Chapter 8 Oxford
Oxford
Last night’s “hot mess” approaches the barn, though the fermented grape scent has diminished considerably.
Beside her walks Charlie, the one who speaks with admirable directness and hasn’t combed her hair in a week.
An interesting pair: one repressed, one expressive.
If Dr. Hersey were here, she’d consider them an excellent case study in contrasting coping mechanisms.
I stand perfectly still, observing them through the barn door, maintaining my professional demeanor while secretly pleased that Melody has returned.
Not that I’d ever admit such a thing aloud… if I spoke in the human language, which I obviously don’t.
“There he is,” Charlie announces, pointing at me. “Oxford the Magnificent.”
I appreciate the title.
Melody’s scent has stabilized since last night. The vanilla notes are more pronounced, less muddled by alcohol and emotional dysregulation. However, there’s still a hint of clove, indicating some baseline anxiety, but she generally appears to have regained her composure.
“Hello, Oxford,” she says, her voice soft.
I hold her gaze as I assess her condition.
Slight puffiness around the ocular region suggests inadequate hydration. Tension in the temporalis muscle indicates a lingering headache—classic post-intoxication symptomatology.
“We’re going for a walk,” she tells me.
I stare, processing this.
I have been walking Granny May on her daily walk for three years; logically, the older woman needs exercise. I’m confused about why I also need to walk Melody.
She is in good physical shape.
“You need the exercise,” Charlie tells me, which is patently ridiculous. “You’ve been moping since Granny went to the hospital.”
I have not been moping.
I’ve been engaging in appropriate grief-response behavior.
There’s a clinical difference.
But I must admit that I have missed my daily excursions.
Everett tries, but he lacks Granny May’s attentiveness to routine. He’s perpetually distracted by his electronic devices and fails to appreciate the therapeutic value of a properly structured walk.
“Does he need a leash?” Melody asks.
The nerve.
Charlie laughs. “Oxford? No, he’s not a dog.”
At least someone understands the distinction.
“He follows along when he wants to,” Charlie continues. “Granny May never used a leash.”
“Okay then,” Melody says, turning to me. “Let’s go for a walk, Oxford.”
I don’t move.
She waits, then tries again with slightly more enthusiasm. “Come on, boy. Walkies!”
I stare at her, letting my expression convey the profound disappointment such condescension deserves.
Charlie’s laughing now. “You forgot something important.”
Melody looks confused. “What?”
“His scarf. He won’t go without his scarf.”
The omega turns back to me, eyebrows raised. “Seriously? He needs a scarf to go walking?”
Yes. Yes, I do.
Allow me to clarify: I don’t “need” a scarf. That would suggest dependency; which would be undignified. I “prefer” to wear a scarf during outings.
It’s a matter of propriety, not necessity.
Granny May understood this.
She knitted fourteen scarves in various colors and textures specifically for my walks.
Each morning, she would present several options, and I would indicate my preference with a subtle head movement.
She would then arrange the chosen scarf perfectly, not too tight around the throat (restricting circulation) nor too loose (lacking aesthetic appeal).
The scarves began as a practical measure during my first winter at Perfect Pines.
Granny noticed I avoided the coldest areas of the property and correctly hypothesized that my Peruvian ancestors hadn’t equipped me for North American winters.
But over time, the scarves became something more—a ritual that connected us, a silent acknowledgment of mutual regard.
I miss those moments.
“Do you have an extra scarf?” Melody asks Charlie.
Charlie shakes her head. “They’re all in Granny’s room, and I wouldn’t know where to look.”
Melody sighs, looking at me. “Do you really need a scarf? It’s not that cold today.”
My expression doesn’t change. This isn’t about temperature regulation. This is about dignity. About ritual. About respect for established protocols.
“He’s not budging,” Charlie observes. “Oxford is very particular.”
“I can see that,” Melody mutters. She tilts her head, studying me. “Do you want my scarf? Is that it?”
I shift my gaze meaningfully to the red woolen accessory around her neck. It’s not one of Granny’s hand-knitted creations, but it appears adequate, with good color saturation, an appropriate length, and sufficient width for proper draping.
“Seriously?” Melody asks. “You want my scarf?”
I maintain steady eye contact. Sometimes, the most effective therapeutic technique is simply holding space for a client to reach their own conclusions.
“Fine,” she says after a moment, unwinding the red wool from her neck. “But if I get cold, we’re coming back.”
An acceptable compromise.
She approaches cautiously, scarf extended. “Is it okay if I put this on you?”
I lower my head slightly.
Her technique is amateur at best. She drapes the scarf around my neck with excessive caution, as if I might suddenly object. The tension is uneven. The ends are asymmetrical. She clearly lacks Granny May’s experienced touch.
But she’s trying, which I find unexpectedly… affecting.
“There,” she says, stepping back to examine her handiwork. “How’s that?”
Substandard, but functional.
I’ll allow it.
I straighten my neck, feeling the wool settle against my fur. The scarf carries her scent, different from Granny May’s lavender and baking bread, but not unpleasant.
“Looking good, Oxford,” Charlie says, and I detect genuine appreciation in her tone. “Very dashing.”
I acknowledge the compliment with a dignified blink.
“So now we can go for a walk?” Melody asks.
I take a step forward, indicating my readiness.
“Okay then,” she smiles, turning toward the door. “Let’s go.”
“Have fun,” Charlie calls after us. “Don’t forget to twerk in the snow, Melody.”
Melody groans, and Charlie laughs.