Rose: GOOD FOR YOU HAZEL
Hazel: Well don’t be too hasty about that
Rose: WTF does that mean
Hazel: I’ll tell you when I get home. Got my van, btw. There was a racoon in it and now it won’t leave me alone. I swear to God its following me
“Hazel thinks a raccoon is following her,” I tell Gunner, turning around to look at him again and moving my legs so that I’m halfway sitting on top of him.
“I smelled a raccoon on her earlier,” Gunner says casually.
“What the hell? How the hell did you smell raccoon on her? What does that even mean?” I ask.
“I have a very advanced sense of smell, unlike some people.”
If dogs could roll their eyes, he’d be rolling his. Lucky for me he can’t, so I can just hear it in his voice.
“Yeah, but she said the raccoon just started following her.”
“Wait a minute… you don’t think it’s her—?” I pause, not daring to say the word out loud.
“Too soon to tell,” Gunner says casually, like this isn’t huge news that Hazel should probably know about right away.
“You don’t think I should say something, do you?” I say, my fingers hovering over the keyboard on my phone.
Gunner and I look at each other for a beat.
Then we say at the same time: “We shouldn’t get her hopes up.”
“You absolutely do not want to do that,” Gunner says. “Otherwise that raccoon will be living in your house, acting like a familiar with rabies and destroying anything that gets in its path. Probably pissing everywhere too.”
“Raccoons aren’t nasty,” I tell him. “I think they’re pretty cute. They look like little burglars with little masks and little hands.”
“Those little hands will destroy everything in your house,” Gunner tells me. “They’re not that cute.” He looks appalled, clearly upset with me.
“Well, nothing is as cute as you are, buddy,” I say, rubbing his head for good measure.
“Stop pandering to me,” he says.
“I’m not pandering to you. Who’s the best boy in the whole world?” I tell him in a baby voice.
Gunner gives me a long, low look, then licks a slobbery tongue up my face.
I laugh, wiping off his slobber. “I guess I asked for that.”
“Oh, you absolutely did,” he says.
He eyes the pie in my hand.
“You can’t have apple pie, Gunner,” I say. “Apple pie is not for dogs.”
“I’m not a dog,” he says. “I’m your familiar. I could absolutely have a little bit of apple pie.”
He does that thing where his eyes get huge and sad, and I swear to God I can see little sparkly stars in them as he does the most magical sad version of puppy-dog eyes known to man.
“Fine,” I say.
I break off a tiny piece of piping hot apple pie for him, and then I take a big bite myself, chewing as I continue scanning through my sisters’ text messages.
