Wolf for Hire

Chapter Three

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.

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.

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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.

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, instead, I 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.