Page 19 of Pack Nightmare

“That seems… odd. But fun!” I correct quickly, not wanting to hurt Landon’s feelings. “It sounds like he has a good sense of humor.”

“I know which of his stories are real and which are made up,” Landon mutters. “I’m not a complete idiot.”

“Of course you’re not,” I reassure him.

“If you say so,” Milo shrugs as we pass through the glass doors into brilliant sunshine. “So, what should we do with this beautiful fall afternoon?”

A sigh escapes my lips. “I have to head back to Harridan House. Roxanne texted me I have some alpha stuff to do.”

“No problem,” Landon grins. “Let’s get our alpha home so she can get to work.”

“I’m sorry, what is the issue?”

We’re in Roxanne’s modest Toyota, driving back into town, and she’s explaining what we’re about to face.

“Mrs. Angleton has a Pomeranian. Her neighbor, Mr. Fredricks, claims that the dog poops in his yard every day, and she doesn’t pick it up. She insists the dog only poops in her yard, and he’s just harassing her.

This is not the first time he’s complained about it. I’ve suggested he get a camera so he can get proof, but he’s an older gentleman and doesn’t want to deal with technology. He insists the poop is proof enough.”

The laughter ripples from my chest. “This is the big serious alpha duty my uncle dealt with? Good lord. Now I understand where the alpha command comes in. Why can’t they just sort it out?”

Roxanne’s voice is patient, but firm. “As the alpha, it’s your job to sort out disputes, no matter how silly they may seem to you, with as little forced compliance as possible. This issue is a serious problem for them. Thus, it’s a serious problem for you. In a normal society, they’d report it to the police, but here…”

“Here, the job falls to me,” I sigh. “I get it. So what do I do?”

“Well, I want you to listen to their complaints and see where your instincts lead you. Your inner alpha should help you find a way through, so I don’t want to lead the witness.” She slows the car, pulling into the driveway of a small but neat little gingerbread house of a home. An older woman stands on the tiny porch in a pink housecoat, clutching a tan fluffy dog with a pink bow between its ears.

We barely open the doors of the car before she comes shuffling over in her slippers, jabbering. Obviously agitated, words fly out of her a mile a minute.

“Thank you so much for coming, alpha. I just don’t know what to do with that bully. I told him Princess never leaves the house without me, and she only does her business in my backyard, and I pay the neighbor boy twenty dollars a week to clean it up. There’s no way the poop in his yard is hers, but he keeps blaming it on poor Princess, shouting over the fence at us and scaring her half to death.” The old woman strokes a trembling, age-spotted hand over the dog’s head. The animal seems completely at ease, her panting snout practically smiling.

The dog is really cute. I’m already biased.

Trying not to be distracted, I word my response carefully based on the lesson I had with Roxanne. “Thank you for bringing this to my attention. What resolution are you hoping to reach?”

She looks at me as if I’m stupid. “Well, for that old bully to stop shouting at me and blaming Princess for the poop, obviously.”

I swallow down the sudden urge to giggle. “Okay, let me speak with Mr. Fredricks and see what he has to say.”

“I know what he’ll say. He’ll say the same thing he’s been saying for months. But he’s wrong!” She wags a gnarled finger at me.

“Okay, Mrs. Angleton, I’ll be right back.” I turn and walk the few steps toward the neighbor's house. Naturally, he’s been watching us through the screen door the entire time and is out on the porch, shouting, before I reach him.

“I’ve been saying it for months, and it keeps happening. That rat needs to stop pooping on my lawn!”

“She’s a dog, and she’s not pooping on your lawn, you senile old codger,” Mrs. Angleton shouts back from her driveway. “Princess is a good girl and always goes poopy where she’s supposed to.”

“Bah,” he shouts back. “No one in their right mind would call that thing a dog. At best, she’s a rabbit.” He turns to glare at me, brown hands on his hips. His pants are pulled up over his belly button, held in place by a pair of brightly colored suspenders, worn over a simple white tank top despite the chilly fall air. “Come here, alpha, I’ll show you all the proof you need. She did it again, and I left it so you can see.” He waves a hand, the long skin of his upper arm dangling with the gesture, and I follow his short steps along the side of his house to a small patch of grass just past his driveway. A tall wooden fence separates his property from Mrs. Angleton’s, shaded by a robust maple tree whose leaves are turning a brilliant shade of orange.

Sure enough, there’s a tiny, dark pile of poop right in the middle of an otherwise emerald green lawn.

“You see?” He crows triumphantly. “Proof that rat shit on my lawn.”

It is killing me, but somehow I maintain a straight face. Roxanne wasn’t kidding; they take this very seriously despite how silly it seems to me, and I have to be respectful.

I look closely at the offending pile and quickly conclude that this is not Pomeranian poo. But the trick is convincing him of that fact.

“Thank you, Mr. Fredricks. Would you excuse me for just a minute? I need to speak with your neighbor.” I turn and head back to his driveway, where Roxanne and Mrs. Angleton are waiting, pom in hand.

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