"That's ridiculous," you say. "Get a rectangular bag and I'll sleep in the bottom part. And bite your feet when I want a midnight snack." You grin at him and clack your teeth.
"Well, now I'm definitely getting you your own bag," you grin. Upsettingly, none of the cold-weather options are rectangular. For below-zero, there's nothing but mummy bags, and you truly hate the way they trap your feet and the way you're too tall for most of them so you can't use the hood part anyway. "But it's not going to be below zero in the tent, right?" you reason. "With you and me in there, it'll be above freezing, probably. It's not like we'll be clamped to the side of a cliff. We're going to get a nice all-weather tent and a thermal-reflective groundcloth." A salesdude excuses his way into your 'monologue' to ask if you're aware there's such a thing as a dog sleeping bag. You were not aware. They're adorable.
"Bel, I don't know if anyone told you but humans have built more than one store," you say. "If they don't have what you want here just go find somewhere else." You dubiously inspect the dog sleeping bags. They smell terrible. "Besides, you're a fuck-off gigantic eurasian wolf. Once your winter coat fills in you'll be scampering about like Alaska's a seaside holiday."
"Yeah, but Dad's buying, so..." The salesdude blinks at you, glances at Erskin with his mouth open, visibly decides not to comment. "You're planning a winter backpacking trip?" "Canadian Rockies. Camping, not backpacking, I'm not under a strict weight limit. Probably nothing too high altitude. Isn't there anything for freezing weather that's not a mummy bag?" "Well, no, not if you go by the numerical rating. A rectangular bag just can't provide comfortable warmth in an environment that cold. But as I overheard you explaining to your buddy here, it's not going to be freezing inside your tent." "So mummy bags are pretty much just for rough bivouac type situations?" "Yeah. A good tent will get up above freezing inside pretty fast, even if it's windy outside." After some discussion, you pick out a roomy rectangular bag that's rated for just-below-freezing, and an insulating pad to go under it. You also grab two different bright colors of dog sleeping bag, because, "Come on, it's cute as hell, and it looks super comfy. It won't smell plasticky after a wash." Erskin sneezes. You reflect that when even his dog sneezes are adorable, you are a lost cause.
You sigh, then demand a replacement of the presumed-orange bag with a bag that's presumed-pink and has a pattern of crowns printed on in white, with outrageously curly letters that probably say 'Princess'. You might as well travel in style. And it makes Bel laugh.
"Your taste is impeccable, Monsieur Le Chien," you exclaim, and put the 'princess' bag in the cart along with the lumberjack plaid one for yourself. Then you ask directions to doggie backpacks, and as you leave helpful salesdude behind, shopping begins to be fun instead of stressful. Experience tells you it will remain fun for about another half hour before descending back into stressville. You guess that's probably about long enough to get what you need. The variety of dog backpacks is surprising, and fortunately there isn't a helpful person hanging around near them, so you can get Erskin's advice on what size you should get for yourself, since you're kind of a hulking monster. "These have a pretty decent capacity," you point out, experimentally fitting one of the sleeping bags into one side of a saddlebags-style pack. "At least the ones your size and bigger. Here, try it on, it'd suck to find out it chafes once we're out there."
You hop around, shake, and do a brisk trot around the aisle and back. "I'd like to try a proper run but I'll just spin out, linoleum's the absolute worst. It doesn't chafe now, I don't think, and should be even better with thicker fur. I'm sure you'd be fine in it." You briefly struggle between honesty and pride, and admit, "Bel, I've been thinking about it, and it's a challenge to keep my body fat up in freezing temperatures even before I hit the Arctic circle. I'm not going to be able to carry weight and make it through Alaska. I don't know about all this gear and sleds and tents and all you have in mind. I'm not some bloody husky dog."
You shrug. "So we might not end up using it. Or it might turn out that a little extra gear makes it all that much easier. We'll figure it out. Anyway, unless you ditch me in Calgary, you won't be walking to Alaska, mostly, and that'll help." You hold up the largest size, trying to gauge whether it'll fit you, and regretting that they only have it in red. You wanted blue. Oh well. You drop it in the cart. "I personally am not striking out cross-country without a GPS, a mylar thermal blanket, a firestarter, and a wad of cash. I don't have any ego wrapped up in hunting my own mice at all times."
You sit down and lick your nose, trying to work out how you feel about all this. You're not sure whether to be relieved or insulted. "Being your friend comes with a lot of complications," you complain finally.
"I make your life more interesting," you grin. "You're welcome." And then it's on to the tents. Four-season tents are likewise restricted: your options are white oblong domes, or orange oblong domes. You guess you're not surprised; anything but a dome shape would collapse if snowed on. Much as you like the rounded-pyramid shape of your summer tent -- there's room in the middle for you to half-kneel to put your boots on, or sit and stretch your arms over your head -- the sides would cave in under an inch or two of wet snow. Not to mention it's got a bunch of mesh panels and would thus not keep you warm at all. "So, do we want to be invisible, or make sure we don't lose the thing?" you muse. Your instincts are telling you white is the way to go, and that you should perhaps invest in winter-camo clothing as well, but your instincts have not yet caught up with the fact that your war is over, and you're inclined to ignore them.
"It'd be easier to sniff it out than to look for it, even if we pick the... orange? is that orange? it looks yellowish gray to me." You paw the box. "Get the white one, I like being invisible. Are we asleep or are we ghooosssstsss?" The last notion is said in a drawn-out, spooky awoo--oo.
"Wooo," you join in happily. Crouching on your heels to examine the box he pawed, you say, "Ooh, the 'Kunai', very ninja. Okay, let's be ninjas. And there's a waterproof footprint to match... do we need extra guywires? Oh, no, it comes with them, how convenient. Technically a two-person, but if we're both human we'll be awfully cozy, considering we're full-grown men. I don't mind one bit, of course." It has a sort of flat-edged beetle silhouette, the better to cling to the ground in high winds, lots of tie-down points -- "Yeah, I'd rather weather a blizzard in this than under a pine tree, fur or no fur. Good choice." And now, the controversial part of the shopping trip: "I assume you're going to spend at least some time outdoors in human form, how in the world are we going to get you winter gear if you can't try it on? Should we just wait on that?"
"Oh." You sit abruptly. "Hhm. Are there changing rooms...? But I think if you rub your genitals on something in either form you own it, don't you, we couldn't put things back after that. We should wait for another time. When I'm already wearing things." You brighten. "We could look at dog jackets?"
"We could! Even better than your admittedly natty scarf there." You about-face and head back to the dog gear area, because you know you have a tendency to linger over clothing choices, being picky about texture. You hadn't realized the dog accessory section was quite so large when you were tunnel-visioning on dog backpacks. "Oh man, look at this, it's water-resistant and fleece-lined, and it comes in purple! You would look so sharp."
"I'd look like a bloody rocketship," you say. "Or a whippet. Stick it on." You hop around and shake until it feels reasonably alright. "I don't like how my fur sticks out," you comment, uncertainly. "It's a little silly...." You stop at a sort of hilarious quadrupedal mackintosh. "Yes," you say intensely. "PUT THIS ON ME I WANT TO SHOW YOUR DAD."
"It won't keep you warm," you fuss as you put it on him. "We're going to the mountains, not the rainforest." But he knows it'll be cute and you can't resist, so you get your camera out.
You can't stop laughing. You probably sound like a hyena. You look like an extremely vengeful tablecloth. You gallop off to show his dad, every third step skidding on the floor tiles.
You leave the cart behind so you can keep up, and do your fair share of skidding as well. A few people throw you alarmed looks. He is still on the leash, though, so you don't think you're going to get kicked out. You find your dad browsing hats. He's trying on some awful leather Stetson-looking thing that would make anyone look like a creeper, so you get a picture as Erskin approaches him, fully intending to post it on Twitter with the caption 'dad no'. Then you get a series of him spotting Erskin and cracking up. "It's perfect," he declares, "for if you suddenly decide to get work on a crab boat."
"Yes, we are going to do just that," you decide, prancing in a self-admiring circle. "We will get very rich and fat. And be perfectly dressed. Put that hat on me."
"He says that's the plan, we're going to get rich and fat, and he wants the hat." "Of course." Dad puts it on him, and then solemnly adorns you with an andean earflap hat covered with colorful alpacas and zigzags. "I actually want this hat," you say. "It's soft. Does it come in a color besides Birthday Cake Vodka Hangover?" "Hmm... let's see... ah, yes, it also comes in How Does A Queer Man Avoid Fabulousness So Consistently, I Blame Myself." He presents one in a nice chocolate brown and pale blue. "That's my jam," you agree.
