Clothing and beer
Nov. 22nd, 2010 08:02 pm![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
shelbyrouIt is currently 11:04 Pacific Time on Mon Nov 22 2010.
Currently the moon is in the waning Full (Ahroun) Moon phase (93% full).
Harbor Park -- Fountain
Situated in the center of a large, open meadow is a clustering of six trees, a flower bed, a few steel-and-wood benches set firmly into concrete, and a flagstone courtyard that is dominated by a large fountain.
The fountain is a wide circular pool of water some fifty feet across and about five feet deep in most places. The sculpture in the center is a mix of old and new, traditional and modern: eight concrete-and-stainless-steel slabs about six feet high are set in a rough Stonehenge-like circle around the center of the fountain. Water flows from their tops, cascading in bright mesmerizing sheets to the pool below. Rising above the steel circle is a large marble statue of the Water Bearer, an androgynous figure draped in robes of flowing water. It bears a large jug carved with various Greek symbols, from which pours a seething torrent of water into the pool at its feet.
Cars on the nearby street have an excellent view of the park as do any residents of the tall buildings which line the waterfront.
The murky waters of the Columbia River flow swiftly along the east side of the park. Bracketing the park to the west is First Street and the city of St. Claire. Recent construction work is creating an earthen berm several feet high all along the borders of the park in all directions.
Obvious exits:
Harbor Park Meadow
The park is relatively empty at this time of the morning, before the lunch-time rush. various of those few pedestrians currently near the fountain are on their cellphones. It's likely Animal Control are receiving several complaints. The cause of those complaints? A black-and-while mongrel dog that is behaving very, very strangely. It snaps at the falling snowflakes, then sneezes and scrubs its face on its forelegs when flakes settle on its nose; then it scoots beneath a bench to glare at the snow balefully and shiver. It emerges again to apparantly try to leap and catch a flurry, then stands confused and chilly-looking as the fickle white stuff scatters and refuses to be caught. Frustrated, it barks. *Stop! Stop! Stop!* Then it starts the whole rigmarole all over again.
Bundled as though it were the depths of January in northern Canada (and yet still managing to look fashionable while doing so), Shelby hurries through the slowly-gathering snow toward the fountain, slipping every few feet on heels far too impractical for this weather. When she slips her hands fly wide, but tuck back under her arms as soon as balance is regained. It's the barking that catches her attention, though the cavorting probably helps; after a blank moment recognition sets in, and she whistles high and sharp to catch the Gnawer's ears, waving the dog over.
What a good dog the mongrel is, freezing at the whistle with her tail looped over her rump and her one upright ear swivelling radar-dish-like towards the sound, and then bounding towards the bundled figure with more barking, this time with a hopeful note. Food? Foodfoodfoodfood? Any potential goodwill, however, may be dampened by the splattery wet shower kicked up from the ground as the mutt skids to a halt near the whistler, slashing the unwary. The Gnawer sniffs to aid recognition. Seems anybody whistling for a dog is treated as fair game by this one, whether she knows them or not.
"Augh!" says Shelby, holding up gloved hands to keep the spray from her face (the spray never gets that high, but perhaps they stop a stray droplet or two) before bending to floofle at the doggie's ears. "What are you doing out here? Don't you have a coat?" All perfectly normal conversational topics to have with a dog, of course. "It's freezing." Technically, yes.
Rat-Tale peers along her own flank. Coat? This is coat! ... Oh! twoleg coat. Wrong shape. Cold, yes, coldcoldcoldcoldcold. Her stupidly long tail tucks under and she shivers again for emphasis, but it doesn't keep her on that topic for long. Rat-Tale has found bits of cloud falling down! she tells the Fang. Out of the sky! Look!
"No, there are dog coats," the Fang answers, sketching out a length on the Gnawer's back. "I think there's a store around here somewhere, if you wanted to go get one. It'd be warmer, anyway." She shivers again and casts a disapproving look up at the sky, though with the care of one who's already gotten snow in her eye. "It's snow," and therefore ishy. "I didn't think it was going to snow out here. Or at least not this early." Whining? Just a little bit.
Takes-Falcon's-Trick would get Rat-Tale twoleg-made coat? The mutt's single ear perks hopefully, her tail emerging enough to wave behind her.
"Sure," Shelby says easily. "But, um...." She casts an eye around them, then kneels, lowering both one knee and her voice though there are scant few gawkers around to eavesdrop. "I don't remember if we should buy the coat for this size, or the, um, other one. Are you smaller this way?" She taps at her own, uncollared neck as demonstration.
Rat-Tale is always the same size in wolf-shape, the Gnawer informs Shelby. Looks different. It's as well the Fang is cautious, though, as the pair has attracted a certain amount of attention. At least most of the cellphones have been put away.
Shelby brushes the Gnawer's back, giving her an almost absent-minded pat before standing. "Well, that's good. All right. Let me just look and see where...," she digs in her purse for a phone, pausing with the small object in hand to frown down at the Gnawer. "Um. You're all right to go shopping, right? I mean, I don't have to leave you outside or anything?"
Rat-Tale thinks with her head on one side. We find somewhere hidden, she says. Rat-Tale looks different. Not here.
Shelby says, "No," but doesn't follow up on that thought, instead frowning absently at one of those people with nothing better to do than watch a girl talk to her dog. "I meant, uh, you don't have a leash on, and people might think you're going to bite them. But you aren't, are you? Even if they do something stupid, or have food or something?"
This is for food, the mutt indicates, winching herself up on her hindquarters, letting her forepaws flop pathetically and tilting her head with pleading eyes. Not bite. Twolegs run away from bite.
Shelby snickers at the poor, pathetic starving puppy and, after poking ineffectually at the screen for a moment, sighs and pulls off a glove to use a bare finger instead. After a few minutes she reports, "All right, there's a place a few blocks from here called Bow Wow & Woofs. They'll have something." Or she'll know why. Phone safely back in purse, glove warmly back on hand, she pats her leg and heads off for the edge of the park, encouraging 'her' dog to follow with a quick, "C'mon."
Rat-Tale drops to 'heel' just like any well-trained dog. Only her running commentary on the sights and smells they pass marks her out (to Garou at least) as not your ordinary mutt. She's not shy of making her opinions felt, when it comes to that running commentary, and a lot of it is both uncomplimentary and (perhaps unintentionally) funny.
One of the good things about being a Ragabash is that Gaia allows you to use your sense of humor, and Shelby giggles her way down the street no matter how many odd looks it gives her. But giggling girls, even in this part of town, and especially accompanied by ragey Galliards, are fairly readily explained away by 'druggie', and the pair are unmolested as the store draws nigh. For a moment the man behind the counter looks as though he might protest their entrance, but Shelby only smiles sweetly and asks for the doggie coats, exaggerating her accent.
The Gnawer hangs back in the doorway at the blast of scents from within the store, but follows in without too much nudging, then proceeds to stick her nose into absolutely everything unless the Fang stops her. This does little to endear her to the staff. Perhaps that's why they point Shelby so abruptly in the right direction- the sooner she finds what she wants, the sooner the pair will be gone.
The Gnawer does, indeed, get a, "Stop that!" or two and once, when a particularly tempting organic peanut butter biscuit beckons, a low-voiced, "We're here for a coat, remember?" before she shoots an innocent smile at the man behind the counter. There are several varieties of coat, even in the 'useful' dog size (whereas if Rat Tale were small enough to fit in Shelby's purse, the wardrobe expands dramatically). Fleece in plain and patterned, lightly quilted and PVC for rain (accompanied by hat and booties, of course), even a few clearance Halloween costumes... the world is their oyster. "What color, do you think?" Shelby asks, pulling a utilitarian blue plaid number off a hook.
Rat-Tale makes a beeline for something sparkly in bright pink. Either some things really do cross species boundaries, or she's colour-blind.
Or someone rubbed pizza on that one earlier. "I don't know how warm that's going to be...," the Ragabash says dubiously, but hangs up the blue to get the pink instead. It is an adorable outfit, with pink sparkles and some tulle around the hips, but it's also, "Oh, this isn't going to fit," Shelby says, actually sounding regretful. "Sorry, hon." A quick pawing through the rest and she shakes her head. "The biggest they have is cocker spaniel, and you're bigger than one of those. What else?"
Biggest is what? the Gnawer asks with the sort of quizzical expression only possible with a furry forehead. Rat-Tale likes sunset! Sun, hot. Warm dusk. Summer flowers. Like home, she concludes, with a wistful little tail-wag.
"Red, pink, orange," Shelby interprets, before glancing down to hold her hands roughly 15 inches apart. Cocker Spaniel sized. "OK, let me see what they have." Though the staff looks on aghast, the Fang makes short work of pulling out the available coats in those colors as well as a blinding lime green and spreading them for display. "We have camo, and a bomber jacket. --I like this one," a reversible that's zebra print on one side and pink on the other. There's one with tassels and one that proclaims the wearer to be "SPOILED" in glittery studs, and a couple of relatively tame plain numbers. "Which ones?"
Rat-Tale sniffs them all over, not helping the reaction of anyone barring Shelby. Rat-Tale likes them all! Which one is Rat-Tale shaped?
Shelby, of course, thinks her doggie is the bestest doggie ever, and thus doesn't prevent the mutt from doing whatever she likes to the coats... thank you, Paris Hilton. "All of them," she declares, though a half-second later, "Or, well, close enough, anyway. The really cute ones," those she's left hanging, made of metallic tissue or with extra sparkle, "are all way too small."
Take a bit of terrier for the general shape, and add a dash of border collie for the black-and-white colouring. Mix in something heavier- probably more labrador than rottweiler, with the increased bulk mainly in the legs and head. Give her an over-long tail that curls into a loop at the end. Prop one pointed ear upright but let the the other flop. This fails to be adorable and instead merely looks assymetrical. Her eyes are brown and her nose splotched with pink. Her coat is grubby, smells of dog, and needs a good brush. Around her neck is a ratty leather dog-collar with a tag.
The Gnawer head-tilts. Small, she agrees, momentarily downcast. Bigger ones? she queries, perking again moments later.
"Any of these," Shelby repeats, sweeping her hand toward the lot. "If they don't fit you perfectly, they'll be a titch small, maybe, but that's close enough, right?" She picks up the zebra-and-hot-pink... thing and holds it out hopefully. "What do you think about this one?"
Rat-Tale would look like a tiger, the Gnawer claims, her tail raising over her rump cockily. There's few enough in this part of the world who would be familiar with the Lupus term for the animal in question, though.
Shelby, unsurprisingly, asks, "A what?" and glances at the staff in case they know. Nobody quite meets her eyes, but is suddenly very involved in sweeping or cleaning the shelves. "Looks like it'll come off easily too," the Ragabash notes almost absently, and giving the Gnawer only a moment to protest, makes to pop the coat over her head (though the belly band remains unfastened. "See? Just pull here," at the velcro tab in front, "and it should just slide right off."
Rat-Tale has no objections to being dressed up, although her wriggling around to try and look makes for a tricky fit. Rather like trying to get a leotard onto a greased ferret. No pride at all, this Gnawer; and, it seems, precious little wolf.
Eventually, and with a bunch of hold stills delivered at various intensities and volume, the jacket lies flat - or mostly flat. Shelby steps back to consider the look. "Pretty flashy," is what she decides, though her eyes drift back to the pink camo number (it has a hood, and a skull on the back). "You want to try on any others, or are you good?"
Rat-Tale wriggles and squirms despite the admonitions, and then she catches her reflection in the shiny side of a display-stand. Oooooooh... rrrrrowl! The Fang's question doesn't quite seem to have attracted her attention.
Shelby doesn't try again to catch it, only smiles to herself and gathers up the discards to hang willy-nilly back on whatever hook will take them. "Very color-coordinated," is the compliment (assuming, of course, one ignores the flash of pink at the turned-back collar). "Here, give me the tag," a quick yank, one she manages to get her hands on it, and she heads up to the counter with one of her brilliant smiles for the man behind the register. "We still have to put that on you properly!" she calls over her shoulder before the traditional waving of plastic seals the deal.
Properly? That filters through to the Gnawer's perception. She gives Shelby a puzzled look and ambles over to peer up at the counter from below, which gives her zero view of what's going on. Not proper?
The Fang looks over and down, but only smiles at 'her dog'. Only after the receipt is carefully folded and placed within her wallet and all safely back into her purse does she kneel and tug the velcro belly band free. "Hold still," she warns, and quickly reaches under (bad touch, bad touch!) to snug the jacket tight. Not too tight, though. A bit of fussing with the collar (and really, that much hot pink shouldn't be allowed outside of Vegas) and she stands to drop the Galliard a satisfied nod. "/Now you won't be cold."
Rat-Tale has very very good Stuff, the Gnawer opines, her tail waving gleefully. Falcon's-Trick is very nice person!
"That is an entirely kicking jacket," Shelby agrees, quite satisfied with herself and her efforts. "C'mon." Holding the door for the dog, she bestows one last smile on the surely-relieved staff before she and the Gnawer are outside in the offensive white stuff again. "And you're welcome. Snow is awful, and it ought to be against the law."
Rat-Tale picks up her paws catlike in distaste as the twosome emerge into the horrors of Weather. Food now? she suggests. Rat-Tale finds food? Rat-Tale finds fuzzy water... Falcon's-Trick has the spirit-knowing of drinking fuzzy water?
"Food'd be good," Shelby agrees, though the rest of Rat-Tale's questions bring a shake of her head. "Sorry, I don't... fuzzy water? You mean like Coke? Soda? Or do you mean beer?"
Shelby's tendancy to talk in answer to the Lupus' remarks once again draws her funny looks from the passers-by. Probably about as many as the wary looks that the Gnawer garners. Fuzzy water! the Gnawer repeats. Makes you feel fuzzy. Good knowing for being around twolegs.
Happily the cold, the neighborhood, and the Galliard's Rage all conspire to keep those looks from turning into more - at least for now. "Fuzzy," Shelby repeats dubiously. "Um... I'm not sure what you're talking about. Maybe we should go somewhere else? I've got a car," the magic word! "I only came into town to look for Tim. He hangs out at the park a lot. We could go for a ride?" The other magic word!
Rat-Tale capers. There can be no other word for it. It looks ridiculous.
But very warm, and exceptionally flashy.
Shelby grins again, huddles deeper into her coat, and nods back toward the park. "All right. Let's go." The trip to her car takes slightly less time than the walk to the shop, and once there Shelby makes short work of maneuvering out of the city. She refuses to put the windows down, however. Eventually they pull up in front of Edgewood House, and Shelby releases the Gnawer from confinement, letting her into the house as well. "Here we are."
Edgewood House: Downstairs
Rat-Tale is, what else, but the sort of creature who thinks any car journey is made soley for the purpose of sticking her head out of the window and letting her tongue flap in the breeze. She jumps out of a vehicle that now smells distinctly of unwashed dog, and snorts at the surroundings. White stuff here too, she whines.
"It's everywhere until you get properly south," Shelby agrees dourly, hanging up her coat, untwisting the scarf, and placing all her accoutrements into pocket and hook. "Can you get out of that," a nod to the Gnawer's jacket, "or do you need help? Do you want me to go see if there's beer in the fridge, too?"
Take it off? The Gnawer noses the jacket. Why? Leaving it at that, she bounces into the living-room and on into the kitchen. Fuzzy water! Yesyes! Rat-Tale shows Falcon's-Trick special spirit-knowing with it?
"'Cause it'll be hot," Shelby says, as if it ought to be obvious. She trails after the Galliard and past to the fridge, where she obligingly searches for something alcoholic. "Special spirit-knowing... you mean like a gift, or a rite?"
Yes, the Gnawer replies, not terribly informatively. One of those.
It's enough information, anyway, that Shelby's expression clears as she retreats from the fridge with a Bud Light in one hand and a Diet Coke in the other. "Oh, OK. Do you, um...," looking from the bottle to the Gnawer and back, "Can you drink it like this, or should I get you a bowl?"
Funny twoleg-born! Everything tastes better from bowls, Rat-Tale claims. Or the ground, she adds after a moment's thought.
Shelby only nods as if everyone drinks beer from a bowl and steps around the Gnawer to get one down. Once the beer is sufficiently foamy she sets it down and pops open her own can, sitting and tucking her feet up under her. "So there's a rite that has to do with beer? Figures, I suppose - the Fianna would have one if nobody else does."
Cockroach-pups made it, Rat-Tale replies, slurping foamy beer and looking up with a bubbly moustache. Falcon's-pups know it. Flying-horse-pups. Stag-pups. Rat-pups too!
Shelby huhs, interested. "So what does it do? --And should we shift to crinos, or something? Sometimes I have a hard time understanding what you're saying. I'm not used to some of the terms you use."
Rat-Tale 's pink tongue pokes out and she licks away the foam clinging to her lip. Take this off, she instructs, trying to get her teeth to one of the straps of the coat.
"Can't you get it?" the Ragabash asks, but after a moment (and after another sip of her Diet Coke) she slips out of the chair to help Rat-Tale with the velcro. "New straps - they'll loosen up, and you shouldn't have so much trouble later," she sympathizes.
Rat-Tale gives herself a vigorous shake, and carries on shaking until the black-and-white mongrel gives way to a sandy-pelted might-be-a-wolf. ~Better for words,~ she announces as she checks for the unlikely circumstance of unwanted observers, then takes Hispo. ~It is a Rite. Drink al-co-hol every day. Makes it easier to be calm around humans.~
Shelby folds the coat and lays it across the back of a chair as she retakes her seat. "--Oh," she says with renewed interest once the Gnawer's explained. "That's... all right, I suppose that makes sense. Does it have to be alcohol, though?" she asks, looking to her soda. "I don't really care for the taste of beer."
~Not only beer. Tharra. Toddy. You know? Wine. Pale Ale. Rum. Any,~ Rat-Tale supplies helpfully. ~Sixpack. Liquor.~ She's picked up the local slang, it seems, although it's badly mangled through Hispo jaws.
Shelby, though she gapes a little, appears to have knowledge of enough of the vocabulary that she's able to close her mouth. "Um," she says this time, and considers her Coke again. "Well, I do like some wine, but I'm. ...I'm not legal to drink." This could well be a shameful admission, though she tries to make the best of it. "I'm not old enough to buy, and I don't have a fake ID. Thank you for the offer, though."
Rat-Tale never ~/buys/~, the Gnawer points out, amused. She goes back to thoughtfully slurping beer. Knowing of saying-things-many-many-times to make learning easier?
The Fang says, "Well of course not. You're a Bone Gnawer," with a nod toward the so-spiffy coat. "You never have money. But yes, I know about rote memorization. That's how we all learned the Litany."
No, the Gnawer indicates with a sharp lift of her head. ~Rite,~ she continues, saying each word carefully. ~Gayatri. Know it?~
"...Gayatri?" Shelby repeats dubiously, as if uncertain of her own translation. "No, Rat-Tale-rhya, I haven't heard of anything like that. Is that the name of another Rite?"
~Yes,~ the Gnawer says, patiently before lapsing back into the communication of her birth-form. Rat-Tale taught Mends-Lost. Howl special things. Makes head open. Learn better. Falcon's-Trick wants to learn?
"--Yes, all right," Shelby decides after another moment. "I'm always interested in learning new things, and learning something that will help with learning is just too circular for words. How do we start?"
~After fuzzy water,~ Rat-Tale says, and bends to slurp up the rest of the liquid in the bowl before starting.
Currently the moon is in the waning Full (Ahroun) Moon phase (93% full).
Harbor Park -- Fountain
Situated in the center of a large, open meadow is a clustering of six trees, a flower bed, a few steel-and-wood benches set firmly into concrete, and a flagstone courtyard that is dominated by a large fountain.
The fountain is a wide circular pool of water some fifty feet across and about five feet deep in most places. The sculpture in the center is a mix of old and new, traditional and modern: eight concrete-and-stainless-steel slabs about six feet high are set in a rough Stonehenge-like circle around the center of the fountain. Water flows from their tops, cascading in bright mesmerizing sheets to the pool below. Rising above the steel circle is a large marble statue of the Water Bearer, an androgynous figure draped in robes of flowing water. It bears a large jug carved with various Greek symbols, from which pours a seething torrent of water into the pool at its feet.
Cars on the nearby street have an excellent view of the park as do any residents of the tall buildings which line the waterfront.
The murky waters of the Columbia River flow swiftly along the east side of the park. Bracketing the park to the west is First Street and the city of St. Claire. Recent construction work is creating an earthen berm several feet high all along the borders of the park in all directions.
Obvious exits:
Harbor Park Meadow
The park is relatively empty at this time of the morning, before the lunch-time rush. various of those few pedestrians currently near the fountain are on their cellphones. It's likely Animal Control are receiving several complaints. The cause of those complaints? A black-and-while mongrel dog that is behaving very, very strangely. It snaps at the falling snowflakes, then sneezes and scrubs its face on its forelegs when flakes settle on its nose; then it scoots beneath a bench to glare at the snow balefully and shiver. It emerges again to apparantly try to leap and catch a flurry, then stands confused and chilly-looking as the fickle white stuff scatters and refuses to be caught. Frustrated, it barks. *Stop! Stop! Stop!* Then it starts the whole rigmarole all over again.
Bundled as though it were the depths of January in northern Canada (and yet still managing to look fashionable while doing so), Shelby hurries through the slowly-gathering snow toward the fountain, slipping every few feet on heels far too impractical for this weather. When she slips her hands fly wide, but tuck back under her arms as soon as balance is regained. It's the barking that catches her attention, though the cavorting probably helps; after a blank moment recognition sets in, and she whistles high and sharp to catch the Gnawer's ears, waving the dog over.
What a good dog the mongrel is, freezing at the whistle with her tail looped over her rump and her one upright ear swivelling radar-dish-like towards the sound, and then bounding towards the bundled figure with more barking, this time with a hopeful note. Food? Foodfoodfoodfood? Any potential goodwill, however, may be dampened by the splattery wet shower kicked up from the ground as the mutt skids to a halt near the whistler, slashing the unwary. The Gnawer sniffs to aid recognition. Seems anybody whistling for a dog is treated as fair game by this one, whether she knows them or not.
"Augh!" says Shelby, holding up gloved hands to keep the spray from her face (the spray never gets that high, but perhaps they stop a stray droplet or two) before bending to floofle at the doggie's ears. "What are you doing out here? Don't you have a coat?" All perfectly normal conversational topics to have with a dog, of course. "It's freezing." Technically, yes.
Rat-Tale peers along her own flank. Coat? This is coat! ... Oh! twoleg coat. Wrong shape. Cold, yes, coldcoldcoldcoldcold. Her stupidly long tail tucks under and she shivers again for emphasis, but it doesn't keep her on that topic for long. Rat-Tale has found bits of cloud falling down! she tells the Fang. Out of the sky! Look!
"No, there are dog coats," the Fang answers, sketching out a length on the Gnawer's back. "I think there's a store around here somewhere, if you wanted to go get one. It'd be warmer, anyway." She shivers again and casts a disapproving look up at the sky, though with the care of one who's already gotten snow in her eye. "It's snow," and therefore ishy. "I didn't think it was going to snow out here. Or at least not this early." Whining? Just a little bit.
Takes-Falcon's-Trick would get Rat-Tale twoleg-made coat? The mutt's single ear perks hopefully, her tail emerging enough to wave behind her.
"Sure," Shelby says easily. "But, um...." She casts an eye around them, then kneels, lowering both one knee and her voice though there are scant few gawkers around to eavesdrop. "I don't remember if we should buy the coat for this size, or the, um, other one. Are you smaller this way?" She taps at her own, uncollared neck as demonstration.
Rat-Tale is always the same size in wolf-shape, the Gnawer informs Shelby. Looks different. It's as well the Fang is cautious, though, as the pair has attracted a certain amount of attention. At least most of the cellphones have been put away.
Shelby brushes the Gnawer's back, giving her an almost absent-minded pat before standing. "Well, that's good. All right. Let me just look and see where...," she digs in her purse for a phone, pausing with the small object in hand to frown down at the Gnawer. "Um. You're all right to go shopping, right? I mean, I don't have to leave you outside or anything?"
Rat-Tale thinks with her head on one side. We find somewhere hidden, she says. Rat-Tale looks different. Not here.
Shelby says, "No," but doesn't follow up on that thought, instead frowning absently at one of those people with nothing better to do than watch a girl talk to her dog. "I meant, uh, you don't have a leash on, and people might think you're going to bite them. But you aren't, are you? Even if they do something stupid, or have food or something?"
This is for food, the mutt indicates, winching herself up on her hindquarters, letting her forepaws flop pathetically and tilting her head with pleading eyes. Not bite. Twolegs run away from bite.
Shelby snickers at the poor, pathetic starving puppy and, after poking ineffectually at the screen for a moment, sighs and pulls off a glove to use a bare finger instead. After a few minutes she reports, "All right, there's a place a few blocks from here called Bow Wow & Woofs. They'll have something." Or she'll know why. Phone safely back in purse, glove warmly back on hand, she pats her leg and heads off for the edge of the park, encouraging 'her' dog to follow with a quick, "C'mon."
Rat-Tale drops to 'heel' just like any well-trained dog. Only her running commentary on the sights and smells they pass marks her out (to Garou at least) as not your ordinary mutt. She's not shy of making her opinions felt, when it comes to that running commentary, and a lot of it is both uncomplimentary and (perhaps unintentionally) funny.
One of the good things about being a Ragabash is that Gaia allows you to use your sense of humor, and Shelby giggles her way down the street no matter how many odd looks it gives her. But giggling girls, even in this part of town, and especially accompanied by ragey Galliards, are fairly readily explained away by 'druggie', and the pair are unmolested as the store draws nigh. For a moment the man behind the counter looks as though he might protest their entrance, but Shelby only smiles sweetly and asks for the doggie coats, exaggerating her accent.
The Gnawer hangs back in the doorway at the blast of scents from within the store, but follows in without too much nudging, then proceeds to stick her nose into absolutely everything unless the Fang stops her. This does little to endear her to the staff. Perhaps that's why they point Shelby so abruptly in the right direction- the sooner she finds what she wants, the sooner the pair will be gone.
The Gnawer does, indeed, get a, "Stop that!" or two and once, when a particularly tempting organic peanut butter biscuit beckons, a low-voiced, "We're here for a coat, remember?" before she shoots an innocent smile at the man behind the counter. There are several varieties of coat, even in the 'useful' dog size (whereas if Rat Tale were small enough to fit in Shelby's purse, the wardrobe expands dramatically). Fleece in plain and patterned, lightly quilted and PVC for rain (accompanied by hat and booties, of course), even a few clearance Halloween costumes... the world is their oyster. "What color, do you think?" Shelby asks, pulling a utilitarian blue plaid number off a hook.
Rat-Tale makes a beeline for something sparkly in bright pink. Either some things really do cross species boundaries, or she's colour-blind.
Or someone rubbed pizza on that one earlier. "I don't know how warm that's going to be...," the Ragabash says dubiously, but hangs up the blue to get the pink instead. It is an adorable outfit, with pink sparkles and some tulle around the hips, but it's also, "Oh, this isn't going to fit," Shelby says, actually sounding regretful. "Sorry, hon." A quick pawing through the rest and she shakes her head. "The biggest they have is cocker spaniel, and you're bigger than one of those. What else?"
Biggest is what? the Gnawer asks with the sort of quizzical expression only possible with a furry forehead. Rat-Tale likes sunset! Sun, hot. Warm dusk. Summer flowers. Like home, she concludes, with a wistful little tail-wag.
"Red, pink, orange," Shelby interprets, before glancing down to hold her hands roughly 15 inches apart. Cocker Spaniel sized. "OK, let me see what they have." Though the staff looks on aghast, the Fang makes short work of pulling out the available coats in those colors as well as a blinding lime green and spreading them for display. "We have camo, and a bomber jacket. --I like this one," a reversible that's zebra print on one side and pink on the other. There's one with tassels and one that proclaims the wearer to be "SPOILED" in glittery studs, and a couple of relatively tame plain numbers. "Which ones?"
Rat-Tale sniffs them all over, not helping the reaction of anyone barring Shelby. Rat-Tale likes them all! Which one is Rat-Tale shaped?
Shelby, of course, thinks her doggie is the bestest doggie ever, and thus doesn't prevent the mutt from doing whatever she likes to the coats... thank you, Paris Hilton. "All of them," she declares, though a half-second later, "Or, well, close enough, anyway. The really cute ones," those she's left hanging, made of metallic tissue or with extra sparkle, "are all way too small."
Take a bit of terrier for the general shape, and add a dash of border collie for the black-and-white colouring. Mix in something heavier- probably more labrador than rottweiler, with the increased bulk mainly in the legs and head. Give her an over-long tail that curls into a loop at the end. Prop one pointed ear upright but let the the other flop. This fails to be adorable and instead merely looks assymetrical. Her eyes are brown and her nose splotched with pink. Her coat is grubby, smells of dog, and needs a good brush. Around her neck is a ratty leather dog-collar with a tag.
The Gnawer head-tilts. Small, she agrees, momentarily downcast. Bigger ones? she queries, perking again moments later.
"Any of these," Shelby repeats, sweeping her hand toward the lot. "If they don't fit you perfectly, they'll be a titch small, maybe, but that's close enough, right?" She picks up the zebra-and-hot-pink... thing and holds it out hopefully. "What do you think about this one?"
Rat-Tale would look like a tiger, the Gnawer claims, her tail raising over her rump cockily. There's few enough in this part of the world who would be familiar with the Lupus term for the animal in question, though.
Shelby, unsurprisingly, asks, "A what?" and glances at the staff in case they know. Nobody quite meets her eyes, but is suddenly very involved in sweeping or cleaning the shelves. "Looks like it'll come off easily too," the Ragabash notes almost absently, and giving the Gnawer only a moment to protest, makes to pop the coat over her head (though the belly band remains unfastened. "See? Just pull here," at the velcro tab in front, "and it should just slide right off."
Rat-Tale has no objections to being dressed up, although her wriggling around to try and look makes for a tricky fit. Rather like trying to get a leotard onto a greased ferret. No pride at all, this Gnawer; and, it seems, precious little wolf.
Eventually, and with a bunch of hold stills delivered at various intensities and volume, the jacket lies flat - or mostly flat. Shelby steps back to consider the look. "Pretty flashy," is what she decides, though her eyes drift back to the pink camo number (it has a hood, and a skull on the back). "You want to try on any others, or are you good?"
Rat-Tale wriggles and squirms despite the admonitions, and then she catches her reflection in the shiny side of a display-stand. Oooooooh... rrrrrowl! The Fang's question doesn't quite seem to have attracted her attention.
Shelby doesn't try again to catch it, only smiles to herself and gathers up the discards to hang willy-nilly back on whatever hook will take them. "Very color-coordinated," is the compliment (assuming, of course, one ignores the flash of pink at the turned-back collar). "Here, give me the tag," a quick yank, one she manages to get her hands on it, and she heads up to the counter with one of her brilliant smiles for the man behind the register. "We still have to put that on you properly!" she calls over her shoulder before the traditional waving of plastic seals the deal.
Properly? That filters through to the Gnawer's perception. She gives Shelby a puzzled look and ambles over to peer up at the counter from below, which gives her zero view of what's going on. Not proper?
The Fang looks over and down, but only smiles at 'her dog'. Only after the receipt is carefully folded and placed within her wallet and all safely back into her purse does she kneel and tug the velcro belly band free. "Hold still," she warns, and quickly reaches under (bad touch, bad touch!) to snug the jacket tight. Not too tight, though. A bit of fussing with the collar (and really, that much hot pink shouldn't be allowed outside of Vegas) and she stands to drop the Galliard a satisfied nod. "/Now you won't be cold."
Rat-Tale has very very good Stuff, the Gnawer opines, her tail waving gleefully. Falcon's-Trick is very nice person!
"That is an entirely kicking jacket," Shelby agrees, quite satisfied with herself and her efforts. "C'mon." Holding the door for the dog, she bestows one last smile on the surely-relieved staff before she and the Gnawer are outside in the offensive white stuff again. "And you're welcome. Snow is awful, and it ought to be against the law."
Rat-Tale picks up her paws catlike in distaste as the twosome emerge into the horrors of Weather. Food now? she suggests. Rat-Tale finds food? Rat-Tale finds fuzzy water... Falcon's-Trick has the spirit-knowing of drinking fuzzy water?
"Food'd be good," Shelby agrees, though the rest of Rat-Tale's questions bring a shake of her head. "Sorry, I don't... fuzzy water? You mean like Coke? Soda? Or do you mean beer?"
Shelby's tendancy to talk in answer to the Lupus' remarks once again draws her funny looks from the passers-by. Probably about as many as the wary looks that the Gnawer garners. Fuzzy water! the Gnawer repeats. Makes you feel fuzzy. Good knowing for being around twolegs.
Happily the cold, the neighborhood, and the Galliard's Rage all conspire to keep those looks from turning into more - at least for now. "Fuzzy," Shelby repeats dubiously. "Um... I'm not sure what you're talking about. Maybe we should go somewhere else? I've got a car," the magic word! "I only came into town to look for Tim. He hangs out at the park a lot. We could go for a ride?" The other magic word!
Rat-Tale capers. There can be no other word for it. It looks ridiculous.
But very warm, and exceptionally flashy.
Shelby grins again, huddles deeper into her coat, and nods back toward the park. "All right. Let's go." The trip to her car takes slightly less time than the walk to the shop, and once there Shelby makes short work of maneuvering out of the city. She refuses to put the windows down, however. Eventually they pull up in front of Edgewood House, and Shelby releases the Gnawer from confinement, letting her into the house as well. "Here we are."
Edgewood House: Downstairs
Rat-Tale is, what else, but the sort of creature who thinks any car journey is made soley for the purpose of sticking her head out of the window and letting her tongue flap in the breeze. She jumps out of a vehicle that now smells distinctly of unwashed dog, and snorts at the surroundings. White stuff here too, she whines.
"It's everywhere until you get properly south," Shelby agrees dourly, hanging up her coat, untwisting the scarf, and placing all her accoutrements into pocket and hook. "Can you get out of that," a nod to the Gnawer's jacket, "or do you need help? Do you want me to go see if there's beer in the fridge, too?"
Take it off? The Gnawer noses the jacket. Why? Leaving it at that, she bounces into the living-room and on into the kitchen. Fuzzy water! Yesyes! Rat-Tale shows Falcon's-Trick special spirit-knowing with it?
"'Cause it'll be hot," Shelby says, as if it ought to be obvious. She trails after the Galliard and past to the fridge, where she obligingly searches for something alcoholic. "Special spirit-knowing... you mean like a gift, or a rite?"
Yes, the Gnawer replies, not terribly informatively. One of those.
It's enough information, anyway, that Shelby's expression clears as she retreats from the fridge with a Bud Light in one hand and a Diet Coke in the other. "Oh, OK. Do you, um...," looking from the bottle to the Gnawer and back, "Can you drink it like this, or should I get you a bowl?"
Funny twoleg-born! Everything tastes better from bowls, Rat-Tale claims. Or the ground, she adds after a moment's thought.
Shelby only nods as if everyone drinks beer from a bowl and steps around the Gnawer to get one down. Once the beer is sufficiently foamy she sets it down and pops open her own can, sitting and tucking her feet up under her. "So there's a rite that has to do with beer? Figures, I suppose - the Fianna would have one if nobody else does."
Cockroach-pups made it, Rat-Tale replies, slurping foamy beer and looking up with a bubbly moustache. Falcon's-pups know it. Flying-horse-pups. Stag-pups. Rat-pups too!
Shelby huhs, interested. "So what does it do? --And should we shift to crinos, or something? Sometimes I have a hard time understanding what you're saying. I'm not used to some of the terms you use."
Rat-Tale 's pink tongue pokes out and she licks away the foam clinging to her lip. Take this off, she instructs, trying to get her teeth to one of the straps of the coat.
"Can't you get it?" the Ragabash asks, but after a moment (and after another sip of her Diet Coke) she slips out of the chair to help Rat-Tale with the velcro. "New straps - they'll loosen up, and you shouldn't have so much trouble later," she sympathizes.
Rat-Tale gives herself a vigorous shake, and carries on shaking until the black-and-white mongrel gives way to a sandy-pelted might-be-a-wolf. ~Better for words,~ she announces as she checks for the unlikely circumstance of unwanted observers, then takes Hispo. ~It is a Rite. Drink al-co-hol every day. Makes it easier to be calm around humans.~
Shelby folds the coat and lays it across the back of a chair as she retakes her seat. "--Oh," she says with renewed interest once the Gnawer's explained. "That's... all right, I suppose that makes sense. Does it have to be alcohol, though?" she asks, looking to her soda. "I don't really care for the taste of beer."
~Not only beer. Tharra. Toddy. You know? Wine. Pale Ale. Rum. Any,~ Rat-Tale supplies helpfully. ~Sixpack. Liquor.~ She's picked up the local slang, it seems, although it's badly mangled through Hispo jaws.
Shelby, though she gapes a little, appears to have knowledge of enough of the vocabulary that she's able to close her mouth. "Um," she says this time, and considers her Coke again. "Well, I do like some wine, but I'm. ...I'm not legal to drink." This could well be a shameful admission, though she tries to make the best of it. "I'm not old enough to buy, and I don't have a fake ID. Thank you for the offer, though."
Rat-Tale never ~/buys/~, the Gnawer points out, amused. She goes back to thoughtfully slurping beer. Knowing of saying-things-many-many-times to make learning easier?
The Fang says, "Well of course not. You're a Bone Gnawer," with a nod toward the so-spiffy coat. "You never have money. But yes, I know about rote memorization. That's how we all learned the Litany."
No, the Gnawer indicates with a sharp lift of her head. ~Rite,~ she continues, saying each word carefully. ~Gayatri. Know it?~
"...Gayatri?" Shelby repeats dubiously, as if uncertain of her own translation. "No, Rat-Tale-rhya, I haven't heard of anything like that. Is that the name of another Rite?"
~Yes,~ the Gnawer says, patiently before lapsing back into the communication of her birth-form. Rat-Tale taught Mends-Lost. Howl special things. Makes head open. Learn better. Falcon's-Trick wants to learn?
"--Yes, all right," Shelby decides after another moment. "I'm always interested in learning new things, and learning something that will help with learning is just too circular for words. How do we start?"
~After fuzzy water,~ Rat-Tale says, and bends to slurp up the rest of the liquid in the bowl before starting.