Page 37 of Their Pup to Tame

“My inner kitty needed to be appeased,” Phoenix muttered.

“That and he failed his saving throw,” Parker reminded me.

“The dice failed the saving throw, all I did was sit back and helplessly watch the calamity unfold,” Phoenix complained.

“Which is why we need an exit strategy,” I announced. “Something that will allow us to dip the moment it looks like we’re about to kick off another interspecies incident.”

“That’s going to be my character’s slogan from now on,” Phoenix declared. “Meow Minion, kicking off interspecies incidents since 2026. If you’ve got the dime, I’ll arrange the crime.”

“Now you just sound like a poorly thought-out supervillain,” I snickered.

“Or a five AM infomercial,” Parker hooted. “We are truly going to find ourselves in the shit if he unrolls a whole line of products and services.”

“That’s not a bad idea at all,” Phoenix mused. “Do you have any paper back here?”

Sighing, I grabbed a spare notebook from the supply drawer and passed it over, along with a couple of pens. Our food was dwindling, though there was still enough left in the cartons to add a few more morsels to my plate.

“Why are you encouraging him to engage in chaos?” Parker grumbled.

“Because we are about wandering through woods that are filled with marauders, tricksters, and thieves,” I pointed out. “We are going to need our Meow Minion to balance the scales.”

I couldn’t recall the name Phoenix had actually given to his half-feline, half-human character, because once Parker had started calling him the party’s Meow Minion, the name had stuck. Our pup was rather pleased with it, and judging from the list rapidly unfolding beneath his pen, he was planning on having boatloads of fun…and likely get us chased all over the forest for our troubles.

Yup.

Exit strategy was a must.

“I think I’ve got an idea for your exit strategy,” Parker offered. “If we find ourselves in a sticky predicament, I’ll just spill hot food or soup all over myself, at which point the rest of you will have the excuse of needing to rush me to a healer.”

“And if you fail your saving throw?”

“Dorian is not going to let my character die from hot soup or coffee burns.”

Snorting, I cocked an eyebrow at him. “How long have you known Dorian? Do you really want to hope those wishy-washy dice of yours can carry you through however many rounds of saving throws he makes you roll for injuring yourself?”

First, Parker puffed up, he even waved his fork in my direction until Phoenix snagged the chunk of rib clinging to the end of it and ate it. Parker stared from me to the end of his fork like he was torn between which atrocity to deal with first. Finally, he just deflated.

“Okay, fair point on the dice. They haven’t been rolling anything I’ve needed lately. I’ve looked at new ones at the gaming store but haven’t been able to decide on a pair yet.”

“You might want to stop fiddle-farting around and pick some up before the game starts.”

“Yeah, I need to get more words too. It’s just easier to write them in my notebook first so I can make all the changes and corrections I want before reading them into the computer. For some reason, when I try to write directly into a Word document, I feel like I spend half my time going backward, editing what I just typed and wind up tuning out the characters.”

“Because typing and writing require two different parts of the brain,” I reminded him.

“I can stick around and give you a hand if you want?” Phoenix offered. “It’ll save me from falling victim to another bout of obscenity.”

“Come on, this is the best kind of obscenity,” Parker declared, gesturing to the mostly empty containers.

Three, maybe four pieces of pork remained, along with one crab Rangoon and a tiny scoop of Mongolian beef. I knew the moment their eyes locked on the rib carton not to get involved in the melee that was about to ensue. Parker’s fork darted towards the carton, but Phoenix employed a different strategy and yanked it out from under him, cuddling it to his chest, while I waited for their attention to be diverted and grabbed the last crab Rangoon.

“Drats!” Parker declared, while Phoenix cried, “Victory!” and shoved two pieces in his mouth.

Parker’s head swiveled, eyeing what remained, before he turned to face me. “What the hell, man! Double drats!”

“Getting slow in your old age,” I said, grinning as I dunked the crab Rangoon in sweet and sour sauce.

“Now wait just a minute!” He huffed, puffing up again. “You are two months older than I am! How are you going to sit over there and crack old jokes at me?”