I laughed from the doorway watching them struggle. She knelt in front of Clay, face to muzzle, trying to get the collar on him. She would wrap her arms around his neck to buckle the collar and he’d duck or shift to avoid her, but never actually get up and walk away. I caught a twinkle of amusement in his canine eyes.
Time to take pity on her. I knew how to reason with him. If Clay ever wanted to leave the house, he had to have a collar. I just needed to point that out. “Here,” I offered, holding out my hand. “I’ll try.”
“Good luck!” she said with a laugh getting off her knees and handing me the collar. She took my position in the doorway. “It was the biggest collar they had. I don’t even know if it fits, he won’t let me get close enough.”
I knelt in front of Clay with a half-smile on my face. I liked that he had a sense of humor when he interacted with Rachel. It made having him in the house tolerable, almost. But she wouldn’t give up getting a real collar on him. He needed proof of license. Besides, it served him right. He’s the one who chose to be a dog.
“Clay, if you want to be able to go anywhere with us, you need a collar that we can clip a leash on. Not just the twine you have holding your tag around your neck,” I said looking him in the eye. He didn’t move so I leaned forward reaching for the string that held his current joke of a tag. He held still for me while I removed the twine and then replaced it with the real collar.
Kneeling in front of him, I forgot myself again and treated him like a dog, patting his side consolingly. “At least it’s not pink,” I said with a smile before I realized what I was doing.
I quickly stood and avoided Clay’s direct gaze. I needed to watch myself. The direction of my thoughts, assuming his permanent residency in the house, troubled me. Making him comfortable, buying him a license wouldn’t help me get rid of him.
“Hey, I wouldn’t do that to him. No pink for our man,” Rachel laughed behind me. “I don’t know why he sat still for you and not me.”
I’d forgotten about Rachel. She moved to pet him, praising him for his good behavior. If I wanted a chance of having a friend as a roommate, I knew I needed to deal with him as a pet. Besides, he’d get tired of her affection eventually and run off back to Canada. I held onto that happy thought.
“He’s moody,” I said looking into his eyes and knowing I spoke the truth. Moody and stubborn with a quirky sense of humor. Not a good combination.
Chapter 7
Rachel exceeded my hopes as a roommate. After that first day of bonding, she didn’t stay home too much. When not busy working, her social life called, and she went out often. Usually, she tried talking me into going with her. Turning down her invitations didn’t seem to bother her. Unsure of our relationship, I didn’t want to risk someone Rachel had her sights on hitting on me instead.
Living with Clay, on the other hand, didn’t flow with the same ease.
Tuesday, he spent most of the day following me around the house. Thinking to sunbath, I went to my room to change. After our talk the day before, he didn’t attempt to follow me. When I opened the door, he sat just outside, waiting for me. His huge dog head moved up and then down as his eyes traveled the length of me from head to toe. I flushed and quickly closed the door on him to change back into shorts and tank top, opting to cut the grass instead. He sat on the porch watching me slowly push the mower back and forth. When I moved to the front, he followed me.
Rachel’s frequent absence benefited Clay. Taking my complaint about his hygiene seriously, he showered again. I guessed he would make it a daily routine. Since he bathed and gave me privacy as I asked, I had no reason to complain when I went to bed that night and saw him lying on the foot of the bed.
When I woke Wednesday morning with him still in fur lying next to me, I did complain. Lividly. “Now just hold on,” I whispered with a scowl, “You’re a dog. Act like one. Fur stays at the foot of the bed.”
He grudgingly moved to his place at the foot of the bed, watching me the whole time.
“Don’t give me your doleful eyes. This is your choice, not mine.” Then, recalling his previous talent for misinterpretation, which had caused this coed housing in the first place, I clarified, “not that you’d get to sleep next to me in your skin either. So, don’t even think about it. If you don’t like the end of the bed, you can always sleep on the floor.”
After getting the paper, I scoured the classifieds for a beater car finding two promising ads. Both required a long walk. I fetched my bag, tucked the folded newspaper inside, and then grabbed the house keys.