It took several minutes of wriggling and straining to free myself from beneath Boden. At least this time, I wasn’t completely flat on my back, so I had some leverage. With one last shove, I finally managed to roll the giant furball off me.
He rolled onto his side with a deep harumph and decided to nap like that, snoring like a chainsaw. Boden was off—well, most of him. His fur still clung to me like a second skin.
JT had been gone less than ten minutes, but the house already felt different—still, but not silent. The faint gurgle of fish tanks, the rustle of wings in the aviary, and the low hum of Phin and Ferb’s TV filled the quiet. It felt like the house was holding its breath. Several of the dogs had come to lounge in the room with me and Boden, watching me with curious eyes.
I brushed off the fur and grabbed the notebook labeled Familiar Care—time to “familiarize” myself with the job, now that I wasn’t distracted by JT.
The notebook reminded me of those old biology lab journals from high school—hell, it probably was one. It was thick, worn, with several dog-eared pages and yellow carbon copies between each. Inside, it was a mess of handwritten notes, jumping from one thought to the next. Sandy’s scrawl flipped between English and what I guessed was Latin—which I recognized by the scientific names of animals that appeared throughout.
It read more like a diary than a guidebook. Luckily, JT’s annotations summed up the essentials, and his cheat sheet was a neat, laminated checklist—complete with little checkboxes I could mark with dry-erase. It included feeding times, cleaning schedules, and a simple list of dos and don’ts.
The soft clicking of paws on the hardwood signaled Coy, along with Maggie and Murray, trailing behind me through the house—ever the dutiful entourage. Their quiet, watchful presence should’ve been comforting, but it only reminded me how out of place I was—a stranger in Sandy’s carefully curated, more-than-a-little-eccentric world.
Out of the corner of my eye, something dark glided past—silent as a shadow. I turned, but only the dogs stood there, watching expectantly. They were waiting for me to take charge. So, I told them to follow.
As I wandered through the house, Sandy’s peculiar setup became impossible to ignore (now that I wasn’t staring at JT’s ass). Every animal had its own space, tailored less to its species and more to its personality—or style, perhaps.
Monty, the ball python, lounged in a wicker basket by the window, half-buried under velvet pillows, with just a foot of her body exposed for sunbathing. The guinea pigs, meanwhile, lived in a dollhouse mansion, complete with tiny rooms—each one bizarrely decorated to suit an individualistic taste, ranging from Victorian to Oriental.
Terrariums and fish tanks lined the walls, each with its own theme. Some were gardens modeled after famous ruins, while others were stranger—like the iguanas’ Godzilla-themed terrarium or the fish tank straight out of Waterworld.
Was Sandy raising animals or building models?
Camellia’s enclosure stood out—an ornate ring of miniature mirrors, arranged like a hand-mirror Stonehenge, surrounding a perfectly pruned bonsai. Camellia was nowhere to be seen at first, but as I approached, the chameleon seemed to materialize from nowhere, atop the bonsai, turning from a camouflage green to vibrant purple-pink—lilac, perhaps. Neat.
All in all, this felt less like a zoo and more like... a menagerie. Which was exactly what it was.
The notebook’s pages didn’t help either. Sandy’s entries were all over the place, jumping from animal to animal and slipping into Latin at random. I recalled that several of my sorority sisters had minored in Latin. Seemed Sandy might have been among them.
I spotted one term that sent a shiver down my spine—Theraphosidae—associated with someone, or something, called “Elmo.” This meant there was a spider lurking in the house. A big one. Wonderful.
Even better—today was the first of the month, which meant I was supposed to change Elmo’s bedding. I decided that could wait. Indefinitely.
JT’s annotations were a godsend. They cut through the confusion with clear instructions. Don’t look Monty in the eyes. Fair enough—direct eye contact was threatening to most animals. And the guinea pigs? No feeding after midnight. Diet restrictions, perhaps? Judging by their chubby little bodies, that checked out.
I wandered through the house—there were plenty of chores, but none urgent. The shed out back, though—that was why I took this job. With all the weirdness inside the house, I had a dreaded feeling that the shed wouldn’t disappoint either.
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The shed wasn’t really a shed—it was more like a small barn, though “small” was relative. It had more square footage than my old apartment, which said more about my living situation than the barn.
Coy bounded ahead, sniffing everything in sight, while Maggie padded beside me, her graying muzzle brushing against my hand with a thought saying, “I’m here if you need me.” Apart from the face-licking, the older German Shepherd moved with the patience of a well-trained companion. A retired service dog, perhaps. Murray too. I figured Sandy likely hoped their calm demeanor would rub off on Coy. So far, no such luck.
I pulled open the barn doors, the earthy scent of hay and dirt wafting out. Straw covered the floor, with bales stacked neatly in the loft above.
Was Sandy planning to get a horse? Or maybe a pony—that seemed more her speed. Definitely not enough room for a full-sized horse in her yard.
Maggie settled into a pile of hay by the door, relaxed but watchful, while Coy dashed around, nose to the ground, eager to sniff out every inch. Murray had stayed on the porch, content to supervise the other dogs. He was older than Maggie, and he had indicated, through dog-speak, that his hips were paining him—the old fella had arthritis.
I checked the barn itself—double doors that could be barred with a two-by-four, shutters latched tight. The side door could be locked with a key from the keyring I’d found earlier, tucked in the cookie jar with the emergency cash JT mentioned. One of the keys on the ring was labeled ‘Carl’, and I was pretty sure I knew where that one went.
I tested the doors by leaning my weight into them—solid. They could probably hold back a bear, and, at the very least, me. Even if the wolf figured out locks and latches, the main doors and shutters were secured from the outside.
I was pretty sure the barn would hold me in—so long as the wolf lacked a strong enough reason to escape. It could possibly dig its way out. The auto-dog was unpredictable, but it needed motivation, and I was getting better at cutting that off.
Two nights until the full moon—just enough time to troubleshoot. But even if the barn worked out, I’d need another option next month—especially if Sandy had plans for it.
Maybe she’d be willing to rent it out: Air B and Barn.
As I turned to leave, a prickling sensation crawled up my spine. I looked up—there it was. The black cat from earlier, perched on the loft railing, yellow eyes locked on me. Now that I wasn’t being mobbed by dogs, I got a good look. The cat was huge—probably a Maine Coon—with a mane that made it look pompous as all hell.
Something about its stare irritated the hell out of me. I felt the auto-dog stir—a low growl rising in my throat. I clamped down on it. It’s just a cat, I reminded myself. Albeit, a particularly arrogant-looking one. Thoughts of Kettle Corn surfaced in my mind, accompanied by the taste of bile.
It was strange. The auto-dog usually stayed quiet during the day, only kicking in when I was threatened—or excited, like earlier with the dogs. Then again, I’d once barked at a squirrel, so maybe cats were just another trigger.
But, stranger still, I didn’t recall any of Sandy’s notes mentioning a cat. Not once.
“Coy, you know this cat?” I asked, pointing. But when I looked again, the cat had disappeared, and Coy just cocked his head at me.
I climbed up to the loft to look for the cat, but it was long gone. Instead, I found a small living space—a cot and a table with a single incandescent bulb for lighting. Spartan. Real Spartan, but useful if anyone needed to camp out here. Like me.
Whatever Sandy planned for this barn, it looked like it required some overnight stays. I decided the barn would do the trick. With that settled, I needed to prep for the night. A store run was in order—canned dog food, alcohol, and maybe a few other essentials. The pantry had enough food for Maggie and Murray to last the week, but once the wolf got involved, that supply would vanish fast.
I’d tried feeding it dried food before—never again. Canned food it was.
The only alcohol in the house was white wine, Riesling, and I wasn’t about to suffer another wine hangover. If I was heading out anyway, I could squeeze in some Uber rides. Not as good as a steady paycheck, but it worked well with my chaotic schedule. Six hours to burn meant six hours to earn—and Uber’s direct deposit would let me make my minimum payments and reactivate my credit cards.
It was a solid plan, but first, I had a job to do. The clock read 12:30 p.m.—lunchtime for Sandy’s menagerie.
----------------------------------------
Sandy’s kitchen had two refrigerators—one for her and one for the animals. The animal fridge was much bigger, while Sandy’s looked like a college mini-fridge.
I opened Sandy’s fridge first—gotta take care of the caretaker, right? Inside was tofu, watermelon, and salad mix. She had a spice cabinet, and her pantry was stocked with lentils, rice, and couscous. There was even a small container of eggs—probably from the chickens out back. With the herb garden I’d seen in the yard, Sandy had quite the homestead going. If I knew how to cook, I might’ve whipped up something impressive, but I lacked both the time and the talent . So, salad mix and watermelon it was.
With my own stomach taken care of, I moved on to the animal fridge. It was stocked with fresh greens, frozen veggies, and a mix of odds and ends. Sandy’s chickens seemed to eat just about anything, so I tossed them the red cabbage leaves from my salad—never been a fan—and added the watermelon rinds.
JT’s cheat sheet said to bulk up their meal with chicken feed to hit the weight target, so I added some in and headed to the coop. The coop looked like an extension of the house—just fancier, with little windows and a porch. The second the food hit the trough, a dozen hens and a lone rooster descended, devouring the watermelon rinds first, then the feed, leaving the cabbage for last. Guess they weren’t fans of red cabbage either.
The guinea pigs, lounging in their dollhouse mansion, feasted on sliced veggies, fruit, and nuts—a spread that made my salad look pathetic. Each pig waited eagerly in their room to be served, like fuzzy little royalty.
Feeding the fish was easy: a quick sprinkle of standard fish food into the tanks scattered throughout the house.
Outside, tucked into Sandy’s overgrown garden, there was a koi pond with cat-sized goldfish and a few ducks paddling around. The ducks were semi-wild and could mostly fend for themselves, but JT’s notes suggested a large bowl of water with green peas as a treat. Before I could set the bowl down, the ducks swarmed like piranhas, water flying everywhere. My fingers were unable to escape unscathed.
Phin and Ferb, Sandy’s cockatoos, were gentler on my fingers, but murder on my ears. Before I could finish their bowl of nuts and dried berries, they landed on my shoulders, chanting the Adventure Time theme song and something about apple pies in the oven—before switching back to scripture, or something akin to it.
“And lo, a tithe!” Phin squawked, bobbing his head, while Ferb chimed in, “Ten percent pomegranate, mortal!”
Their feeding chart had pomegranate seeds, along with several other items, listed as ‘on request,’ but I wasn’t about to separate seeds out one by one. I gave them slices instead.
“Blasphemy!” Phin screeched, puffing up in protest.
“Unacceptable!” Ferb shrieked at a pitch that made my ears ring.
“You can’t expect me to pluck them out,” I shouted back, only for them to mimic me even louder: “Pluck them out! Pluck them out!”
The raven in the corner watched in silence. JT’s notes said not to use his name or quote Poe, which I assumed to be a joke. With no name provided, I addressed him as “Nevermore.”
“Nevermore,” the raven croaked back and happily accepted the nuts and blueberries I’d provided.
Feeding Monty, the ball python, was trickier than expected. She only ate once a week—and of course, today was feeding day. Her meal? Live mice, conveniently housed in the same room. Why keep prey so close to the predator? No clue. But the instructions were clear: catch a mouse, drop it into Monty’s terrarium. Whether I was supposed to lower Monty from her basket or let her handle it herself, I decided she could do the honors.
The first mouse I grabbed bit me—hard. Another insult to my already bruised fingers. I cursed and dropped it, clutching my hand as the little beast scurried off behind a stand. Panic rose as I scanned the room, trying to figure out how to catch the damn thing.
That’s when I heard a pained squeak, and a black cat—the same black cat from earlier—appeared from behind the stand, mouse in its jaws. It trotted over with an air of smug satisfaction.
How the arrogant little (well, not that little) cat had gotten in, I didn’t know. Sandy’s home was apparently full of mysteries—and full of holes in need of patching.
The cat leapt onto the table, sending the caged mice into a frenzy, as if it wanted to show off its catch. I reached out to pet it, but it swatted my hand, claws nicking my already bruised fingers before hopping down. It knocked a pair of garden gloves to the floor—gloves I hadn’t even noticed.
“Thanks,” I muttered, slipping on the gloves. The cat, mouse still in its jaws, strutted off into the hallway. At least I wouldn’t need to feed it now.
I managed to catch a second mouse, which bit futilely into the gloves, and carried it to Monty’s terrarium. Before I could drop the mouse in, Monty lunged from her sunning basket, striking so fast I let out an undignified yelp. She snatched the mouse from three feet away—easily, and that wasn’t even half her length. I hadn’t realized how long she was, what with all the pillows she was buried under.
Monty coiled around the squeaking mouse, squeezing until the noise stopped. My stomach lurched.
I wasn’t done with the mice yet. Sandy had a parliament of owls—five of them—also on a live mouse diet. They weren’t due to eat until nightfall, but since I’d be going wolf before sunset, I’d have to get it over with early.
The owls didn’t seem to mind the early meal. Food was food. Following JT’s notes, I found the raptor gloves and offered each owl a mouse, holding it carefully by the scruff. One by one, they swooped down to my wrist, plucked the mouse, and returned to their perches to gulp it down in a single, horrific motion.
I hadn’t realized owls swallowed their prey whole. And here I thought watching Monty constrict a mouse had been disturbing.
Each owl was a different species. I recognized the barred and the barn owls, but that was about it. Still, they all followed the same grim routine, and I had to look away more than once to avoid losing my salad to the gruesome sight.
Sandy also had a hawk, Tobi, but according to JT’s notes, Tobi mostly hunted for himself—squirrels, primarily. He wasn’t in the enclosure, so basically, a wild hawk that just hung around. Why Sandy had pages of detailed notes on him but nothing about the mysterious black cat was anyone’s guess.
Next up: crickets and mealworms. Sandy definitely had a thing for feeding live prey, and the insectivores—lizards, turtles, frogs—were no exception.
The enclosures were dimly lit, and as soon as I cracked open the cricket container, a disaster unfolded. Dozens of crickets spilled out, crawling straight into my sleeves. I let out a shriek, flailing as I tried to shake them off, while the dogs rushed in, eager to join the excitement.
Boden, in true Boden fashion, decided crickets were fair game and began licking them up, whether they were on the floor or still on me. One more for Team Licker.
Unlike the crickets, the mealworms didn’t try to escape. They just squirmed and clicked, adding to the overall gross factor. The smell, though—God, it was awful. I gagged, holding my breath as I scooped them into a red Solo cup.
JT had left a note about separating the pupae for some breeding project Sandy was running, but I drew the line at worm husbandry. I signed up to care for the animals, not their food. That was a task for JT and Sandy.
Fortunately, nearly all the reptiles could eat mealworms, which meant I could speed up the process. Hell, even the guinea pigs could snack on them, though I wasn’t about to feed them worms without good reason. Camellia, now sporting an icky shade of yellow-green—more a pea soup than chartreuse—snatched up her mealworms with that long tongue of hers. The frogs followed suit, while the turtles snapped them up from the ground.
Cassie, the bearded dragon, had her own private enclosure. Unlike the open-air habitats the other reptiles enjoyed, her enclosure was fully enclosed, and JT’s notes specifically mentioned that her mealworms needed to be roasted first.
The room where Cassie lived was like a sauna, courtesy of the multiple heat lamps aimed at every possible angle. Honestly, I could’ve just roasted the worms by leaving them in there for a few minutes.
How this wasn’t a fire hazard was beyond me. The branches and rocks inside the enclosure appeared scorched. The two fire extinguishers mounted on the wall didn’t inspire confidence, either.
Cassie herself seemed perfectly content in the sweltering heat. She basked beneath the lamps, head arched back, eyes closed. Guess they weren’t called dragons for nothing.
A culinary torch and a metal strainer sat on a shelf nearby. I wasn’t a chef, but even I could figure out what to do next. Pouring the mealworms into the strainer, I used the torch to roast them.
The popping sound, paired with the acrid smell of burning grubs, was enough to make me dry heave. Cassie, however, perked right up and shuffled over to her scorched, bowl-shaped rock, eager for her meal—worms served extra well-done.
With Cassie satisfied, that left just two residents: Carl and Elmo. I’d saved them for last, not out of convenience, but sheer dread—for very different reasons.
Elmo was easy to explain: I hated spiders. And at 4.5 ounces, if Sandy’s scattered notes were accurate, Elmo was massive—for a spider.
Carl, on the other hand, was the only animal that had more notes from JT than Sandy. To Sandy, Carl was an angel who was just misunderstood. JT, however, called him a menace. Considering Carl’s enclosure had an actual lock and key, I was more inclined to believe JT.
Carl lived in a separate room from the other animals, and his enclosure took up an entire wall, flush against floor-to-ceiling windows that looked out toward the trees. Pictures had been draw on the walls of the enclosure, objects and figures Carl could use for communication. JT’s notes came with a clear warning: “Only bring the bare minimum.” Beneath it was a list of forbidden items, including lighters, knives, hairpins, wires, balloons, rubber bands, chewing gum, and superglue.
For anything not on the list, I guess I was to use common sense, or Murphy’s Law: “Anything not pinned down can—and will—be used against you in the court of Carl.”
I decided to leave my bag in the hall. Better safe than sorry.
Carl’s story intrigued me—what had this little Capuchin done to earn such a reputation? Why did JT seem so wary of him, while Sandy treated him like a misunderstood genius? Sandy seemed to get along with Carl, but her notes didn’t explain why. Maybe if I didn’t treat him like a criminal, he wouldn’t act like one.
Still, it was hard to shake the criminal image—especially after reading the feeding notes. I had to use a sliding tray, like in high-security prisons. Even the tray looked like it was pilfered from a prison cafeteria—or a public school.
The food was better than what I’d gotten during my brief stint in jail: diced fruit, chopped veggies, half a boiled egg (shell included), nuts, dried meat, and a couple of primate biscuits. I carefully organized each item in separate sections—Sandy and JT were both explicit: certain foods must never touch. Red touching yellow will make Carl bellow.
I threw in a few dried banana chips—Carl’s favorite. They were used by Sandy as a reward for good behavior. Carl hadn’t wronged me yet, so that was good in my book. Besides, Sandy’s notes stressed patience and positive reinforcement when training a Capuchin, and I wanted Carl on my side.
Stolen from its rightful author, this tale is not meant to be on Amazon; report any sightings.
Carl waited for me on his pastel pink rope swing—the only pop of color in the sterile room. The room and the way he watched me reminded me of the scene in Silence of the Lambs. I half-expected him to say, “Hello, Clarice.”
His enclosure was sparse—Sandy and JT had given him toys, but he either broke them or turned them into escape tools. I slid the tray through the slot and stepped back. JT’s notes instructed me to watch Carl eat and retrieve the tray afterward—part of his ‘good behavior’ training. He had a habit of dodging certain foods, which led to him having a vitamin C deficiency, so I had to make sure he ate it all.
Carl swung over, picked through the tray, and, unsurprisingly, went for the dried meat and banana chips first. So far, so good. Then, without warning, Carl hurled the tray back, launching fruits, veggies, and nuts across the floor.
“What the hell?” I muttered as Carl screamed at me, rattling the bars like a tiny inmate. Sighing, I cleaned up the scattered food and checked JT’s notes. Apparently, I had to try again once he calmed down.
Well, no more banana chips for him.
It was nearing 2 p.m., and I was ready to run errands—maybe make some cash with Uber. Carl could wait. Perhaps a little hunger would improve his manners. That left Elmo.
Unlike the other insectivores, it was recommended that I feed Elmo crickets instead of mealworms—but it didn't say that I couldn't. A bigger problem was that today was the first of the month, which meant cleaning his enclosure. JT’s notes said Elmo was “easy to handle”—docile, even. I wasn’t convinced. And even though Elmo was technically a ‘she,’ thanks to Sesame Street, I could only think of him as ‘he.’
So yeah, I was misgendering a tarantula. Sue me.
I Googled Elmo’s species: Poecilotheria ornata—the Fringed Ornamental Tarantula. According to PetFAQs, they had the most reported bites of their genus, were highly defensive, and had venom that could leave you hurting for months. Also, fast and prone to escaping. The thought of one loose in the house made my skin crawl.
This was a disaster waiting to happen.
Elmo’s enclosure was tucked away in the back hallway—for good reason. None of the online photos did him justice. Splayed out on a sheet of pine bark like a giant, creepy Spider-Man logo, his blood-red hairs stood out against his brown fringed pattern. His mandibles twitched as I stared.
“Nope,” I muttered, spinning on my heel. Elmo could starve for all I cared—I wasn’t getting any closer.
My escape was halted by the black cat, which appeared behind me—a silent shadow, blocking my path. I would’ve walked around it but froze. In its mouth was a massive, writhing grasshopper. My stomach twisted at the thought of it doing what cats usually do—dropping dead things at their owner’s feet. Except this cat wasn’t mine, and that grasshopper wasn’t dead.
The cat padded closer, backing me into a corner between a spider (thankfully contained) and an armed cat (definitely not contained). Vaulting over the cat briefly crossed my mind, but before I could move, it dropped the grasshopper. My heart skipped a beat. The cat pinned the bug with one paw, then looked at me expectantly.
Did it want me to pick it up? Why? The cat glanced at Elmo, then back at me. It lifted its paw, then pinned the grasshopper again, as if growing impatient.
Was this payback for the mouse? What was I supposed to do with a grasshopper?
Feed it to Elmo—obviously.
I pinched the grasshopper by its back legs, holding it away from myself like a piece of rotting garbage. It squirmed in my grip as the cat sauntered off. Prick.
“Let’s just get this over with,” I muttered. “One more little task, then we’re done with this shit.”
Elmo only needed one cricket every two days, and this grasshopper was easily the size of three. It’d keep him fed until Sandy got back.
Elmo’s mandibles twitched as I neared his enclosure, legs shifting in anticipation. The average Fringed Ornamental Tarantula had a ten-inch leg span, but Elmo was above average. He could probably wrap his legs around a basketball—or my face.
I swallowed a scream.
“Don’t you fucking move, Elmo, I swear to God,” I muttered, easing the latch open. It was meant for dropping in food, but it looked big enough for Elmo to squeeze through if he wanted to.
Elmo’s species was arboreal, so his enclosure was tall—forcing me to reach over my head, putting my face uncomfortably close to the glass. My heart pounded in my ears.
Elmo, thankfully, stayed put as I dropped the grasshopper inside. It hit the bedding with a dull thump, then hopped to a branch, blissfully unaware of the horror looming above.
Elmo didn’t strike right away. Instead, he did something odd—he waved, wiggling his front legs. Or maybe those were his pedipalps.
No way, I thought. I’d probably spooked him, being a big ol’ human and all. This was probably just a threat pose.
I was definitely losing it. I made a beeline for the front door, desperate to get out of the house and back to some semblance of normalcy.
And to think I was actually hoping to live here.
With Sandy’s menagerie finally fed and watered, I could focus on making my day productive. If JT could juggle this circus and still hold down a job, so could I.
A few Uber rides could add a little cash to my account—not much after insurance and gas, but enough to stay ahead of my credit card minimums. One less thing eating me alive.
I stepped outside and Coy followed.
“No, you’re not coming with me, Coy,” I said, and instructed him to return to the house as I got into my car, or, at least, I tried to. I was locked out and missing my keys. Must’ve dropped them in the yard.
Coy was right behind me when I turned around, having chosen to belay my most recent order. I sighed. “Fine, help me find my keys.”
I searched the yard, half-convinced I’d dropped the keys while wrangling the dogs. Then I checked the barn. No luck either.
I retraced my steps through the yard and house, yielding the same results—or lack thereof.
Just as frustration set in, Coy trotted back, signaling he’d found my keys.
“Where?” I asked, hoping for an easy answer.
Coy’s response was simple: Carl.
I groaned. Of course. I’d left my keys in my jeans, and that little bastard must’ve picked my pocket while I was cleaning. Must’ve gotten too close.
A thought struck me—had that been his plan all along?
Capuchins were smart, but that… that was devious, if true.
Sure enough, when I reached his cage, Carl was swinging lazily on his pastel-pink swing, jingling my keys.
When I demanded them back, he gave me a look that, to me, said, You want them? Come and get them.
He tossed the keys just behind the cage door, daring me to open it. I knew, in the back of my mind, that if I did, Carl would be out of here in a heartbeat. That was his plan, I was certain.
“Nice try, Carl,” I responded, refusing to take the bait. Time for a counter-offer.
I headed to the kitchen, grabbed the bag of banana chips, and returned to Carl’s room. Let’s see how big of a sucker he was for these things.
“Give me my keys, and I’ll give you chips,” I said, holding up the bag.
But Carl didn’t yield.
Through a series of pointing at pictures and gesticulating, he indicated that I was to give him the chips first. I knew exactly what would happen—he’d take the chips, keep the keys, and probably demand more.
I wasn’t about to negotiate with a tiny terrorist.
“Chips are for good behavior, Carl,” I said. “Handing me the keys is good behavior.”
Carl gave me the finger—two of them.
Alright, Carl. Time to play hardball. I waved a chip just under his nose, then popped it into my mouth before he could swipe it.
Carl screeched, flailing his arms like a toddler throwing a tantrum, reaching through the slot toward me.
“Every twenty seconds you keep acting up, I’m eating another chip,” I warned, waving the bag in his direction. “And trust me, Carl—I’m hungry.”
It wasn’t even a lie—I’d eaten, sure, but hunger was basically my default setting. Carl acted like he didn’t understand, but I knew better. He was trying to call my bluff. Too bad for him—I wasn’t bluffing.
I set a timer and started eating a chip every twenty seconds.
Five minutes in, Carl was full-on screaming, doing laps around his cage like a tiny, furry hurricane. The angrier he got, the more stubborn he became.
Instead of surrendering the keys, Carl dug a hole, dropped them in, defecated on them, and buried them.
I stared, dumbfounded. This little fucker had just shit on my keys.
I ate the rest of the chips, ignoring the queasiness in my gut. It wasn’t about the chips (or their potential laxative effects)—it was about the principle.
With my keys locked in Carl’s little prison, I had no choice but to borrow Sandy’s minivan. JT had said I could use it for errands—so, no ridesharing, but Uber Delivery and DoorDash were still on the table. Besides, I needed groceries.
Sure, using someone else’s car was technically against Uber’s policy, but I wasn’t transporting people—just food. Things only got litigious when humans were involved.
I fished the minivan keys out of the cookie jar—Sandy’s go-to hiding spot for everything, apparently. The van was an old Ford Freestar, and as soon as I opened the door, the stench of a dog hit me like a wall.
It was like stepping into a kennel. This bad boy would definitely earn me a 5-star review—if the passengers were dogs.
I clicked the garage door opener on the visor and started the van.
Glancing back to reverse, I almost jumped out of my skin—Coy was sitting in the back seat, looking smug as ever.
“Oh, come on!”
I threw the van in park and opened the side door. “Out, Coy.”
He hopped out, and eight more dogs surged in, their excited thoughts slamming into me. The van starting? That meant one thing to them—dog park time.
The kitchen door to the garage had been left open. Probably Coy’s work—Mr. Master-of-Opening-Doors.
As I wrestled with the dog swarm, Coy snuck back in, this time claiming shotgun as my self-elected co-pilot.
“Guys, seriously. I’m just going to the store. This isn’t a field trip.”
The wave of disappointment hit me like a freight train. Their pleading eyes radiated pure, soul-crushing sadness. Gah! Not the peer pressure—a weakness greater than silver. It weighed on me like Boden sitting on my chest all over again.
Come on, AJ, take charge. Be the captain. Don’t let a pack of dogs walk all over you. Assert yourself!
Naturally, I caved.
“Alright,” I groaned, “you can come along.”
“But it’s a quick trip, and you’re all staying in the car,” I added quickly, before they got any wild ideas.
This cheered them up a little. But now delivery runs were out—there was barely room for my own groceries, let alone someone else’s. Plus, with Boden on board, any food deliveries were doomed. If he liked crickets, just wait until he smelt Jimmy John’s.
Probably for the best anyway. I didn’t need to split my focus with multiple gigs—better to nail down one thing at a time.
I cranked up the AC—and was greeted by a warm breeze. The fan worked, but that was it.
In unison, three windows rolled down—apparently, Sandy had taught them how to use the buttons. Four heads popped out of each, with Coy, of course, claiming the passenger window for himself.
I sighed and rolled down mine too.
With Costco just down the road in West Ashley, the errand ended up being a short trip. I found Sandy’s Costco card in the glove box and was already plotting a membership split—a small bonus if I ended up as her roommate.
I wasn’t totally sold on being roommates yet, but the Costco deal? I could definitely sell her on that, whether I moved in or not.
I parked near the entrance and left the van running with the windows down, cranking the fans as high as they’d go.
“Stay put,” I warned them, assigning Coy to keep the others in line and Maggie to watch Coy. Coy might be the general, but Maggie was definitely the trusted advisor.
I was quick—just dog food, Blue Moons, and some microwave meals. But when I got back, the van was surrounded by shoppers, all doing an impromptu meet-and-greet with the dogs.
To be fair, the sticker on the van did say: Beware of Dogs, They Love to Cuddle.
Coy and Maggie assured me that everything was under control. Apparently, Sandy’s dogs were local celebrities here in West Ashley.
You should’ve seen their faces when some random stranger—me—showed up to load groceries into the van.
I explained I was just watching Sandy’s animals while she was out of town. When they asked if I was family and I told them I was a college friend, they looked even more surprised.
Was it really that strange for Sandy to have friends?
Back at Sandy’s, I crammed the groceries into the tiny fridge before hunting down the guest room. It was more of a glorified broom closet—just big enough for a bunk bed and a tiny desk, but I could make it work.
At first, I actually thought it was a broom closet and had to ask Coy for directions. A metal pipe stuck out from the wall for hanging clothes, and the doorknob jangled loosely as I pushed it open.
The master bedroom—formerly Sandy’s aunt’s—was now the turtle room. The guest room felt untouched—freshly made beds, no clothes, no personal items. It made me wonder: where did Sandy sleep? Another closet like this? The attic? Or was she roughing it on that cot in the barn?
I dropped my bag on the bottom bunk and set up my laptop on the desk. The wifi network? Noonvale. The password? fur&freedom123—apparently, Sandy was a Redwall fan. But, if true, that put a much darker spin on the use of live mice.
With no Uber gigs on the horizon, I had a few hours to kill. There was a Zoom meeting I’d planned to skip, but maybe fate was telling me to suck it up and join.
It was for the young and entrepreneurially minded, hosted by some group called Entrepreneurs Helping Entrepreneurs. I’d been invited by Sally, a woman I met at a networking event. Since my work as a personal accountant technically meant I was self-employed, I figured I qualified.
To create a somewhat professional backdrop—or at least one that wouldn’t glitch out on Zoom—I tacked a white sheet to the ceiling behind the desk and set a lamp behind my laptop for decent lighting.
My ancient laptop had a terrible mic, so I used my phone for the meeting and kept the laptop nearby for quick Google searches—wouldn’t want to look incompetent in front of my fellow ‘entrepreneurs’.
I gave Coy strict orders to guard the door and make sure nothing disturbed me. I didn’t know how long the meeting would last, but I prayed it would be worth the time.
It wasn’t. The group of ‘altruistic entrepreneurs’ turned out to be an MLM recruitment scheme in disguise. I’d half-expected it—any group pushing The Business of the 21st Century by Robert Kiyosaki was suspect—but I was still disgusted at how much of my time they’d wasted.
As if sensing my frustration, Coy let Maggie in. She sat next to me, placing her head in my lap. Petting her soft fur was surprisingly therapeutic. Maybe being Sandy’s roommate wouldn’t be so bad. Free therapy dogs were definitely a nice perk.
My mood lifted, and I got back to work, this time applying for a credit swap. If approved, I could transfer my debt to a new card with 18 months of 0% interest. It wouldn’t solve my financial problems, but it’d give me some breathing room.
After that, I knocked out a few job applications and fired off some interview emails.
Maggie curled up beside me on the bottom bunk while I worked. When the door creaked open, I assumed it was just Coy checking in.
But instead of Coy, the black cat leapt onto my desk, strolling casually across my keyboard with what I thought was a ball of red yarn. The color alone should’ve been a warning.
“Hey!” I picked up the cat and gently set him on the floor, but not before he dropped the ‘ball’ in my lap. It took me a second, but when I glanced down, my blood ran cold.
It wasn’t yarn. It was Elmo—balled up.
I was torn between hoping the cat had killed him and not wanting Sandy’s pet to die on my watch. But since this was Elmo, I was really, really hoping he was dead.
He wasn’t dead—just stunned. His legs unfurled, wriggling like something out of Alien.
How the cat got Elmo out of his enclosure and into my lap, I had no idea. Maybe Elmo escaped and this was the cat returning a prisoner. But figuring this out wasn’t the first thing on my mind.
I screamed and jumped up, trying to fling Elmo off me—only to trip over the chair and get tangled in the sheet I’d hung from the ceiling.
Disoriented, on hands and knees, I scrambled for the door—only to slam it shut on myself. Panicking, I fumbled with the knob, yanking it clean off. Of course, it chose now to fall apart.
This whole house was conspiring against me.
“Maggie, find Elmo!” I half-whispered, half-yelled, wrapping myself in the sheet, frozen in place, knees tucked into my chest.
Maggie, bless her heart, had no luck. Elmo was probably up somewhere out of reach, being arboreal and all. Instead, Maggie sat beside me, resting her head in my lap, offering comfort in my time of need.
What I really needed was to get the hell out—and to call for backup.
Peeking out from my sheet cocoon, I spotted my phone a few feet away. I sent a thought to Maggie, who fetched it for me, ever the dutiful helper.
I called JT.
“JT, Sandy’s cat just dropped Elmo in my lap, and now I’m stuck in the room with him!” I hissed.
“Dang, my money was on you calling about Carl. So, what do you mean by ‘stuck’?”
“The guest room’s doorknob fell apart, and now I’m stuck in here!”
“Did the side with the shaft fall into the hall?” JT said calmly. “If so, you can exit through the window. I’ll come fix it after work.”
“I’m not worried about the door, JT—I can fix that! It’s the tarantula Sandy’s cat dropped in my lap!”
Silence.
“What cat?” JT finally asked.
“Big black Maine Coon with yellow eyes! Keeps bringing me bugs—ring a bell?”
“Nope. Must be a stray. Sandy doesn’t keep cats; she’s allergic. Anyway, don’t worry about Elmo. She’s harmless—actually very affectionate. Tarantulas can make great pets.”
“Affectionate? Affectionate!” I echoed, incredulous. Maggie let out a low huff, but I ignored her.
“Yeah, she doesn’t take much to warm up to. Loves to be tickled.”
“Tickle Elmo? Is this a joke?” My voice shot up a few octaves.
“I usually use the feather by her enclosure, but in your case, you could use your hair as a tassel.”
“And why would I ever get my face close enough to tickle him with my hair?”
“To make her your friend, of course.”
“And why, exactly, would I want to be friends with a tarantula?”
“Who wouldn’t?”
“I don’t do spiders, JT!”
JT chuckled. “Think of this as a chance for personal growth. Overcome a deep-seated fear. Or does Ms. I-Know-What-I’m-Doing need Mr. Tall, Dark, and Veterinarian to come save her?”
“Over my dead body!”
“Then it sounds like you’ve got all the motivation you need to pet a spider.”
I hung up, thoroughly annoyed. Make light of my dire circumstances, will you? I’ll wipe that pretty little grin off your pretty little face… somehow.
Maggie nudged me again, so I peeked out from under the sheet. She indicated that she had found Elmo. He was right on my knee.
Elmo’s legs twitched, sending cold shivers down my spine. My body was rigid with the knowledge that one wrong move could provoke him. With trembling fingers, I forced myself to extend a hand and rub the top of his head, my mind racing with facts about tarantula bites and potent venom.
Most tarantula bites weren’t dangerous to humans, but Elmo wasn’t most tarantulas. He was an Old World tarantula—no urticating hairs, just venom that made a wasp sting feel like a pinprick. Considering the cost of antivenom in the U.S., one bite could send me into financial ruin from which I’d never return. Or the grave, if I was lucky.
To my shock—and disgust—Elmo lifted into my touch, nuzzling my hand like a damn cat.
Turns out, Elmo also loved being stroked, and loved his belly rubbed. After he rolled into my lap, onto his back, I hesitantly wiggled my fingers against his abdomen, expecting him to snap. But no—he curled around my hand, playing with my fingers like a cat during a belly rub—minus the teeth and claws.
Speaking of teeth, his fangs kept me on edge. Elmo’s were nearly an inch long, and they had my mind running in circles—most reported bites of their genus. I was too drained to panic but too wired to go into autopilot—even the auto-dog seemed to have called it quits.
Then, without warning, Elmo decided he was done playing on his back.
Still gripping my hand, Elmo proceeded to climb up my arm. I froze, my breath catching, a string of curses flowing out of my lips as he scuttled past my shoulder, then up the back of my head. Half the nerves in my body screamed at me to move, the other half to hold absolutely still. I was going to tear a muscle at this rate.
When he finally settled on top of my head like some nightmarish hat, all I could think was, at least he didn’t go for the facehugger approach.
“Out of sight, out of mind,” I told myself, trying to slow my racing heart. Maybe if I didn’t have to look at him, it’d make this easier. He seemed content where he was, so I carefully opened the window and crawled out, moving slowly, making sure not to jostle my terrifying passenger.
With Elmo now ‘handled’, I could check off the last thing on my list—cleaning his enclosure (excluding Carl, who lost meal privileges after shitting on my keys). But when I reached the enclosure, the latch at the top was ajar. I knew it wasn’t me—I’d triple-checked it earlier, and if I’d had a brick handy, I would’ve put it on top.
Someone—or something—had opened it.
I wasn’t one for superstitions, but that was before I became a werewolf. For God’s sake, I could talk to dogs. So, being a werewolf begged certain questions, like: if lycanthropy was real, then what else was real?
Charleston was a supposed hotspot for haunted houses. Perhaps Sandy’s house was also haunted. Or maybe it was the animals that were haunted. Or both—one did not exclude the other.
But perhaps I was going crazy, and there was still a rational explanation.
Carl? I checked—he was still in his cage. Maybe the cat. Apparently, for many of Sandy’s animals, doors were just suggestions, not obstacles.
Their above-average intelligence could be a sign of something more, or just the result of good training. I didn’t know. It wasn’t like I had a good baseline for such things.
I used the piece of the broken doorknob to let Maggie out. Many of the other dogs had crowded around outside, drawn by the commotion. I sent them off, then went back to Elmo’s enclosure.
Changing the bedding was easier than expected. The bottom slid out like a tray, with a wire mesh holding up the decorations. Among the bedding: the husk of a thoroughly drained grasshopper, the molted exoskeleton of Elmo, and—surprisingly—a tiny, very alive frog.
It should’ve shocked me, but after researching Fringed Ornamental Tarantulas, I knew a thing or two. For one, they kept frogs as pets.
“If you’re Elmo, then I’m guessing this is Dorothy.” I wasn’t sure if Elmo understood references to Sesame Street, but he seemed pleased when I allowed Dorothy to hop atop my head to join him (if him wiggling was a sign of contentment).
Great. Now I had a spider and a frog on my head. All I needed now were a few dogs, and I’d be two cockatoos short of a Disney princess.
I replaced the bedding and waited for the humidifier to do its job, then opened the top for Elmo. He crawled down my arm with Dorothy perched on his head, just like he’d ridden on mine. I found a Tupperware in the kitchen for Elmo’s old carapace. It was rather intact and I intended to save it for my sister Chelley. She loved these sorts of things, and after what Elmo had put me through, neither he nor Sandy were in a position to object.
Once Elmo was settled, I returned to the guest room and disassembled the doorknob completely, leaving the pieces in the desk drawer for JT to fix later. Then I sat at the desk and started searching for rooms to rent.
If this place was in fact haunted, Sandy would literally have to pay me to live here.
Even free therapy dogs and cheap rent weren’t enough to put up with this bullshit.