She is in good physical shape.
“You need the exercise,” Charlie tells me, which is patently ridiculous. “You’ve been moping since Granny went to the hospital.”
I have not been moping.
I’ve been engaging in appropriate grief-response behavior.
There’s a clinical difference.
But I must admit that I have missed my daily excursions.
Everett tries, but he lacks Granny May’s attentiveness to routine. He’s perpetually distracted by his electronic devices and fails to appreciate the therapeutic value of a properly structured walk.
“Does he need a leash?” Melody asks.
The nerve.
Charlie laughs. “Oxford? No, he’s not a dog.”
At least someone understands the distinction.
“He follows along when he wants to,” Charlie continues. “Granny May never used a leash.”
“Okay then,” Melody says, turning to me. “Let’s go for a walk, Oxford.”
I don’t move.
She waits, then tries again with slightly more enthusiasm. “Come on, boy. Walkies!”
I stare at her, letting my expression convey the profound disappointment such condescension deserves.
Charlie’s laughing now. “You forgot something important.”
Melody looks confused. “What?”
“His scarf. He won’t go without his scarf.”
The omega turns back to me, eyebrows raised. “Seriously? He needs a scarf to go walking?”
Yes. Yes, I do.
Allow me to clarify: I don’t “need” a scarf. That would suggest dependency; which would be undignified. I “prefer” to wear a scarf during outings.
It’s a matter of propriety, not necessity.
Granny May understood this.
She knitted fourteen scarves in various colors and textures specifically for my walks. Each morning, she would present several options, and I would indicate my preference with a subtle head movement. She would then arrange the chosen scarf perfectly, not too tight around the throat (restricting circulation) nor too loose (lacking aesthetic appeal).
The scarves began as a practical measure during my first winter at Perfect Pines. Granny noticed I avoided the coldest areas of the property and correctly hypothesized that my Peruvian ancestors hadn’t equipped me for North American winters. But over time, the scarves became something more—a ritual that connected us, a silent acknowledgment of mutual regard.
I miss those moments.
“Do you have an extra scarf?” Melody asks Charlie.
Charlie shakes her head. “They’re all in Granny’s room, and I wouldn’t know where to look.”
Melody sighs, looking at me. “Do you really need a scarf? It’s not that cold today.”
