“Okay, Jason, we need shampoo.”
Shampoo. Uhm…okay, sure.
Because I, a creature with fangs and violence in my bones, am absolutely qualified to assist with cleaning products. So why am I so happy she asked me?
My tail almost wags.
Almost.
Okay, enough sarcasm. I have a job to do, apparently. I don’t know shampoo from drywall, but I do know she’s about to march confidently down the wrong damn aisle.
She steps forward just as someone’s cart comes careening around the corner. I sigh in my head, because apparently this is my life now, and duck in front of the cart just as her cane reaches it. I nudge her calf gently.
“Oh! Sorry, boy, am I too close to the shelf?”
No, you almost got T-boned by a middle-aged man in a leopard-print leotard.
I nudge again—a little to the right this time—and walk in that direction.
She follows. She trusts me. Me. Just like that. It hits harder than the damn storm in the forest had.
She holds out a hand, reaches forward, and lands right on a bottle of dog shampoo. The volunteer on the app she uses confirms it’s shampoo. Slam dunk.
She gasps. “Oh! Good boy! Look at you!”
Do not preen, Jason. Do not?—
My chest puffs. My tail wags. I am preening. Great. Fantastic. Perfect. I used to be an alpha wolf capable of ripping through armed hunters and outrunning border security, and now I’m melting like butter because a woman praised me for grocery navigation.
She keeps going, talking to her phone, talking to me, talking to the air. Nervous chatter, excited chatter, everything in between, while I direct her to items she needs that the app confirms.
And yeah. Yeah, it’s cute. Way too cute.
But then we head to the checkout without buying food. I blink at the cart. Treats. Toys. Shampoos. Weird dental stuff. But no actual food.
She’s blind, Jason. Be patient. She can’t see labels. She’s figuring it out.
But still.
A low growl bubbles in my stomach before I swallow it. How exactly do I say, “Hey, I’m starving, and if you don’t feed me kibble, I will commit a crime”?
I try tugging gently toward the food aisle. She thinks I’m excited about plush toys.
I try nudging the cart at the exit to make her rethink our items. She apologizes to it.
So, I stop trying.
She crouches down and strokes my face, her fingers sliding into my fur with this gentle, grounding pressure that melts every muscle I have.
“Are you overwhelmed?” she whispers. “I’m overwhelmed, so it makes sense that you would be.”
I lean into her palm and grumble low in my throat. Technically, it isn’t a lie. Her touch has me wanting to roll onto my damn back, tail in the air, begging for more.Overwhelmedis one word for it.
Her thumb grazes my jaw, and something in my chest goes hot and stupid. She has no idea what that small, sweet gesture does to a creature built for blood and war.
Then, a shift in the air. A scent. Sugar. Plastic. Something artificial and sticky as sin. Someone’s left a neon-pink drink cup right in the middle of the aisle. The tall, syrupy disaster is waiting to coat her cane, her shoes, her dress.
My ears snap forward and every instinct in me goes rigid.
