And, most importantly, to avoid humans.
Because despite all their soft and gentle natures, humans were terrifying. They had tried to end our race throughout history, hunting us to the brink of extinction because of the actions of a wolf who couldn't control their bloodlust or one who wanted revenge. We only turned those who were pre-approved by the rest of the supernatural community, because doing otherwise was forbidden. It was suicide. And it was wrong, stealing a simpler life from the human and forcing them to learn to be something they weren't.
Of all the different beliefs and belief systems among the packs, flights, prides, and such of the world, it was the one truth we all held. It was a law beyond all others. We were never meant to turn those with no understanding of the supernatural world.
And if my hypothesis held true, my son had just broken that law.
Chapter 3
Sadie
I pried the pup off of my shoulder and held him at arm's length. He wagged his tail at me, bloody tongue lolling out of his mouth as if he were proud that he'd nailed me. It wasn't the first time I'd been bitten by an animal and it certainly wouldn't be the last. Once, an opossum had managed to get me and the county hospital had demanded I get rabies shots.
Everything you've read about them? Absolutely true.
God, I hoped this little rascal had a rabies license.
He squirmed out of my grip and I had to dodge another playful snap of his jaws, this aimed at my legs. I got up as quick as I could and backed my way out of the room. Thankfully, he didn't seem to understand stairs. He whined at the bottom of them, scratching at the last step with his tiny, needle-sharp claws.
One of the first things they teach you during puppy training classes is to ignore a whining, screaming puppy when they're in their comfort zone. Not knowing how long I would have him under my guardianship, I thought it best to start crate training in a positive way. I tossed a handful of treats into one of the grassy squares and shut the door behind me. He'd have to use his nose to find the snacks and, as young as he looked, it might take him a little while to figure it out.
As for me, I went to the nearby bathroom and pulled my shirt away to examine the bite. He'd certainly broken the skin, the injury far deeper than I'd ever had a puppy hurt me before. There'd been a fox who had come close, though, and I hadn't told anyone about him. Sometimes local vets were a little too enthusiastic, wanting to test the brain for rabies rather than wait ten days for signs of the disease. I wasn't about to let that happen to a fox who had simply been defending himself, so I'd put him in the rabbit hutch out back for ten days, provided food and water, and let him go when I was satisfied he hadn't killed me.
That had been years ago, so I was pretty certain he hadn't been rabid. I still had the scar on my hand, I noted, as I flinched at the oozing wound on my shoulder. It didn't look bad enough to require stitches, so that was a plus for the pup. I cleaned it, winced my way through smearing antibiotic ointment on it, and plopped a gauze pad over it. Then, using some roll gauze, I wrapped the wound from armpit to clavicle. Stretching and flexing my arm didn't move the hack job I'd done, but it did make me have a certain Revolutionary War motif that I couldn't shake.
"Well, I'm not the flutist," I told Bosco, who came to sit beside me as I worked. "I failed band in high school. Who fails band, Boc-boc?"
He wiggled his stump of a tail at me, but his face held a note of worry that would have been missed by those who usually referred to him as "just a dog". I leaned down and kissed the top of his head. That stump wiggled harder, enough that I had to encourage him. "You keep that up and your whole butt is gonna wag right off."
Bosco took a moment to process what I'd said, but when his three whole brain cells rubbed together, he woofed at me and ran out of the room. His hind legs tucked under his belly and he scampered as fast as he could across the kitchen floor. The poor guy missed the carpet, caught it with one forepaw, and went skidding off into Carrie Ann and Nicodemus, a grouchy old centipede of a corgi that had gotten out of his crate, apparently.
It was possible, I admitted as I stared at the pile of dog, that Carrie had let him out. She knew how crates worked and the pair of them were absolutely the best friends that existed in the whole house. As it was, I shook my head as Nicodemus snarled at Bosco and the boxer mix got up, shook himself off, and hurried off to go find someone else to pounce on.
I worked my way from the kitchen into the living room. There were nine crates in all, most of them older dogs who had been abandoned or had been requested for pick up. The owners couldn't afford their medication or special food for them; or maybe they just couldn't deal with the messes. Lady, an elderly cocker spaniel who'd been named after the old Disney character, had peed on her pee pad. When I'd gotten her, she'd been a nightmare of crate messes. All she'd needed was a pee pad to help her out if she couldn't hold it.
But that had been too hard for her 90-year-old owner to cope with, and
