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Chuff. It almost sounded like a question, but I was going to take it as theyesit was in our weird little communication code.
“Yeah?” I tried not to sound too happy about that. Curious. Neutral. Not displeased, but not pleased either. That would be appropriate. But I was happy about it. Because—
I wasn’t going to think about why.
So I nodded once. I’d already talked to Mays about what resources were available to shifters in the area—Mays and his brother were locals, and his brother was a shifter, so I’d asked if he knew how I could help Taavi reacclimate to human life.
I had a whole list in my phone. Turns out there are a lot of Arcanid and even shifter-specific places—they just don’t tell people who aren’t Arcanids. And I’d never had to ask before. There was a food pantry on Horsepen Road, a thrift store off Laburnum Avenue, and a financial aid and pro bono law office on Broad near VCU’s medical campus. There were a couple other places on the south and north sides, as well.
There was an assistance center and shelter—Hands and Paws—that catered to homeless shifters trying to get back on their metaphorical feet. They helped with housing, basic needs, jobs, all that stuff. For people in more… dire need, they had an overnight shelter that had EMTs and nurses on staff. Mays’s brother worked there, so Mays had given me the number.
“Well, I talked to Mays today,” I told Taavi. “And his brother works at a resource center that helps shifters find jobs and housing and stuff.”
A soft chuff.
“So I called. And they think they can get you something to get you started—somewhere you can stay and some stuff, like clothes and whatever, until you find something on your own.” I swallowed, weirdly nervous. “If you want, of course. I don’t want to presume.”
Another soft chuff, although I couldn’t really read either his expression or body language. Probably because A, dog, and B, he was recovering from major surgery so everything was all fucked up anyway.
“Is that… okay?”
In the couple hours between when I’d left the lab and when I could take Taavi home, I’d sat in my car and talked to people in the shifter community support network. Noah Mays hadn’t been working, but the woman there—Marilee White—who had given me the information I needed, let me put Taavi’s name down (with the promise that if he didn’t need or want their help, I’d let them know), and said she thought they’d probably be able to have something for him when he was ready.
Taavi chuffed again, then reached out a paw and put it on my knee.
I decided to take that as a sign that he wasn’t annoyed at me for having done that.
I smiled at him, although it felt a little forced. Because I totally wasn’t at all having weird feelings about Taavi leaving or Taavi not being the dog I’d gotten so used to being a part of my life.
Maybe Iwouldget an actual dog.
I was really used to a warm, furry body next to my legs at night.
Maybe a cat. Cats didn’t have to be walked or go outside to shit. And cats were totally cool on their own if you worked the world’s worst job that unpredictably kept you out until all hours.
It was also kind of nice to have someone to talk to, even if they couldn’t talk back. Hell, maybe it was actually nicer if they couldn’t talk back.
I gave myself a two week limit—if I still wanted a cat after two weeks of not having Taavi in the apartment, then I could go look at cats. But not before then, because I’d go from isolated loner to crazy cat elf in about five seconds flat. That would do wonders for my ability to socialize with other people and not seem like a misanthropic hermit.
I got up and went into the kitchen, because I needed to do something. The longer I stared at Taavi, the more morose I got about the fact that he was going to be leaving my apartment, and the more I thought aboutthat, the bigger a selfish dick I clearly was, since none of this was actually about me.
So I was going to make brownies, put them in the fridge, and then throw them in the oven while we ate dinner so that I could make sundaes on warm brownies fresh from the oven.
In my family, food was how we showed that we cared about each other. Or, rather, it was how my mom showed that she cared about my dad, me, and Elliot. She knew all our favorite foods, and when it seemed like we were having a rough week, or for occasions like new jobs or birthdays, she’d deliberately make whatever it was, no matter how involved or elaborate, whether she had to let bread rise for four hours or stew simmer for six—it didn’t matter.
My favorite comfort food had changed. As a kid, it had been—like pretty much every other kind on the planet—macaroni and cheese. My mom sometimes cut up hot dogs and put them in it, or mixed in peas and tuna, or added broccoli and chicken. Hot dogs or plain had been my favorite, though. As an adult, my favorite thing my mom makes is her beer-cheese soup, which she serves with giant soft pretzels and a side of honey mustard sauce for dipping.
What can I say? I’m so fucking Wisconsin it sometimes hurts. But you haven’t had my mom’s beer cheese soup, either, so don’t judge me.
So whenever I go back to the frigid north woods, and mom puts in the annoyingly long time it takes to make a decent, properly cheesy and creamy beer-cheese soup and home-baked pretzels.
I can make the pretzels myself, although I rarely ever do, but I’ve never been able to replicate the soup, even though she’s given me the recipe. Mine always ends up weirdly lumpy and separated because I don’t have the patience to sit there and fucking stir that shit forever.
She’s made it for me every time, though. Which, okay, is like once every two or three years, but she’d probably do it every week if I asked her to.
I sighed into the dry brownie ingredients, the flour and cocoa and baking powder. I made a little well in the middle, the way Mom always had, even though as far as I could tell it didn’t actually make a difference if you did that or not.
Eggs, milk, vanilla, sugar.
