Work Text:
I chose her. I’d like to be very clear on that.
Yes, technically she rescued me from the side of the road. My previous people and I had a slight misunderstanding. I wanted to be free to be a dog, and they wanted to not pay for food or invest time in letting me run around. Also, there was an issue of size. In that I accidentally grew too big. I don’t know how that’s possible, I grew up and then I stopped. But apparently they had not anticipated this. Which is how I came to be somewhat tied up by the side of Route 412.
By the time she found me, I will admit that I was both parched and starving and not in the greatest of moods. I may have snapped at her once, at first, in warning. Just to make sure she was not going to worsen the situation.
But I wasn’t going to bite her.
I liked her from the start.
She came up to me and gave me water from a coffee travel mug and spoke softly and her voice was kind. I admit that I wasn’t paying attention to what exactly she was saying, especially not after she gave me a ham sandwich. I do remember that she apologized for not having any dog food with her.
Which was ridiculous.
Why would she? She didn’t have a dog.
But what I do remember is her voice when I was done eating and drinking. She sat down next to me and looked at me and then she asked me if I wanted to come with her.
She asked me.
That’s when I chose her.
Her name is Emma.
And apparently my new name is Ginger. It seems my reddish blonde fur was somewhat responsible for this moniker. All I know is that it’s a big step up from That Goddamn Dog, which is what my last people called me.
She took me to something called a
vet
that first day, which was quite the experience. I’m OK with never going again. I don’t like to be poked and prodded that much. The vet said I was almost two years old (I already knew that, thank you), and part Labrador, part Golden Retriever, and a few indeterminate others. Which means nothing to me.
I mean - I’m me, right?
That’s it.
(She also said I should probably get fixed. Which is ridiculous, because I’m not broken.)
Apart from taking me to the vet, I absolutely adore Emma. She is wonderful.
She feeds me breakfast every day, and she takes me with her on her morning run, and then she lets me tag along to her work. She works in something called a Police Station , and at first she was nervous to bring me. I could sense it coming off of her in waves. I was on my best behavior that day, let me tell you. She asked me to lie under her desk, and I did . I was a study in lying perfectly still. I wanted her to be happy with me, and also, it let me catch up on my napping.
I am a very good napper.
Turns out there are quite a few people who work there, and eventually I got to meet all of them. Emma should not have been anxious at all. They’re all lovely. And all of them are incredible ear scratchers and belly rubbers. Especially the blond guy - David. He’s good .
Anyway, after work she takes me down to the beach and just lets me run free, and then she feeds me again . It’s incredible. Food twice a day, and free running, and ear scratches? I had no idea life could be this awesome. And at night she wraps herself around me.
I like being her pillow.
She doesn’t think I’m too big.
So anyway. I love Emma. I hope I have made that perfectly clear. I really, really do.
But she’s an
idiot
.
Seriously.
So, so, so stupid .
She goes and gets coffee every morning on her way to work. There’s a cute little café down the street from the station. And the owner? Oh my god, the owner.
His name is Killian, and he is incredible.
First of all, he’s the end-all-be-all of ear scratchers. The first time he rubbed my head he got to places I didn’t know I had. I nearly melted into a puddle on the floor of his establishment.
I mean, really .
The way that man pets me should be illegal. Except not, because it redefines the meaning of my life.
Then there’s his accent. The way he says my name. The way he says her name.
Which brings me to my point.
She’s an idiot.
He likes her. And I mean, a lot . The way he looks at her -- like hunger and thirst and yearning. I may or may not have had that exact same look when I watched my previous people drive away without me.
How does she not see it?
How on earth does she get her coffee every damn day and not notice?
I can already tell that he’s a good guy. You can tell everything about a person from the way they pet you. EVERYTHING.
On her days off, when she actually sits down to drink her coffee there, his face just lights up, and he brings her muffins for free. Muffins which are not in his display case. Muffins he bakes for her .
How can she be this blind? I can see it, for Anubis’ sake, and I’m a dog . (And now I’m taking the name of canine deities in vain. That’s how frustrated I am!)
So anyway, it got to the point where I had to do something. You get it, right? It was an emergency situation.
Code red.
Remember that when I tell you what I did, because, well, otherwise you might think I was being stupid. Which I was NOT. It was code red.
There is this bush that grows from one of the pretty front yards we pass every day on our way into town. It has very lovely berries on it. They’re very ripe now, and half the branches hang down over the sidewalk.
Emma does not want me to try them. Not even sniff them. But desperate times call for desperate measures, and besides, how bad could they possibly be? I figured I would snag a mouthful, and then we would go and have coffee, and maybe I would sneeze a little, or sleep a little, and that would force her to hang out a little longer, and also to maybe bond with Killian over my sneezing. Or my sleeping. Or whatever.
Well.
There’s a saying humans use about best laid plans. I forgot how it goes. Maybe I shouldn’t have.
But those berries? They were a little more potent than I anticipated. A little more poisonous than expected.
I kind of threw up under her café table. Several times. It was a mess . I felt really bad about that. But by then I felt so bad in general that it was hard to tell what exactly I was feeling bad about in particular.
Yes, I know.
It was my own damn fault.
I know .
But Killian was amazing. He calmed Emma down, and rubbed her arm, and then he closed the café, and carried me -- carried me! As if I weighed nothing! -- to his car. By that time Emma was getting really scared (I felt bad about that, too), but he was just so in control of the whole situation. He ushered Emma into the passenger seat and then he put me in her lap (that’s really my favorite place to be, even when I feel lousy, and even though I’m technically too big for it), and handed her some towels (when did he pick up towels?) in case I had to throw up again.
And then he drove us to the vet.
Ugh.
I did NOT think this through. Dammit.
So, yeah. I got poked and prodded again. A lot more than the previous time. And then the vet put a tube into my mouth and forced me to drink something absolutely disgusting and I very nearly snapped at her. I am sorry for that, but I was not being my congenial best.
Because it felt like my stomach was never going to fall back in line.
But then two things happened: Whatever that disgusting stuff was, it made my stomach feel better. Much better.
And then I looked up.
And there were Emma and Killian, at the end of the exam table, standing as close as humanly possible. She was almost buried in his chest, and he had his arms wrapped tightly around her, and he kept murmuring soft words into her ear and kissing the top of her head.
And I did that.
I DID THAT.
So, all in all, it was a total and complete success, and I don’t want to hear a word about how stupid I may or may not have been.
Because he lives with us now, and scratches my ears on a regular basis, and when they curl up on the couch there is always room for me. Plus phenomenal belly-rubs. Seriously.
Phenomenal .
The only thing I no longer get to do is sleep in Emma’s bed.
But that’s OK. You should see how happy they make each other.
It’s a sacrifice I’m willing to make.
As long as he never stops petting me.