Page 8 of Hoofin’ It

“Patrol.”

“Try not to get shot today. It’s annoying.” Mom sighed and shook her head. “Shane, try not to burn the house down while we’re gone.”

“Since when have I ever burned the house down? Why do you think I’m going to start burning houses down?”

“You’re related to your father, that’s why. You should have seen what he did to my old shed.”

I regarded my father with a frown. “Dad’s the ‘rip it into tiny chunks and tear metal apart’ type, not the ‘burn it down’ type. He probably just smashed the corner, ripped the siding off, stomped on it a while, and finished tearing it down the next day after he cooled off.”

When my father refused to look me in the eye, I knew I’d hit my mark. I smiled at my mother. “You probably burned what he didn’t tear apart the next day so you could roast marshmallows.”

“We have an awful son,” my mother grumbled.

“We sure do.”

“Just take Mom to work with you, Dad. I’ll take care of the horses and handle whatever disaster Mom left in the kitchen this time. Someone has to be a reasonable adult here.”

“And I suppose you think that someone is you?”

“Mom wants to shear you once a day until she raises two million dollars. You’ll probably let her try. So yes, I do think I’m the only reasonable adult here.”

“You started it, son. Just you remember that.”

I smiled my best smile. “No, Dad. You started it by scaring my alpaca. You could have left her alone. If you had, Mom wouldn’t have discovered you’re a walking fur factory. Go to work and take her with you. I have chores to do.”

“You’re right, Patsy. We do have an awful son.”

Laughing at my parents wasn’t nice, but it spurred them into hitting the road so I could enjoy some peace and quiet.

Why was there a half-cooked pancake on the kitchen ceiling? I scratched my head, wondering how I’d get it scraped off, why it was still up there, and if pancake batter would leave a stain. Did alpacas like half-cooked pancakes? I regarded Sally with a thoughtful frown.

She chewed cud, watching me with wide eyes.

Since my alpaca wasn’t going to be showering me with wisdom anytime soon, I sighed, grabbed a chair and a spatula, and went to work restoring the kitchen to a habitable space. Several scrapes later, the pancake splattered to the floor. I scowled at the new mess. “Fuck.”

Sally’s ears pricked forward, and she approached the ruins of my mother’s cooking, sniffing it.

“It’s probably poisonous.”

My warning went unheeded. Before I could do more than sigh, Sally gobbled down the pancake. Both her ears turned back, and she regarded me with undisguised loathing.

“I tried to warn you.”

While she still wore a halter, I’d unclipped her lead line, giving her the freedom to roam around the house. Instead of exploring, she kept close, observing as I scrubbed the ceiling from my precarious perch. Everything went well until I loaded the dishwasher and turned it on. The dishwasher proved as frightening a foe as my father, and Sally bolted for the doorway, her head tossed back and her eyes white rimmed.

“It’s just the dishwasher, Sally. It’s not going to hurt you.”

The machine whirred, which was more than the miniature devil llama could handle. She bolted for the living room, collided with the couch, and scrambled onto it. With a rough application of teeth, Sally snatched my mother’s favorite crocheted blanket and hid beneath it.

“Are alpacas just funny looking dogs?” I crossed my arms over my chest, deliberating if I wanted to rescue my mother’s blanket. After a few moments of thought, I decided against saving it.

Making a new one would keep her busy—maybe long enough for Dad to keep his fur for at least a few extra hours. I should have felt bad for catalyzing one of my mother’s harebrained schemes, but if she wanted to try to raise two million using Dad’s fur, that was his problem.

If Dad really wanted to stop her, he could. Then again, he was a werewolf. Werewolves tolerated a lot from their mates. I considered myself blessed I hadn’t started sprouting a fur coat when I’d hit puberty. Since I hadn’t contracted lycanthropy then, I wouldn’t, which had given me an edge in law enforcement.

I could handle interactions with enraged werewolves without running any risk of becoming one. Mom would one day, and her infection levels were monitored daily for evidence of her first transformation. I sighed.

In her way, Mom was probably trying to come to terms with my mortality. She wouldn’t be dying anytime soon, at least not of natural causes. Once the lycanthropy virus became fully active and she underwent her first transformation, she’d exchange some of her humanity for a lengthened lifespan.