seconds after I got back to the sidewalk to realize I was being followed. Not by the drunk guys or any other people, but by the distinctive click-click-click of dog toenails on sidewalk.
Dammit.
I kept walking. Maybe it would lose interest or focus, get distracted by the smell of food or a squirrel. But no. In fact, as I tried to pretend it wasn’t there, it drew closer, its steps gaining in confidence.
“I don’t have any food,” I told it. Like it was possible to have a rational conversation with a dog.
Maybe I was alone among humans, but I had never wanted a dog. They were sweet and cute, and who didn’t like petting them? But I didn’t want that kind of responsibility. Maybe it was the single thing I inherited from my father: his aversion to responsibility.
Besides, what was I supposed to do with a dog all day? I couldn’t leave it alone in my house—it would probably pee in there. My backyard wasn’t fenced off, so I couldn’t leave it outside. I sure as hell couldn’t take it to work with me. I could just imagine the complaints I’d get for bringing a dog to the shop.
Mr. Ashwell, who came in twice a week and probably spent a sum total of fifteen dollars a month, would throw a fit. He was very particular. He once berated me for allowing a woman to carry a tiny little purse dog around in the shop with her.
Called a two-pound yorkie a dangerous menace.
Yeah. It’d be a tragedy of epic proportions if I lost that customer. One of Dad’s favorites, of course.
But dammit, I didn’t have time for a dog. Or money. They required food and veterinarians and grooming and constant walks to keep them from crapping everywhere.
I stopped and turned to confront the thing, but . . . but it wasn’t a dog at all.
It was a fox.
Just a plain old red fox, with orangey fur that turned dark on its paws, black tipped ears, and a white underbelly and fluffy white tail tip. Just like the ones all over the woods outside of town, but this one was staring up at me like I’d hung the goddamn moon.
It stopped next to me, sitting back and panting just like a dog. Staring up at me. Waiting.
“Look, I’m sorry, but you need to go back to the woods. You don’t belong in town.” I pointed off to my left, then realized that there wasn’t actually a convenient way to get to the woods from where we were. Hell, the back of my house faced the forest, and that was probably the closest way to get there from where we were. How the hell had the thing gotten into town without getting noticed and chased off, or worse, hit by a car?
For its part, the fox wasn’t terribly interested in where I was pointing. It looked at my hand, then back at my face. Then just sat there and looked at me.
“No,” I insisted.
It panted.
I turned and started walking again. This time, the brash bastard walked right next to me instead of a step behind.
“You’re convinced I’m gonna take you home, aren’t you?” I glanced down at it as we walked under a bright streetlamp, and I realized it was limping a little. Dammit. I didn’t slow down to accommodate its limp. Nope, not me. “I really can’t take care of you. I don’t have time. And I can’t afford to feed you. I don’t even know what foxes eat. Do you eat dog food?”
It didn’t answer, obviously.
I scrubbed my face with both hands and groaned as we stopped, in unison, at a red light. “I can’t afford a dog, let alone a fox. I’d have to get an exotic familiar license for you, you know. And you’re not even a familiar.”
I had given up on the idea of finding a familiar years ago. About the same time as I realized how tiny my magical talent was.
I wasn’t going to complain, okay? Only one person in ten has any magical ability, and I was happy to be one of that ten percent. It’s just that once in high school, I almost gave myself an aneurysm trying to pull enough energy to get Bobby Hu to look at me.
Not to get him to ask me out, you understand. Not to manipulate his emotions. Social mages are capable of doing those things, even if we’re not ethically supposed to.