Don't Call Me Dog

@literal-policedog

Those fucking unicorns.

Eight mornings in a row Lucille came down from the apartment above the shop to find the garbage cans knocked over. The varmints couldn’t just take what they wanted and leave. They made a game of it, shredding anything that could be shredded and scattering the debris down the alley, in front of the door, and into the street. The mess itself grated on her nerves enough, but worse was having to spend the first moments of her day picking slivers of garbage off of the dirty pavement. This time she’d had enough. Come hell or high water she was going to solve the problem.

As dusk fell Lucille took on the shape of her fur brothers. She left the door of the shop cracked, just enough to see and to catch the ever-changing scent profile of the street. Hours passed without incident. Lucille lay silent, watchful but relaxed, conjuring images of the ever-protective ranch dog. Then, when even the sliver of moon could provide no help to the darkening sky, Lucille heard them.

At their size the impact of their hooves against the pavement was little more than soft clicks. The unicorn herd moved as a loose unit up the alley next to the shop, carrying with them the scent of ruminant with just the faintest staticky tang of magic. Lucille tensed but did not yet dare move. They traveled with the slow caution that belonged to prey animals, not gathering speed until she guessed that they neared the proximity of the trash cans. With a great crash the cans fell, spilling their treasures to the thieves, and it was this noise Lucille used as cover to make her move.

Her paws made scarcely any sound as she sprinted out of cover and around the corner of the shop. A chorus of frantic bleats heralded her arrival as the terrified beasts scattered, bolting past her for the street. Instinct older than she was guided her as she whirled, too slow for the healthy adults but plenty quick enough to snap her powerful jaws shut around the haunch of a fawn. It screamed into the night, pleading for its mother to save it from the monster, but not one of the animals came to its rescue.

Sickening glee set Lucille’s eyes alight and satisfied some ancient need for blood, for the agonized yowls of the fawn which struggled against her. A rapid shake of her head thwarted its futile attempts to kick her. Another great shake and with a terrible crunch she felt bone give way between her teeth.

It was this sound, poignant and irreversible, that caused reality to return in a rapid tsunami of panic. Lucille released the poor creature and all at once stood, backpedaling from what she had done. The baby lay frozen with fear and agony. Hot red blood flowed unchecked from vicious punctures in its thigh and from the muscle perforated by bone, standing out harsh and gleaming in a manner abhorrent and beautiful. It gasped terrified breaths but could no longer do more than whine pitifully. Telltale red painted Lucille’s lips, her jaw, her tongue, down her neck and staining through her shirt from the fur underneath.

She had to clear the scene, and fast. Her story was unsatisfactory, her excuses weak, and while she could suffer through prosecution she didn’t want attention drawn to the shop for fear of something less than legal being discovered. Her hands shook as she bent down to scoop the fawn into her arms—an offense that was answered with an ear-splitting scream and renewed struggling. Heart pounding and breaking all at once, Lucille darted through the still-open door of the shop and shut it tight behind her.

The logical thing to do was mercy kill the fawn, dispose of it, and clean up the blood in the alley. But as it fought against her she found that she couldn’t find the strength to snap her jaws shut around its neck and give the final fatal shake.

“Shit, little guy.”

She carried it behind the counter and slid down to the floor with it. Her throat constricted and her eyes grew wet.

“I’m so sorry. It wasn’t your fault. You were just tryin’ to eat.”

The fawn did not relax but again ceased its struggling. Lucille could feel its heart beating underneath her arm; so rapid, fluttering like a trapped insect, terrified but tenacious. It wanted to live—who was she to take that away?

A small army of fans tried and failed to dispel the late afternoon heat inside the front half of Curiosity Kills. Little relief came from the breeze filtering through the windows, opened in a futile attempt to alleviate the heaviness in the air. Behind the counter Lucille sat perched atop a stool, ears drooping and tongue lolling out as she panted. Her fur brothers were born of desert and dust, she knew, and small adaptations helped her cope. More than anything, however, she chose to wear her fur rather than her skin due to the lack of sweat glands. She wasn’t one to care much for presentation, but she at least didn’t want to be seen with her clothing soaked through if someone happened to come through the shop.

@traded-talons-for-fangs

The tales of this aberration suggested violence, volatility, and above all else danger. Portions of his file were given on a need-to-know basis. In Lucille's lightly furred and highly skilled fingers she held a tablet containing the information specific to their track and neutralize mission, large portions missing with [REDACTED] marking their absence. This was not the first time she had seen the file, but she studied it with the same focus as ever. Her diligence resulted in a thorough understanding of his capabilities, physical appearance, combat style, and last known locations. Only these topics were provided to the pair situated uncomfortably in the back of a semi truck, bracing themselves against the constant rattling. It was all that they needed in order to complete their mission, and the pair knew better than to ask for more.

“I don’t get why he’s given everyone so much shit,” Lucille relayed to her companion. With a head of deliberately tousled blond hair, perfectly soft skin, and clever green eyes, there was no hint of the serval beneath the surface. “He sounds like your average all-brawn-no-brains case. They could’a stuck his ass with a tranq and been done with it if they were halfway competent.”

Jaska stretched before he answered, suggesting that he had been dozing off. How, Lucille had no idea. It was all she could do to stock her feet up against a stack of poorly secured cargo, a semi-successful attempt to avoid sliding.

“Luci, love, you know better than that. They’re not competent. That’s why they have to send us to clean up after them.”

The coyote huffed a frustrated sigh through her nose, elongated and tinged with dusty brown along the bridge. “I guess. I’m just glad we’re almost done with this. I’m so sick’a bein’ on the road.”

A hum of agreement was all she received--a clear enough ‘yeah, now stop talking’. Another sigh and she settled back against the wall of the shipping container, resisting the urge to pant in the stuffy heat. With Jaska’s coat wrapped around her unclothed body she eventually managed to fall into a fitful, unsatisfying sleep.

The truck came to a stop with a hiss as it braked, alerting the pair. There was just enough time for Lucille to shake off the coat and shift before the door opened, flooding the shipping container with much needed fresh night air. Still warm, but better than nothing.

“All right, I reckon this is as far as I can take ya. Can y’find your way from here?”

When the trucker spoke to them he spoke to Jaska alone. After all, there was no reason to discuss things with a dog. All he saw was a blond-haired youth in clothes worn with travel, a stuffed backpack on his back, and a grey-furred dog wagging her tail at the boy’s feet. If he were to pay closer attention he may notice that this particular dog was not anything like the average mutt. In fact, he may notice that the dog the boy called Luci was in fact a coyote. But he did not, and Jaska was able to hop down to the dirty pavement with his unconventional pet at his heels.

“Yes sir, we’ll be fine. Thanks for your help.”

Jaska led the way up the mostly-deserted street with Lucille trotting next to him, her tail wagging and tongue lolling out. Her keen ears picked up the soft snort her companion gave the instant they were out of earshot.

“I think I like you better like this. What do you say? I’ll get you a collar, snap a leash to it, and try to housebreak you, but you know how dogs can be.”

Yellow eyes darted up to meet Jaska’s smirk. Lucille bared her teeth in a short, silent snarl but she didn’t dare take on a form more conducive to kicking his ass. The lights of the truck stop still shone in the distance behind them, and while she didn’t hold much hope for the observation skills of the average person they were under strict orders to fly under the radar. All she could do was snap ineffectively at his heel and continue along behind him.

Only when they were surrounded by nothing more than mesquite fields and darkness did Lucille dare to shift halfway. “Dick.”

“If you ask nicely.”

Lucille ignored the banter and accepted the clothes he paused to retrieve from the backpack. They were simple, a black tee which read ‘talk shit get bit’, plain black underwear, and dark grey cargo pants. Around her hips went her belt, attached to which was an occupied holster.

“Ugh. Smells like cat,” she complained as she dressed while she walked. Jaska’s silhouette contorted until he stood taller than her--most of it attributed to his massive ears--most likely for the dramatic effect of having a tail to flick irritably.

“You’re the reason I always reek of dog. You’ll be fine. Besides, I know I smell delicious.” He shot her a smirk. “He’ll think you’re a snack and before you know it he’ll be an obedient good boy for you.”

Whether or not that was true was up for debate, but Lucille never much enjoyed arguing with him. Silence settled in as they passed a cluster of houses, most of which were run down with a mixture of age and neglect. They veered into the mesquites any time the path came too close for comfort, but the late hour ensured that there was little risk to them. Scattered trailer parks served as the sign that they were getting close.

“I’m goin’ in from here,” Lucille rasped. “Get your fur on.”

Surprisingly, Jaska did as he was bid and stopped to strip off his clothing. In the next instant he sat patiently at her side as a slender, leggy cat. Lucille folded his clothes and stuffed them into the backpack, swinging it over her shoulders.

“A’right kitty. Let’s go.”

The pair picked their way through the mesquites toward the dark shape of a decrepit house in the distance. A faint breeze carried an unfamiliar scent in their direction--a mixture of wolf and something new. Lucille and Jaska exchanged a glance and she squatted down so that he could stand up on her chest.

“I’ll see you soon,” she murmured, wrapping her arms around him and squeezing. He rubbed against her neck with a throaty purr and then he was gone, a flash of gold through the thorny branches.

Suddenly Lucille was in character. She crossed her arms over her chest, tail tucked between her legs, and shuffled toward the broken down structure which had once been a house.

“Hello?”

Dust, decay, and the musty scent of water damage assaulted her nose as she reached the door. It opened easily, the tongue of the latch not catching on the rotted and splintered frame.