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Jesse has started to go fishing to clear his head, in the days where woodworking doesn't work well enough; the days where the memories plague him, waking up sweat-damp on his bed even as the world is ever colder around him. Getting used to the Alaska weather has been hard, but he's managed.
He learned how to fish from an older man in Haines, who talked about how he should join them during the season when he feels ready. Jesse likes the idea in concept, but there's a certain captivity to being stuck in the middle of the ocean with people he doesn't know, so he kindly rejects the idea, says he'd like to keep it a hobby. When he caught his first fish, the man wooped and clapped, patted him on the back, and Jesse smiled without meaning to, his body warm as he watched the river move with its current.
He likes the man's company, of course, but he's grown used to being alone. It took him months to gather enough courage to enter Haines without the express purpose of buying necessities, and even then he'd panic as soon as he got out of the store, thinking that maybe this was it, that they'd recognize him this time, that he'd have the cops called on him and he'd live out the rest of his days in another cage, shinier and prettier, but still a cage. Isolation doesn't suit him, it's an uncomfortable disguise for him, all extroversion and talking ever since he has memory, so when he manages to go out and strike conversation with the locals he feels alive.
It's this: it's socializing, it's fishing, it's woodworking, it's buying self-help books from the bookshop in the closest city, which is a ferry ride away. He's read too much for someone who used to hate it, but he can't go to therapy so this is as good as it's getting. Healthy coping mechanisms have been hard to come by after years and years of using drugs to deal with every emotion, but it's pretty hard to find something to snort or inject or smoke in the middle of nowhere.
He casts his reel and watches the sun. Nothing seems to be biting and he yawns, itching at the sweater he's wearing. After what feels like hours, he's startled into action not by something tugging at the line, but at the feeling of pressure against his leg.
He yelps in surprise, only to turn around and see a dog pawing at his leg, looking up at him.
"Oh fuck," he says, letting out a sigh of relief. He doesn't know what he was afraid of, really, who could find him here, by a river in Alaska, but someone could always find him in his mind. "Shit. It's just a puppy."
The puppy looks like an Alaskan malamute mostly, but there's some features of other breeds in there, probably a mutt. Jesse straightens up and looks around the area, looking for a dog, one that may be the pup's mom, and finds himself empty-handed. He turns to the puppy again, who noses at his pant leg insistently.
"What are you doing all the way out here, bud?" he asks.
The pup yips, and Jesse definitely does not think about how part of his problem would be fixed with a pet.
He's never taken care of an animal before. One time he petsat Badger's fish, but that barely counts, as all he did was feed it and then play video games. He's always been a bit afraid of doing that, worried he'll kill it on accident, something or other, but he's always loved animals. Dogs, especially, their fluffy tails and cute faces, how affectionate they are. And what is he if not starved for affection?
He gives up on fishing, knowing he'll be too distracted to catch anything, and puts his fishing rod back into his backpack before lowering himself down to the puppy's level. Its clearly young, but not small enough to be newborn, perhaps a couple months old. Could it have been abandoned, by its mother, its owner? The idea makes Jesse sick.
"Up," he says, offering the dog his hands as he settles them palms up on the snow. The puppy obeys, getting onto his hands, and he chokes up a little as he brings it up, now putting him to his chest. "Are you cold? I bet you're cold. Though you're like, made for this type of weather, so I don't know how cold you are. I am, though, let's get you home. Try to find your mom, yeah?"
The pup whines against his chest as he starts walking back, ready to make a few phone calls, though he's not sure how many animal shelters are around, if any. Maybe one, if he's lucky. Haines is too small, asphyxiatingly so, after spending all his life in a bustling city like Albuquerque. The quiet drives him insane.
He walks slower than on his way there, careful to not jostle the pup too much. It whines and yips against him, but it doesn't seem uncomfortable as he keeps him to his breast. The trek back home isn't all that bad or all too long, so before he knows it he's there, in that little cabin he now calls home. He enters it and turns the heater on before putting the puppy down on the wooden floor. It immediately starts exploring, its tiny paws rapping against the floor as it investigates the new location, sniffing every nook and cranny, tapping its paw against one of the tables Jesse is building.
He looks through the phone book throughly, looking for an animal shelter, someone who could take care of this little thing, because he's not ready for it. He can barely take care of himself, makes his life worth living barely, one thing after the other—sleep, wake up, eat, fish, woodwork, read. His life is monotonous now, which he's not complaining about but—
He's about to dial the number for the animal shelter he found on the phone book when he turns around and sees the puppy asleep next to the heater, curled up on itself, a little circle of happiness.
Jesse settles the phone down and smiles as he settles on the couch with a book, next to the heater, a careful eye by the dog.
Maybe calling, giving it to someone who knows these things better can wait.