Total pages in book: 108
Estimated words: 102754 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 514(@200wpm)___ 411(@250wpm)___ 343(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 102754 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 514(@200wpm)___ 411(@250wpm)___ 343(@300wpm)
A deep sigh of relief rushed out of me, immediately followed by a solid smack to Mark’s head. My free hand clutched my chest like I was steadying my poor, abused heart.
“Jesus Christ, you asshole, I thought it was a snake.”
Still looking more horrified than relieved, Mark whispered, “What is that?”
I blinked. “The biggest one is Lynyrd, he’s a Chow mix. The middle one is Skynyrd, a pug cross, probably with about five other things. And that little guy?” I nodded toward the last one, who still hadn’t taken his eyes off Mark. “That’s Dog.”
Mark’s expression didn’t change. “That’s a dog?”
I grinned. “No.”
His head snapped around so fast I almost heard a crack. “Please, God, tell me you didn’t breed a cat with one of your dogs.”
I understood the confusion. Dog did resemble Skynyrd to a disturbing degree—scrunched-up face, similar coloring, an oddly smug expression—but I still felt personally offended.
My lip curled. “I don’t think that’s physically possible,” I muttered. “And even if it was, who in their right mind would try? No, he’s definitely a cat. He just… doesn’t know it, so I call him Dog.”
Mark turned back to Dog, who had apparently decided this was his moment to shine. Wagging his tail, he gave Mark the same eager, expectant look Lynyrd and Skynyrd wore.
Mark pointed. “He thinks he’s a dog?”
Scratching the back of my head, I sighed. “He plays fetch, barks, begs, lifts his leg to pee, rolls over, and pretty much does everything a dog does.”
Mark’s narrowed eyes slid back to me. “You didn’t get him from the Townsends, did you?”
I snorted. “No. Found him in a garbage can in an alley last year when we were searching for a weapon. Someone had filled it with water, probably trying to drown him.” I shook my head at the memory. “He was so tiny, barely fit in my hand. I took him straight to the vet, and they were initially stumped. He was all skin and bones, but he fought like hell.”
Mark was still scrutinizing Dog, who was now sitting at his feet, panting happily. Instead of purring or rubbing up against Mark’s legs like a normal cat, he just sat there, tail wagging.
Mark crouched down, whistled once, and—sure enough—Dog came bounding over like a retriever.
“Well, I’ll be damned.”
I crossed my arms, watching with amusement as Dog promptly sat down, tongue lolling out in happiness. No feline grace, no aloof attitude, just pure, dog-like enthusiasm.
“Uh,” I added, “he was only about five weeks old when I found him. I had to carry him everywhere for his feedings, and Lynyrd and Skynyrd pretty much adopted him on the spot. He learned everything from them.”
Mark shook his head, exhaling a laugh as Dog lifted his paw, offering it to him. “You know,” he murmured, shaking Dog’s paw like this was the most normal thing in the world, “I feel like this could either be the most wholesome thing I’ve ever seen or the start of a horror movie where animals evolve past what we understand.”
I shrugged. “Hey, if Dog figures out how to drive, I’ll never have to call an Uber again.”
Mark smirked. “Yeah, but then you’ll be dealing with a dog-cat with road rage.”
Glancing at Dog, I tilted my head. “That tracks.”
Dog, as if proving my point, let out a single bark.
Mark sat back on his heels, staring at him like he’d just seen a ghost. “Man,” he said finally, shaking his head, “at thirty-six, you’re living in a sitcom, and I don’t know whether to be impressed or concerned.”
I lifted my water bottle in a mock toast. “Welcome to my life.”
“You sure it wasn’t some kind of brain damage from being in the water or whatever led up to him being in that trash can?”
Mark eyed Dog with clear suspicion, as if, at any moment, the cat might sprout another leg or start reciting Shakespeare.
I shook my head firmly. “Nope. The vet ran a whole battery of tests—muy expensivo tests, I might add—and nothing out of the ordinary turned up. Malnourished? Yeah. Skin and bones? Absolutely. Anemic, full of worms, barely hanging on? You bet. But brain damage? Nada.”
Throughout our conversation, Lynyrd and Skynyrd had remained in their corner, watching Mark like security deciding whether he was on the guest list or about to get thrown out headfirst.
“They aren’t as friendly as Dog?” he asked, nodding toward them.
I smirked. “Oh, they’re friendly, all right.”
To prove my point, I whistled and gestured toward Mark. In an instant, both dogs launched across the room like furry missiles. Before Mark had time to react, Lynyrd barreled into him, knocking him off balance, while Skynyrd went straight for his face, licking enthusiastically.
Not wanting to be left out, Dog dashed over and wedged himself into the chaos, mirroring Skynyrd’s licking frenzy.
Flattened under eighty pounds of canine enthusiasm, Mark wheezed out, “Help… me.”