Chapter 3
Oxford
The human female clutching my fur reeks of fermented grapes. Her gait suggests moderate intoxication—unsteady, but functional—and her continuous monologue indicates classic displacement behavior.
I’ve seen this presentation countless times during Dr. Hersey’s evening sessions: Denial Stage Grief with a side order of Liquid Courage.
In my professional opinion, this particular specimen is what the good doctor would privately classify as a “hot mess.”
“I’m Melody, by the way,” she says, stumbling slightly in the snow.
I maintain my dignified silence.
“I spent five weeks planning this trip,” she continues, right on cue. “Five! I color-coded activities for twelve people. I labeled everyone’s stockings. I bought themed pajamas!”
Her voice pitches higher with each revelation.
Classic catastrophizing.
I diagnose her within our first three minutes together: Perfectionist, with people-pleaser tendencies and moderate-to-severe boundary issues.
“And now they’re all on a cruise ship, throwing up. Merry freaking Christmas to me!”
I sigh deeply, my breath forming a cloud in the cold air. I would never admit it, but I was slightly disoriented when this Melody person found me.
Not lost.
I don’t get lost.
Just temporarily bewildered.
The falling snow had obscured familiar markers, and my evening constitutional had extended somewhat beyond my intended parameters.
Granny May would have known where to find me.
Granny May always knew.
I feel a familiar hollow ache in my chest.
Loneliness.
Dr. Hersey would remind me that emotional responses are natural, even for camelids with superior intelligence.
Still, I find it beneath my dignity to miss a human quite this much.
It’s been seventeen days since Granny was taken to the hospital.
Seventeen days of Everett trying his best, but forgetting that I prefer my hay slightly dampened and my scarf collection properly rotated.
“My boss is going to ruin this trip for me somehow. I just know it,” Melody continues, unaware of my internal struggles.
“Marcus always finds a way to reach me, even when I specifically request time off. He’ll find some emergency that only I can fix, like he can’t remember his email password for the fortieth time. ”
Interesting.
Workplace-induced anxiety coupled with the inability to establish boundaries with authority figures. I mentally add codependency to my diagnostic assessment.
Her sweet vanilla scent shifts—a touch of clove emerging—a stress response indicator. Her autonomic nervous system is betraying her despite the alcohol’s dampening effect.
“I should quit. I should just walk in after the holidays and say, ‘I quit, Marcus. Find someone else to be your emotional punching bag!’”
She punches the air with surprising vigor, loses her balance, and grabs my neck fur to steady herself.
I snort my displeasure.
Physical boundaries, please.
“Sorry,” she mumbles, releasing me. “I just… I hate my job. But my aunt pulled strings to get me in, and my parents are so proud, and everyone keeps telling me how lucky I am… especially for an omega.”
Classic family-of-origin pressure creating false self-constructs. If I were still practicing, I’d prescribe assertiveness training and possibly a support group.
The forest is silent around us, and the pine trees are heavy with fresh powder. Despite my companion’s emotional volatility, it’s peaceful and even therapeutic.
“Look at the stars!” she suddenly exclaims, her mood shifting with the instability typical of the inebriated.
She stops walking and tilts her head back, nearly overbalancing again. I maintain my position, providing a stable presence. The stars are indeed particularly vivid tonight, pinpricks of cold light in the black sky.
“Twinkle, twinkle, little star,” Melody begins singing, her voice surprisingly pleasant when not shouting.
But the moment of tranquility doesn’t last.
“How I wonder WHAT YOU ARE!” she belts the final words with alarming volume, disturbing the night’s tranquility.
And then, to my great dismay, she begins to move her body in what I can only assume is meant to be dancing. Her hips sway in erratic patterns. Her arms flail with no discernible rhythm. She twirls, sending snow flying from her boots.
This is not dancing.
This is a physical manifestation of emotional chaos.
“UP above the WORLD so high!” She attempts what appears to be a ballet move, rising onto her tiptoes before promptly losing balance.
I sidestep her gracefully as she flails. Years of avoiding Dr. Hersey’s more unstable patients has given me excellent reflexes.
“Like a diamond in the SKY!”
She attempts something truly horrific with her posterior—a rapid shaking motion that resembles a seizure more than a dance move. Dr. Hersey once showed me videos of various human courtship rituals. This appears to be a particularly unsuccessful version of one, perhaps.
I avert my eyes.
Some things cannot be unseen.
“Dance with me, Oxford!” she laughs, twirling around me.
I stand perfectly still, my dignity intact. I am a therapy llama with a professional reputation.
I do not dance.
Her mood is concerning from a diagnostic perspective. The rapid cycling between melancholy and euphoria suggests emotional dysregulation exacerbated by alcohol consumption.
In layman’s terms, the “hot mess” is confirmed.
“Whoop!” she exclaims, her foot sliding on an icy patch. She goes down in an ungraceful heap, landing on her posterior with a soft thud.
I gaze down at her, maintaining eye contact.
This is a teaching moment.
She stares back, then bursts into laughter. “Your face! You look so judgmental right now!”
My expression doesn’t change. I am not judgmental. I am observant. There is a clinical difference.
“Help me up,” she pleads, extending a hand.
I consider her request, weighing the therapeutic value of natural consequences against basic compassion. Dr. Hersey always emphasized the importance of maintaining appropriate boundaries while providing support.
I lower my head slightly, allowing her to grasp my neck fur, gently this time, and pull herself up.
“Thanks,” she says, brushing snow from herself. “You know, you’re surprisingly sturdy.”
I accept this assessment of my physical capabilities with quiet dignity. At 380 pounds, I am indeed a stabilizing presence.
The scent of wood-smoke reaches us before the visual confirmation of Perfect Pines. The familiar smell of home—pine needles, hay, and the lingering aroma of Everett’s peppermint—creates an involuntary response in my autonomic nervous system.
My muscles relax incrementally, my mind lingering on my unexpected companion. Despite my initial assessment, there’s something about Melody that interests me beyond professional curiosity.
Perhaps it’s recognition.
Dr. Hersey would say we’re both experiencing displacement: she from her expected family gathering, and me from Granny May’s daily care.
We are both, in our own ways, a bit lost.
I shake my head, dislodging such sentimental notions and some snow from my ears. I am Oxford, therapy llama extraordinaire.
I do not need therapy myself.
As we approach the entrance to Perfect Pines, I find myself wondering if I’ll see Melody again.
For observation purposes only, of course. Strictly professional interest.
Now, my scarf needs adjusting.
I hope Everett remembers.
Granny May would never forget.