-rights organizations caused a nationwide storm of controversy over the perverse nature of this American habit. There were loud debates on pundit shows and the issue perennially popped up on the TV news networks. The CBS evening news joined the fray by giving it coverage at least once a month, and the issue eventually went all the way to the Supreme Court. In April of 2018, when the ruling finally came down and the New York Times front page shouted ANIMALIZED CONVICTS ARE NO MORE – 'PEET' OWNERSHIP ABOLISHED, millions of letters of thanks poured into the ASPCA's corporate headquarters.

One of these letters has been framed and remains on the wall of the reception area for the reading pleasure of visitors. It begins rather cheekily with Dear ASPCA, but goes on to eloquently thank the organization for its support of convicts everywhere. The rest is reprinted here.

Tireless ECM headliners and major convict-rights activists deserve praise for their steadfast defiance of nonsensical laws and their constant media presence. But as much as the frontrunners have supported this movement, we should honor the soldiers on the ground. We need to remember people like Dr. Hank Lawson, who lost his job because he had the audacity to treat a convict like a person, and in 2015 founded Doctors for Freedom, the medical network that provides support to Responsible Release programs across the country. We need to laud the tireless, fearless, peerless June Waters, who began freeing convicts responsibly before anyone was on her side about it. She's looking forward to retiring.

And while there have been many heroes recognized in this battle for human rights, I would like to recognize two more. In September of 2009, Peter and Elizabeth Burke brought home a frightened, skinny prisoner from Rikers Island. With love, support, care and patience, they got him healthy, gave him strength, set him free, and saved his life. I will be forever grateful to them for this second chance. So, to those of you who fight the good fight, fight on and know that you make a difference.

XOXO,

Neal.

THE END

Final Notes

1. A must-watch YouTube video, created for www . TheShelterPetProject . org, is called, no joke, "White Collar." If you are thinking about adopting a pet, this site will match you up with shelter pets in your area based on compatibility. It also offers lots of tips for keeping your new friend happy and healthy.

2. In case the thrust of this tale is still unclear, it started with a comment in a review to one of my other stories likening Neal to a house cat. I wondered what would happen if Neal acted like a house cat, and the idea made me laugh so hard that I wrote it down. The expression "pet convict" prompted the equally nutty concept of convicts not only making good pets, but being almost as common as cats or dogs. I started scribbling with no idea of where I was going. In eight pages this went from a sight gag to a layered joke to a dystopian version of modern America which I then had to somehow explain. I poked fun at anything I could reach, and with a little luck I made the following points: we need to treat each other better, compassion is heroic, and love wins.

3. I want to thank all the reviewers and particularly my cheering section (you know who you are!) whose support kept me going all the way to the finish line. I just have one small request of the general readership. In your comments, and I hope you do comment, please don't just type "Your stupid cat story is demented bullshit" and take off. I'm not arguing about word choice, here. My stupid cat story is demented bullshit. But hopefully it made you laugh, and if it eventually took on a deeper meaning for you ... that's a home run, baby. All other concrit is of course very welcome. If you spot something weird(er), by all means, speak up.

It's been a blast to write this crazy thing. I will try to crank out another WC story when I get some time. And hey, I gave Neal his mind back in time for the new season! Woo hoo! S2 launches Tuesday, July 13th, at 9/8 Central on USA. So set your DVR, or in the words of Brad from the boiler room episode, clear your calendar. *fist bump*

Peace out, y'all. (-;

Kiki