by Natasha Deen
“The error was…making too many wishes? That’s why I only get three?”
“He realized that the things that are truly valuable in life are precious because we fight and work for them. If we really want something, we must sacrifice for it, or else it becomes valueless.”
“So he cursed the lamp and all the wishes go wrong.”
“Exactly. It was his way of trying to teach the lesson he was too late in learning.”
“Is that how you ended up in the teapot?”
“Yes. I wished for a forever home.” Her tiny voice mewled with wistfulness. “A place where I was loved and protected, where I didn’t have to fight the cold or heat.” Green eyes stared into Aggie’s and touched her soul. “And I ended up in the lamp. My forever home.”
Aggie picked Ebony up, cradling the kitten in her arms, and crossed to the sofa. “You’ll stay with me. I’ll be your forever home.”
A soft, sad meow rained tears on Aggie’s heart.
“That’s very nice of you—”
“Aggie.”
“Aggie. But you may change your mind once the wishes are done.”
“I’m not going to change my mind. And as for the other part, that’s simple enough, I won’t wish for anything.”
She jerked back, stumbling out of Aggie’s arms. “You have to make wishes.”
“Why?”
“The wind blows, birds sing, genies grant wishes. If you don’t fulfill your part of the bargain, I’m going to be written up.”
“Written what?”
“The genie union. They’re sticklers. I could lose my licence over this.” Ebony scaled Aggie’s arm, her sharp, pointed claws dug through the sweater and left tiny prick marks in her flesh.
“Can’t you explain that you got a cursed lamp?”
“They know.”
“That seems a little callous on their part.”
“There are a lot of cursed lamps, vases, and teapots. I know one genie who grants wishes to excess. You should have seen the time he had a woman who wished for a bigger breasts. It took three guys just to turn her over.”
“So what happens if you lose your licence?”
“I become mortal.”
“Well then. Let them take your licence. Who cares? Stay with me.” She scratched the spot under Ebony’s chin and was rewarded by the rapid thumping of the kitten’s back leg.
“That’ll take two hundred years.”
“Oh.”
“Besides, once I get to ten thousand wishes performed, I can opt out and go back to mortality.”
“Let me guess,” Aggie said wryly, “you’ve granted nine hundred and ninety-nine wishes before me.”
“No. I’m on nine hundred and ninety-seven.” Her large, soulful eyes gazed at Aggie. “You’ll have to make three wishes, if you really want to help me.”
She snorted. “Hmm, three wishes all of which, go horribly wrong. No pressure there.”
“I know it’s a terrible situation, but it’s my job, and I want to be a good genie.”
The longing in her voice made Aggie hug Ebony, cuddle and kiss her. “You are a very good genie. The best. You gave me the options, and I made my decision. No one could ask for more.”
“Don’t you have anything you want desperately—even if it came out wrong—don’t you want to make a wish and see what happens?”
“Definitely not. Besides, there’s only one thing I want, and no one can help me with it.”
“Love?”
“What else?”
“It’s such a hard thing to find.”
“I know.” She rubbed Ebony’s head with slow, thoughtful strokes. The kitten purred, and rolled on to her back. “I love him with everything that’s in me to love, but he just doesn’t care for me that way.” Tears cobbled her throat, each drop a heavy stone that rubbed the tissue raw. “One day, I’ll get over it. Someday, I’ll look back and think, thank goodness we didn’t end up together. But right now, it sucks. Big time. I can’t help it. Sometimes, I just wish I was in his arms—” She jerked upright. “Oh, no! Ebony, that wasn’t a—”
But it was too late.
The room went cave-black, sounds like fireworks and bullets exploded in Aggie’s ears and bright sparks of light shot out, in front of her. Then everything went sickeningly quiet.
Chapter Three
“Shh. Take it easy, you’re okay.” Dillon’s voice soothed the ache and confusion thrumming through Aggie. His hand on her forehead, stroked her to consciousness with smooth, gentle movements.
“Oh!” She shifted, wincing at a sharp pain that lanced the spot behind her ears. “I had the weirdest dream—what did you put in that rice?”
Her words came out incoherent, a whimper of pain, her mouth seemed…strange—elongated, narrow, unfamiliar. Surprised by the garbled nature of her speech and her senses, she tried to lick her lips, only to realize she no longer had any. Her tongue pricked against teeth that were far sharper than she knew them to be.
Terrified, she wriggled and squirmed from Dillon’s grasp, opened her eyes and fell to blonde, hardwood floor with a thump and a series of clicks. She looked around. The leather furniture, the Asian-inspired décor, and the red, black, and white design scheme indicated she was now in Dillon’s home, but…how? Aggie tried to rise to her feet, but got only as far as her knees, since her vision reached as the mediocre height of the couch cushions. Terror and confusion graduated to full-on horror as her inner senses contradicted her sight and told her that she was standing—on four feet. She took a step, heard a click, retreated another three steps and the clicking sound accompanied her.
“Dillon, oh my God, what’s happening?” She looked down and wretched when she realized she no longer had feet. Paws. She stood on canine paws.
“It’s okay girl, I know you must be frightened.” With slow, smooth movements, Dillon crouched on all fours, and held his hand out in a friendly gesture.
“Frightened? I’m not frightened—I’m freaking out! For God’s sake, I’m a dog.” Rather than words, her sentence erupted from her throat in a high-pitched whine-howl.
His face spasmed with apprehension. “What’s wrong, Princess? Are you okay? Let me see you—maybe I missed a broken bone or bruise.”
She scrambled back, her claws click-clacking on the floor and her body sliding as it tried to maintain traction on the slick surface. “I’m a dog, I’m a dog.”
It seemed so stupid, to keep repeating the same thing over and again, but though her senses appeared comfortable with this disastrous turn of events, her brain and soul couldn’t wrap itself around this new aspect of being.
“Oh, baby girl, I’m so sorry. Are you hurt? Please come here, Princess.” Dillon remained on his hands and knees. His kindness flooded her and washed away some of her terror.
“Dillon,” she said, wanting to burst into tears but her ducts wouldn’t follow orders, “I’m a dog.” Since she couldn’t cry, she did the next best thing. She flopped on the floor and howled.
“Shh, shh. Pretty girl, it’s okay.”
She howled even louder. “No, it’s not. You finally tell me that I’m pretty, and I’m in a dog’s body.”
“Come here, Princess. I’ll take care of you.” He inched towards her and the concern in his eyes sopped up her hysteria.
She chuffed, sighed, and wished she could do more than howl. All the words she ever wanted to hear, and she was trapped in the body of a species that drank out of toilets. She half crawled, half crept towards him, both her doggy and human side needing the comfort of a friend. Dillon’s fingers curled around her ears and scratched the spot just behind them.
A flick of his fingers and her current predicament was driven from her mind in one blissful scratch. It was as though someone had injected her brain with a potent blend of muscle relaxant and endorphins. The disaster of her current situation forgotten, her body slumped against him. Pleasure sped along her muscles and nerves, so pure and intense, it made her eyes roll back and left her drooling.
“You like that, huh?”
No. She loved it, craved it, needed it for the rest of her life. His hands moved to massage the back of her neck, which felt good but it couldn’t compare to the ear scratching. She jittered and head-butted him, trying to get his massage back to her ears.
“What? Did you want a tummy rub?” And he began to rub her chest.
“Oh…oh, my.” No wonder dogs went nuts. This wasn’t pleasure, it was heaven with fingernails. His touch spread through her entire body, massaging her heart, warming her belly, and made her feel so good, the ear scratch seemed torturous in comparison. She slammed her head against his chest and wanting to crawl inside him, though she didn’t know if that was her human-self or her inner-dog.
His other hand moved to her ears and between the two spots, she had no desire to do anything but rest her weight on him and pant with ecstasy. A low, rhythmic thumping interrupted the silence of the moment. She glanced behind her and saw a dark, red tail slapping the ground. Aggie jerked away, instinctually disconcerted by its sight. Scrambling to her feet, she tried to get a better look at her tail, but only succeeded in making herself dizzy. Aggie sat back on her haunches, feeling mournful. “I’m a dog.”
“Who do you belong to?”
“You.”
“Did you lose your collar?”
“I don’t have one.”
He leaned against the leather couch and watched her. “You’re well-fed, glossy coat—someone’s got to be missing their Irish setter.”
“I’m a what? I’m not even Irish.”
Dillon stretched towards her, his hands circling her neck. “No collar, not even a depression of fur to say you ever had one.” His fingers moved to her ears and she prepared herself for another drool-worthy rubdown. But he only flipped her ears back and peered into them. “No tattoo.” His inspection continued to her mouth and teeth.
“This is both uncomfortable and slightly creepy. Please take your fingers away from my jowls.” Jowls. God, she had jowls. “Me and my stupid mouth, Ebony and that stupid lamp—pot. Some wish come true—in his arms, and I’m a freaking dog.” She needed to get back to her house, and she’d undo her hasty words. Aggie twisted her head away from Dillon, licking her teeth to get rid of the feeling of fingers in her mouth. She scrambled to her feet—paws, trying not to slip, scratch his floors, and all the while, look dignified doing it.
“I wish Aggie was here.”
That stopped her, and she slid to her stomach, the cold floorboards stealing the heat from her tummy. “What?”
He grinned, his teeth flashed white against the black stubble of his morning beard. “I swear, it’s like you’re talking to me.”
She snorted. Men. Of course she was talking to him—what did he think? Dogs just made sounds for the hell of it?
He rose to his feet and moved to the window. “Aggie is my neighbour. She would know what to do.” He turned back to face her. “She’s very dependable, my Aggie. Reliable, too.”
Great. She was a freakin’ Maytag dishwasher.
“It’s a little too early to wake her up.”
It was? She pushed to a standing position and went looking for the microwave clock.
“Are you hungry?” Dillon’s bare footsteps followed her into the cherry wood and stainless steel kitchen. “I don’t have any dog food. But I do have some raw beef—it’s for dinner tonight, but I don’t think Aggie will mind a menu change.”
Uncooked meat. Yuck. She wasn’t that much of a dog. The sweet-spicy aroma of cinnamon buns hiked along her olfactory tracts and left bread crumbs of brown sugar and frosting for her to follow. Cursed by canine height, however, she couldn’t see where they were. Her snout twitched, her nostrils quivered as she scented the air. She moved to the spot by the fridge, her claws clicking on the tiled floor. Lifting onto her back end, she placed her front paws on the counter top and hauled herself to a fully upright position.
Bingo. Cinnamon buns, the cream cheese frosting still melting along the toasted ridges. One snap of her jaws and she inhaled an entire pastry in one, lupine bite.
“Princess—hey, be a good girl! That’s not for dogs.” Dillon cupped the scruff of her neck and hauled her down before she could get her jaws around another one. Two vertical lines formed in the ridge between his eyebrows as he frowned at her. “Can dogs eat pastry? I know you can’t have chocolate…” he sighed and rubbed his forehead. “I wish Aggie was here.”
He reached for a bun at the same time that he glanced at the clock. “It’s almost six—I wonder how mad she’ll be if I wake her up early.” Setting the pastry down, he licked the tips of his fingers and reached for the cordless phone.
“I’m not home.”
Her phone rang into the silence of his house, and echoed in her ears.
“There’s no answer.” Worry crumpled his forehead and lips. “That’s not like her to shut off the ringer. She was really upset last night—” He walked to the patio door and stepped out to the balcony, saying, “I hope she’s okay.”
Aggie, who knew perfectly well that she was okay—though much hairier and with very bad breath—snuck back into the kitchen for another bun, and hoped that her canine metabolism would burn off the calories.
“Princess!”
She whipped a guilty look at Dillon, the proof of her cinnamon culpability evidenced by the bun in her jaws. Dropping all four paws back to the ground, she dashed for a corner, chomping all the way.
His footsteps pounded behind her, then his arms wrapped around her hips, bringing her to an undignified tackle by his LCD flat screen. Dillon’s hand came around to her mouth and dug in, trying to get the bun. She tried to chew without biting his fingers, as he wrested the pastry from her.
“You,” he panted, as he collapsed onto the floor, the soggy remnants of breakfast in his palm, “are a very bad girl. What if this stuff is like anti-freeze or chocolate?”
“Leave me alone. I’m hungry, furry, and have an unsettling urge to lick myself in places that a tongue should never go.”
“What if you can’t process it, or it screws up your digestive system?”
Dog or human, he still dictated her nutrition and food intake. It was adorable, anal, and she loved him even more. Her inner-canine took over, and she licked his face. He tasted of salt and sweet, and another yummy spice she couldn’t name. Her nose by his jaw, she sniffed, and then sniffed again, her nose trailing into his hair. More than his soap and the rumpled scent of sleep, she smelled the sour bite of fear and worry. There was also a deeper, richer aroma—misty oceans and waterfalls—and instinct said this was Dillon’s natural scent.
His fingers tangled in her fur and laughing, he pushed her away. “Yes, I love you too, Princess.” He dumped the food and washed his hands. Then he picked up the phone and hit a button.
She heard her answering machine kick in.
“This just isn’t Aggie.” He muttered the words, and the sour smell spiked the air.
“I’m fine—I’m right here.”
An absent-minded smile touched his lips. He patted her head. “There’s a good girl. I’m sure she’s all right; she’s a grown woman. She can’t cook or choose boyfriends…she’s emotional and high-strung—”
“I am not!”
“—sarcastic, and grouchy, but she’s got a good head and common sense. She probably just turned off the ringer.” Doubt crept into his face and graffitied worry lines into his forehead. “Aggie never turns off her phone.”
He moved to the roll-top desk, reached into a drawer and pulled out a pair of binoculars. Then he opened the patio door and went outside. She followed him, but came to an abrupt stop when she saw the stairs.
Dillon, half-way down, turned and looked back. “What’s wrong?”
“The stairs. How the hell do I get down them?”
“Come on, girl.” He patted his leg. “Come on.”
“Easy for you to say, you only have to worry about two legs,” she muttered. Her right paw reached towards the
first step and hung in the air, pedaling. She turned and looked at her rear-end. The front part of her was easy enough to navigate, but how did she handle the back end? Visions of tumbling down the stairs gave her vertigo. She whimpered and retreated.
Dillon moved towards her. “Do you need help? Want me to carry you?”
The humiliating image his words created sparked her courage. She put her hind end into reverse and turned around, so her tail faced the stairs. Then, looking behind her and keeping a focused eye on the steps, she went down the stairs. Backwards. As she passed Dillon, she flashed him a triumphant smile, but he only looked at her with a confounded expression on his face and followed her into the yard. The dew from the grass wet her paws and soaked into the hem of his bottoms.
“If I get charged as a peeping Tom,” he said, “she’s paying the fine. I would knock on the door, but if she’s turned off the ringer and trying to get some sleep, she’ll kill me for disturbing her. What kind of stupid, bone-headed thing is she doing by not answering the phone?” Irritation and anger murmured in the question. “First, she goes all PMS on me last night. Now, she’s giving me the silent treatment.”
He stopped by the back fence and putting the binoculars to his eyes, peered into her windows.
“Yeesh, I could be in the shower.”
“She might be in the shower.”
“You’re a genius.”
He took the binoculars from his eyes and looked at her, his expression embarrassed, his laugh sheepish. “I could be over-reacting—”
“You think?”
“She’s my best friend—I know Aggie better than she knows herself. It isn’t like her to not answer my calls.”
Aggie snorted. If only he knew the lengths she went to, just to answer a call—or be in his arms.
