by Natasha Deen
“She tries to pretend that she’s tough, but she traps and releases insects that come into her house. Whenever we’re watching football, she cheers for whichever team is losing. And she goes to sleep listening to the song of whales.” He shook his head, laughing but worry dripped from the sound. “She loves Sam Spade and she’s a total creature of habit. It’s not like her to leave a phone unanswered—she even answers when the caller id says it’s telemarketers. She’s chronically adorable, funnier than hell, and she’s got a great ass.” He jerked at the last part, so did she. “You didn’t hear that.”
“I most certainly did. Since when have you been checking out my rear end? And why do you have to wait until I’m a dog to admit it?”
“Best friends don’t check each other out. Where did that come from?” He frowned and rubbed the stubble on his chin. Then he snapped his fingers and his face smoothed free. “I know what it is—standing here, looking at her balcony.” He raised the binoculars and began another investigation of her window. “One night I couldn’t sleep, so I went for a run. When I got back—” he pointed to her patio door. “She stepped out. It was late, dark. She didn’t see me. But the moon was full and bright. I saw her perfectly. She wore this long, silk negligee, and she’d left her hair down…” his eyes grew unfocused. “The wind swept along her body and blew at the strands of her hair…and I remember thinking, “This must be how Romeo felt when he saw Juliet.”
He knelt by her and smiled. “You wouldn’t know the play, but it’s one of Aggie’s favourites, especially the balcony scene. I never liked Shakespeare, never understood any of it—but that night, I got it.” He closed his eyes. “But soft, what light through yonder window breaks? It is the east, and Juliet is the sun. Arise, fair sun, and kill the envious moon, who is already sick and pale with grief that thou, her maid, art far more fair than she.” He rose to his feet. “She’s always quoting that damn line—don’t tell her I know it by heart.”
Aggie’s heart thundered in her body. Of all the rotten times to be stuck in a dog body.
“Let me tell you, Princess, there’s nothing worse than having that kind of feeling for your best friend.”
“Thanks a lot. I should bite you, just on principle.”
“It’s weird and uncomfortable—“
“God, this is just getting better by the moment. I’m not that unattractive.” Despair and irritation, like dirt and water, mixed together and spackled her heart in mud.
“I didn’t sleep that whole night.” His fingers massaged the top of her head. “The next morning, though, everything was fine. I saw her and didn’t feel a thing. That was a year ago, and nothing like that’s happened, since.”
A low, mournful whimper escaped Aggie’s throat. If she could dig a hole big enough, she’d bury herself. A moment, a mere second that she’d held his attention. She’d never known, and it had come and gone so quickly, she’d barely made a blip on his attraction radar. Her heart felt squeezed dry of happiness. It pounded as though she’d run a marathon—crossed the finish line to find no cheering crowds, no joyous, loving face—just the pain of last place and the empty feeling of a deserted street and littered dreams.
Dillon bent down and cupped her face in his hands. “Enough about me. What about you, Princess? Do you have to go?”
Yeah, she had to go, all right. First, she’d find the genie, then she’d find a real estate agent.
He swept his hand in a gesture that encompassed the lawn. “Go ahead, girl. Do whatever you need.”
Oh. My. God. He expected her to toilet in the great outdoors. Well, duh, Aggie, of course he did. She was a dog. The idea of peeing in front of Dillon—on his lawn, which didn’t even have the benefit of trees or shrubs, but stretched out in a green expanse of grass, horrified her. She whimpered and whined. And when she realized she really did have to go, her vocalizations took on the sharp tones of necessity clashing with embarrassment.
“It’s okay, be a good girl.”
“I’m fairly certain good girls don’t do this—unless their drunk.”
“That’s it,” he said as she started to pace the perimeter, “find your spot.”
She tried, but every place felt like the stage of Carnegie Hall—and the spotlight of the sun shone down on her, lighting her moves for all the world to see.
“Are you shy? Do you want me to turn around?”
“No, I want you to take me to a proper toilet.”
“What’s wrong, my Princess?” He knelt in front of her, and rubbed the sides of her head.
Necessity was quickly outstripping modesty and if Aggie didn’t find a spot—soon—she was going to burst. She ran for the back fence and leapt against the lock, trying to open it with a paw.
“You want to go in the woods?”
She barked once—and surprised herself by the deep, throaty sound she made.
Dillon shook his head. “You’re a very strange dog, but you’re adorable.”
“Yeah, yeah, flatter me later. Open the door. Now!”
He flicked the latch and she bolted past him, using her weight to slam the door open.
“Princess, wait! You don’t have a collar.”
She darted ahead, her loping stride no match for his bi-pedal run. Finding a shrub to hide behind, she relieved herself. Aggie circled the spot and for reasons she could barely fathom, scratched at the dirt, using the scent pads in her paws to leave a canine signature.
“There you are—” His words came in quick pants as he appeared from behind a tree, picking leaves out of his hair. “I’ve got to get you a collar and tags, provided no one’s looking for you. Come on, let’s go back.”
Smiling and having every intention of following his suggestion, she sauntered beside him…until she heard it. A quick trilling of sound, warbling like a brook skipping over pebbles and stones. And it bypassed all her conscious thoughts, and hit a zone in her brain she didn’t know existed. Her nose quivered, her ears twitched, and she froze. The noise came again. Her head darted one way, then another, down then up, and found the source. A squirrel, high up in a tree, and looking at her.
Scarlet red light flashed in front of her eyes, and a need, all consuming, deep, and ancestral possessed her. Charging forward, she raced to the tree, barking with all her energy and no clue what she was saying or why she was doing it. She reached the trunk, hopped one way then another, her craving for the squirrel obsessive and frenzied. The animal chattered at her. She had no clue what it said, only that it had something to do with her lineage and was derogatory in nature. Incensed, her volume went from loud to jet engine. She clawed at the trunk, the squirrel only laughed.
“Princess! What are you doing?”
“I have no idea, but I gotta get that damned squirrel!”
Dillon tried to pull her away, but she dug her paws into the dirt, and kept barking at the rodent. Finally, he wrapped his arms around her, picked her up, and hauled her back to his house.
****
Back at Dillon’s home, she sat quietly as he took a picture of her, downloaded it on to his computer, and printed out a bevy of “Found” posters.
“What do you think?” He held one up for her inspection.
“I’m a dog, and I’m still cursed with red, not-wavy, not straight hair. It’s enough to leave me permanently depressed.”
“Be good, I’m going to go and have a shower.”
Her ears perked at this, and the depression fled. Morality gave a half-hearted speech about the necessity for Dillon’s privacy, but the opportunity was just too glorious to pass up. She jumped to her feet and followed him to the bathroom door.
He laughed as he closed it in her face. “Thanks for the offer, but I think I got this.”
Damn. When it came to him, her life was one missed opportunity after another. Sighing with disappointment, she shuffled from the ensuite and hopped onto his bed. She sniffed at the pillows and sheets. His scent lingered, solitary, blissful, and warm. So he hadn’t done anything with Brandy. Pleased tha
t she’d made it into his bed—even if she was in doggy form—she looked for a spot to rest.
She circled and circled again, tamping down the blankets, then using her claws to re-fluff them. Then she sank to the mattress. The sound of the electric razor buzzed through the door, domestic, safe, and sent a pleasant warmth spreading through her. She closed her eyes and drifted off.
The click of the door snapped them open. Dillon came out, water beading along his body and racing in sexy rivulets down his chest into the white towel slung around his hips. Aggie licked her chops. What a way to wake up. Her eyes tracked him as he moved across the room, using another towel to dry his wet hair. And when he doffed the one around his hips, every cell in her body sat up at attention.
She drank in the sight of his naked form, silently urging him to turn around. He did and caught her staring.
“Stop looking at me like I’m going to be eaten.”
“Eaten? More like devoured.” The words came out in a soft growl. Her gaze remained cemented to him, though her eyes didn’t know which part to focus on—the hard pecs, the twelve-pack of abs, the long legs, or that delicious, wonderful part of his anatomy that made him a man. She stared. A manly man. “Wow, Dillon, you’ve been blessed.”
His eyebrows arched upwards at her low, rumbled, growl “I’m lucky you’re a gentle dog, for a second I thought I was an appetizer.”
“No way, babe, you’re a main course, all the way…” her gaze ran the hard planes and steep grooves of his body, “and dessert. What I wouldn’t give to be a girl, right now.”
He pulled on a light-knit beige sweater, a pair of boxers, and his jeans.
“Slow down,” she said, “what’s the hurry? Give a girl a little time to enjoy the view.”
He ran his hand through his wet hair; the dark strands fell into waves and errant half-circles. “Will you be okay, alone? I have to take Brandy to an antique auction.”
The mention of his latest girlfriend took all the life and color from her. She sank back on to the bed and rested her nose under her paws. “Why did you have to mention that name?”
He sat on the bed, pulling on his socks and shoes. “Truth is, I’d rather be here.”
“You would?” Her ears twitched with curiosity.
“I swear, it’s like you understand everything I say.” His fingers scratched a pleasurable path along her jawbone. “Can’t be helped, going out. She’s the sister-in-law of my boss, and I gotta play nice. Truth is, she creeps me right out.” He grinned. “She wasn’t much of Aggie’s type, either. If only she knew, all the women I bring over—business contacts, not a real date in sight.”
“What?” She barked the question.
“Ha! You sounded just like her.” He rubbed her tummy and the human in her wanted to stay mad, but her inner-dog melted under his loving touch. “Aggie labours under this misconception that I’m a chick magnet—”
“Because you are—”
“Truth is, she’s the one I spend the most time with—what’s the point in dating, when you’d rather hang out with your buddy?”
His buddy. She felt like biting his hand.
“Okay.” He gave her one last scratch then rose from the bed. “Be good while I’m gone.” Dillon went into the bathroom and came out with a bucket of water. “Here’s something for you to drink.”
“Eww, that’s the bucket you use when the toilet or sink backs up. I’m not drinking out of that.”
“I’m sure you’ll be fine, but I’m going to keep you in the bedroom while I’m gone—it’ll only be for a couple of hours. I just don’t want you destroying anything.”
“Wait, don’t leave me in here—I have to go home!” She launched to her feet, but the blankets tangled around her paws, impeding her movements and sending her stumbling back onto the bed. “At least put me outside where I can jump a fence or unlock the door. I have to get back home—don’t go!”
But he only patted her head, dashed for the door. It closed, the sound of the spring and lock sliding into place, banged with the finality of a judge’s gavel.
“Dillon! Come back—” She struggled to her feet, staggering off the bed and racing to the door. She slapped at the knob, but possessing neither fingers nor an opposable thumb, she remained trapped by two inches of oak.
The firing of his car’s engine sent her racing to the window. He drove away, leaving her alone, trapped, and with no chance of escape.
Chapter Four
Aggie flopped onto the bed, contemplating the myriad of screwy ways her life had turned sideways in the past twenty-four hours. From human to dog, omnivore to scavenger, drinking chardonnay to drinking out of a toilet bucket. The only thing remaining constant in her life, was her “buddy” status with Dillon. In her current furry form, she doubted he’d continue to make her Coco Vin Rouge.
Rising to her paws and trying not to get tangled in the blue and white bed sheets, she sprung from mattress to floor and padded to the door. Stupid, round knobs. Had it been a handle, at least she could have jumped and pulled, but what the heck was she supposed to do with the gold globe staring back at her?
Crouching to her haunches, she slid a paw under the door and pulled. Failure. She rose, hopped, and slapped at the knob, but only received sore paw pads in return. Growling with frustration, she sat back and considered…maybe, if she got a towel, tossed it around the knob…her brain chased the details of her plan and caught it.
Jumping to her feet, her claws clicking on the blond tongue and groove floor, she pushed open the bathroom door and pulled an oatmeal-coloured hand towel from the metal rack. Two paws out the door, she paused, her nose quivered as a delicate, watery scent tugged her back with nimble, languid fingers. She dropped the towel to the floor, turned, and headed back, the stone tiles cold and hard against her paws. Her snout continued to tremble as her nostrils flared open and closed; her mouth salivated in anticipation of devouring the tasty morsel of…whatever that was.
She headed to the shower, but found nothing other than the soapy disappointment of Dillon’s body wash. Then she tried the Jacuzzi, her thirst growing in intensity, her desire for the “whatever” increasing until she panted with need. The tub, however, held only a few particles of dust and the rubber ducky she’d bought Dillon as a joke. That left the sinks—nothing—and…the toilet.
“Oh, no. No!” Her growled command to her body met with mutiny. The dog in her wouldn’t be denied by prissy human disdain for latrine water. She controlled her back paws, but the dog in her possessed the front. Canine appetite outweighed the “ick” factor. Half her body dragged the other half to the toilet and hoisted her front paws on the seat.
Her head twisted one way, then another, but the need to drink consumed her thoughts and desires. Aggie wrenched herself from the porcelain commode, falling to the floor with a hard thud. Stumbling to her paws, she dashed from the bathroom and into the bedroom. Her thirst screamed for the water and strained at the reigns of her human side. She snapped up the towel, firmly anchoring the material between her teeth, and ran out of the bathroom. The siren call of the toilet sang a melody of thirst-quenching harmony that swam out the door and curled around her nostrils. She ignored the scent, prayed for strength to resist with a pious and earnest heart, and turned her attention the knob.
Fifteen minutes later—or so she supposed—sweat panting from her tongue and off her pads, she gave up. The idea of using the towel like a loop, holding one end and pulling on the other to open the door seemed good. But in reality, the cotton was too thick, the material too soft, and the knob too slick to provide a good grip on the door. She flopped to the floor. Her nose and spirits dived so deep, she contemplated the idea of drowning her sorrows in a good swirl of toilet water.
The doorknob caught the mid-afternoon sun and gleamed with smug satisfaction of having bested her, and this irritated the hell out of her. Beaten by a piece of polished metal. What kind of woman was she—what kind of dog was she? Both her female and canine counterparts would run he
r out of their clubs if they ever found out a bit of scrap metal had proven her better.
Heaving herself to her paws, she channelled all the western heroes she could remember—The Duke, Clint Eastwood, and Calamity Jane. Then she stepped into her personal high noon shoot out with the knob, the object that held her prisoner and had mocked her previous efforts. Using the paneled door to hold her weight, she got to her hind feet, put both front paws on the knob, turned, and slammed to the floor.
Five times, ten times, fifteen. Each effort produced a micro-movement towards success. Her twentieth try met with glorious, triumphant success. The doorknob gave way with a soft click and into the miniscule crack, poured forth the sweet, delicious scent of freedom. She scratched at the wooden edge, leaving claw marks in the door. Panting with exertion, she worked and scraped. What seemed like days later, the crack graduated into a gap big enough for her to fit a paw through and yank the door open. She bolted from the bedroom, ran down the stairs and went to the front door. The smell of cinnamon buns, however, jerked her from her original trajectory and sent her skidding towards the kitchen.
The pastries sat on the counter, decadent, and unguarded. She’d denied her inner-dog the toilet water, she wouldn’t deny it a snack.
“Silly Dillon. He should have put it away.” Her stomach thanked his oversight and she dug into two pastries.
Refreshed, she moved to the front door—her next barrier in her journey to freedom. She passed by a waterfall of mid-morning sunlight that spilled from the window and pooled into a warm puddle on the floor. Her inner-dog whined to lay down in the spot, curl into a ball and snooze for a few hours, but her human side issued the commands. She moved from temptation and walked to the front door. Unlike its bathroom counterpart, this wood and metal guardian carried with it the added obstacles of two locks and a security system.
Aggie looked at it, then at the keypad, trying to configure a plan. The high levels of glucose floating in her blood and stomach, however, blurred her vision and muddled her thoughts. Her doggy side brought to mind, the warm, lovely spot, just the perfect size and location for a nap. She gave a large yawn that could have swallowed the door, and then canine nature overtook human urgencies. Feminine resolve, already weakened by the digestive process, fought with doggy instincts and lost.