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Goddammit.
To be fair, this was probably even more awkward and embarrassing for him than it was for me, since he was the one who had to go outside to shit in the frosty grass while some jackass cop stood around waiting to pick it up.
I live on the top floor of a three-story walk-up, so I couldn’t just open the door and let the damn dog hobble his way out into a yard. I don’t have a yard. And he wasn’t exactly in any condition to do stairs.
That meant that I had to find a plastic bag, as well as shoes and something resembling a coat, because fuck all if I was going outside in January without either of those things.
I managed to unearth a fleece, pulled on a pair of hiking boots I didn’t bother lacing, and picked up the fucking dog, trying to juggle dog and keys and lock my door without dropping either of those things.
I dropped the keys.
Fucking hell. At least I didn’t drop the damn dog.
Put the dog down. Grab the keys. Lock the door. Pick up the dog again, then go downstairs. Then stand on the edge of the sidewalk shivering because it was unseasonably cold and I was a dumbass who didn’t have a usable coat.
I wasn’t quite ready to give up on mine, so it was currently in a trash bag—very nicely provided by Dr. Zhou—sitting in my car so that I could inflict its stench on some poor dry-cleaning employee.
Assuming I got to leave work before the dry cleaning place closed, which was about a fifty-fifty shot.
Thankfully, the dog wasn’t any more interested than I was in staying outside in the cold, did his business, pointedly did not look at me while I picked it up and tied off the bag, and then waited while I threw it in one of the bins behind the building. He was already shivering by the time I picked him up and carried him back upstairs. This time I set him down before opening the door, because even at six-forty-five in the morning, I can learn from my previous mistakes.
At least there was coffee when we got back to the kitchen.
The dog whined at me as I poured a mug and added some artificially flavored salted caramel creamer. Go ahead and make fun of me for it if you want, but I like my coffee both sweet and salty—or spicy, if I can get cinnamon flavoring. I buy store-brand pre-ground coffee. If I want it to be half sweetened creamer, I can fucking do that.
I looked down at the dog. “What?”
He whined again.
“You have the shits or something?”
I swear, the dog rolled its mismatched eyes at me. Then whined again.
I’m slow in the morning.
“You want coffee?”
Chuff.
Zhou had said that shifters could eat whatever they wanted, even in animal form, so I figured the dog knew what was good for him. I dug out a bowl and poured coffee into it, then looked down.
“You want creamer?”
A soft growl.
“Sugar?”
Chuff.
“Say when.” I got two spoonfuls in before the dog chuffed again. I gave the bowl a quick stir, then set it on the floor. “Don’t burn your tongue, okay?”
He ignored me and started lapping up the coffee.
My life was fucking weird.
Taking a fortifying sip of my own, I wandered back in the direction of the bathroom, figuring that the dog would be able to deal with himself for the next ten to fifteen.
When I came back out of the shower, I yelped and very quickly tied the towel around myself because the damn dog was lying on the floor in the bedroom doorway, his head down on his front paws, watching the bathroom.
