You snort at them. "As if you Americans have any moral highground when it comes to destroying undesirable families. Your government tried it too, you know, back in 50's. There's no laws against taking puppies away from your soldiers." Your hackles are raised just thinking about it— the grief those men must have felt, watching the leaders they'd trusted walk off with their babies, to drown them in sacks or cut them up for science experiments or re-home them with more correctly-minded humans.
You begin to translate, but choke on it, and Dad squeezes your shoulder soothingly. "It's an upsetting topic," he says, "and there's no need for us to dwell on it right now. Erskin, please remember me to your father next time you talk to him, I'd love a chance to catch up sometime. And if it's not too forward, send my greetings to whoever was with him when we worked together -- I suspected at the time that she was a werewolf, but we were maintaning the fiction that she was a bomb-sniffer dog named Tillie, so I never spoke to her."
"Oh! Maman! Goodness, it must have been serious." You let yourself be distracted, very glad to shed the heavy, angry weight of lost children. "Ask your dad if he liked her," you tell Bel, wagging. "Ask your dad if he was scared of her."
You do, and he laughs: "Yes to both. She had excellent self-control and manners, but she gave the distinct impression she would not suffer fools gladly, and I tried not to get in her way. One of the radio guys tried to pet her, and she grabbed him by the belt and judoed him onto the floor without so much as scratching him. Your father looked at him like so and said, 'Tillie is on the clock, old boy, best not distract her.' That was your mother?"
"My mother's mother!" you put in. "My mum's actually very peaceable. Not, haha, not exactly alpha material, as you'd understand the term. Maman hails from the Lousiana bayous– she grew up eating alligators and shitting hellfire, more or less. She chews alphas up and spits them out as decorative pillows." You add, a little accusingly, "She had sixteen pups."
Oddly enough, you have no trouble at all translating that -- and to the last bit, you retort, "Why am I starting to think you're the one who wants sixteen kids?"
"What? You keep bringing it up! Dad, stop laughing!" Dad says, "Just promise me you won't let your aunt Dina plan the wedding," he says cheerfully. You join Erskin under the table for a sulk, and pretend it doesn't make you happy to hear your dad laugh that hard.
It's remarkably hard to sulk in tandem. Especially when lying around is, actually, just about the last thing you want to do today. You roll over and bite Bel's long hair.
"Stop that, I'm sulking." You bite his ear. "Boys," your dad says warningly, picking up his coffee cup so your antics can't slosh it. "We are mature and dignified adults," you explain. "And what would you mature and dignified adults like to do today? If it's more frisbee, I want to start the hot tub filling so I can have a soak after. My throwing arm is sore." "Oh! Actually I was thinking of hitting REI. Pick up some winter camping gear that is like... actually comfortable? Instead of the terrible army-issue bullshit I have put up with in the past. Also dog backpacks, so we can travel in wolf form and still have some supplies. God, it's a relief to be able to talk about that. Anyway, wanna go shopping?" "That sounds delightful. I could use a new pair of snow boots, while we're at it."
"Will they let dogs in?" you want to know. "If I'd have to sit around in cars all day I want to stay here."
"I'm pretty sure," you say, "but we should check their website before we head out. Are you on call, Dad? Should we take separate cars?" "I suppose we could, or you boys could get a taxi home in the very unlikely event something happens that requires my immediate presence. It's been far too wet for fires lately, so I really doubt we'll be called out." "Fine with me. I'd better go get dressed." You run off to do so, almost as eager to be going places as Erskin is.
You follow along and pester Bel until he's got a collar on you, as well as a bright blue scarf. Feeling very handsome and well equipped you go back outside to wait, whisking your tail happily at Alex as you pass. Once there, you occupy yourself with stalking about the last of the season's flying insects. Lawns are miserably barren territory.
While you wait for Dad, you show him the south-facing wall where boxelder bugs swarm in search of warmth, toss a handful of dry leaves to stir up a sluggish cloud of them, and laugh as he romps through it. "You are a guy who knows how to have fun," you observe.
"You're just jealous because I've eaten more bugs than you!" you laugh, and jump up to swat a high-flying one out of the air. This prompts a victory lap around the house, and when you're done it's time to go in the car. You sit in the back seat so Bel and his dad can do Man Talk, but Alex thoughtfully lowers the window enough for you to stuff your nose through the gap. The sensory rush is dizzying, nearly hallucinogenic, and you enjoy the mind-numbing onslaught all the way out to the store. In the car park you have to shake briskly and then lean against Bel to tune back into the twittering complexity of human speech.
You clip the leash to his collar (since 'leashed dogs are welcome') and then straighten the blue kerchief with an appraising eye. "You look specTACular, dahling," you drawl in a nasal fashionista voice, and the way he bounces and silent-laughs at it makes your chest feel warm. He's just so honest with his emotions, it's brilliant. The store isn't very busy, but it's big, it's visually cluttered, and it's three-dimensional -- there's a three-story climbing wall, there's tents and inflatable boats and stuff hanging from the ceiling so you can see what they look like set up -- and it hits your senses like an artillery barrage. You stop just inside the door to carefully examine a clearance rack of jackets, to let your brain process it all. "I thought you wanted winter gear," your dad says. "Those look pretty light." "But they're so on sale."
"It's important to negotiate unfamiliar territory cautiously," you point out, and stand between Bel and the rest of the store to likewise examine the jackets. He's showing a stiff-legged, flat-eared, backed-against-a-wall sort of distress, and you don't like it. You hope your hackles aren't raised enough to muss up your scarf.
You don't notice your dad clueing in, because you're not looking at anything but the washing instructions on a rather nice navy blue windbreaker, but after a minute he says lightly, "We're not in any hurry, I think I'll go browse. Erskin, feel free to pick things out for yourself as well, okay?" He wanders off, and you relax a fraction, because no matter how well you know he's not going to be disappointed in you if you show SPD symptoms in public, you've been reamed for it by too many teachers, coaches, and drill instructors to ever be quite comfortable with someone watching you at it. Except, for some reason, Erskin. Having him there makes you feel safer, instead of pressured. When the overload finally lets up a bit, you give him a grateful smile. "Thanks, bro," you say quietly. "I think if we sort of wander in that direction we'll encounter the sleeping bags eventually. I hope they have winter rated ones that aren't mummy bags. I hate mummy bags."
Your ears go flat. "Mummy bags?" you ask, disturbed. "Do you get buried in those? I'm not getting anywhere near one."
"What? No, silly, it's because they're shaped like a mummy. You know, the inner sarcophagus that's like..." You cross your hands on your chest, King Tut style. You are gathering curious glances with the conversational way you're talking to your 'dog', but you can't spare the brainpower to care.
