Purrfectly Outfoxed

Chapter 1

Jasper

The public library smells like old books, desperation, and someone’s microwaved fish lunch. I’m pretty sure at least two of those scents are coming from me.

I slouch lower in the hard plastic chair, my laptop—held together with duct tape and prayers—balanced on my knees as I scroll through my phone.

Well, it’s not really my phone anymore since I can’t pay the bill, but the Wi-Fi here is free and I’ve got another hour before they kick me out for loitering. Again.

This is fine. Everything is fine.

Except it’s not fine. Nothing about this is fine.

I got evicted from my shitty apartment building last month.

Then the transmission on my rust-bucket car finally gave up the ghost. So I’ve been crashing on my buddy’s couch and walking everywhere.

Except my buddy’s girlfriend made it very clear last night that my welcome has expired.

Something about ‘boundaries’ and ‘enabling’ and ‘you need to figure your shit out, Jasper.’

She’s not wrong.

I’ve got $23.47 in my bank account, no job prospects, no car, and as of tomorrow, no couch. I’ve been applying for everything from warehouse work to dishwashing, but apparently my resume—which reads like a commitment-phobe’s greatest hits—isn’t exactly inspiring confidence in potential employers.

Three months here, six months there, a year if I’m really pushing it.

I’m a fox shifter who can’t seem to settle anywhere, and yeah, I’m aware of the irony. But hey, at least my shoes don’t have holes in them. So, I’ve got one good thing going for me.

My thumb scrolls mindlessly through social media.

Everyone on my feed seems to be living their best life, sipping cocktails at rooftop bars, traveling to exotic places.

I pull my eyes away in disgust, trying to shake off the envy that creeps in like a bad smell.

Then I spot some feel-good story about a dog that learned to skateboard.

It makes me laugh, so I decide to end my doomscrolling on a good note.

But then the headline on a news post catches my eye:

URBAN FOXES INCREASINGLY APPROACH HUMANS - SCIENTISTS BELIEVE THEY’RE MIMICKING HOUSE CAT BEHAVIOR FOR FOOD AND SHELTER

I click before I can stop myself.

‘Wildlife researchers have documented a surprising trend in urban fox populations,’ the article reads.

‘These typically elusive animals are approaching humans with increasing frequency, displaying behaviors remarkably similar to domestic cats. Scientists theorize that the foxes have observed how well-fed and comfortable house cats are, and have begun to mimic their behavior, approaching humans with apparent tameness, even rubbing against legs like cats do. Several homeowners have reported adopting foxes, saying they’ve become a wonderful addition to their household. ’

I stare at the screen.

Then I read it again.

No. That’s insane. That’s absolutely insane.

But my mind is already spinning, that desperate part of my brain—the part that’s been screaming louder and louder as my options dwindle—latching onto this ridiculous idea like a life raft.

Foxes are pretending to be cats to get humans to take care of them.

And I’m a human who can actually become a fox when needed.

“Oh god,” I mutter, scrubbing my hands over my face. “I’m actually considering this.”

The old woman at the computer next to me gives me a suspicious look. I flash her an apologetic smile, and she huffs, turning back to her one-finger typing.

OK. Let’s think this through logically.

I need: food, shelter, and time to figure out my next move.

Some kindhearted human could provide: food, shelter, and time.

The catch: I’d have to pretend to be their pet.

This is the worst idea you’ve ever had, the rational part of my brain argues. And you once tried to become a professional poker player with $200 and a dream.

But the desperate part fires back: Do you have a better option? Because I’m all ears. Or should I say, all fox ears? Yip, yip, motherfucker.

I glance at the time. The library closes in an hour. After that, I’ve got nowhere to go.

My fingers are moving even before I fully commit to this insanity, searching for ‘pet stores near me.’ There’s a big grocery store three blocks away with a decent pet section.

If I’m going to do this—and apparently I am, because rock bottom has a basement and I’m about to explore it—I need to find the right person.

Someone kind. Someone who actually cares about animals. Someone who won’t just call animal control the moment a ‘wild fox’ shows up at their door.

Someone with money wouldn’t hurt either. Premium pet food would be better than some of the random shit I’ve eaten in my fox form. I swear the animal side of me doesn’t have tastebuds sometimes…

I snap my laptop shut and shove it into my backpack. The duct tape holding the corner together makes a concerning peeling sound.

You’re really doing this.

Yeah. I really am.

The grocery store is packed this close to dinnertime, and the Halloween decorations everywhere just make it feel dystopian.

I grab a small, crappy cup of coffee from the vending machine—$1.

87, leaving me with a whopping $21.60 to my name—and position myself near the pet food aisle while pretending to browse.

I feel like the world’s most pathetic predator, stalking the pet food section for a suitable mark. But seriously, some of this shit looks better than the TV dinners I’ve been living off. And it’s not like I’ll be eating it with my human mouth. So…maybe I’m onto something.

A young guy in his twenties loads up a cart with the cheapest dog food available. Pass.

A harried mom with three kids screaming about candy doesn’t even look at the bag of dry food she randomly grabs. Pass.

A few more people come and go, and I’m starting to think this whole plan is stupid when she appears.

She’s older, maybe early seventies, with silver hair styled in what my mom would have called ‘a sensible cut.’ She’s wearing a purple cardigan covered in—I squint—are those embroidered cats? Yes. Yes, they are. She’s pushing a cart and humming to herself.

I watch as she stops in front of the premium cat food section.

“Now, let’s see,” she murmurs to herself, picking up a can and examining it like she’s selecting fine wine. “The salmon paté, or the chicken and rice? Oh, but Whiskers did seem to enjoy the turkey last week...”

Whiskers. She named her cat Whiskers. This woman is either perfect or a walking stereotype, and I’m too desperate to care which.

She loads up her cart with the expensive stuff—multiple cans, a bag of premium dry food, some treats that cost more than my coffee did. Then she adds a toy mouse and a sparkly collar.

“This will make her so happy,” she says to no one, smiling to herself.

My heart does a weird squeeze. She’s not just buying food. She’s buying gifts for her cat. This woman genuinely loves her pet.

She’s perfect.

She heads to the checkout and I follow at a distance, trying not to look like a creep. I watch her load everything into a pristine silver sedan and track her leaving the car park. She drives carefully, using her turn signals, stopping fully at stop signs. Then she’s merging into traffic.

I’m jogging now, staying far enough back that I won’t be obvious, close enough that I won’t lose her.

My breath comes in huffs and my backpack bounces against my spine.

I’m hoping I look like I’m running for exercise.

Sure you do, Jasper. A broke guy in ripped jeans and a faded band t-shirt, definitely out for an evening jog through residential streets.

She turns into a neighborhood that makes my remaining $21.60 weep. Big houses. Well-maintained lawns. The kind of place where people have gardeners and cleaning services, and I really have to dig into that fox part of me to run fast enough to keep up.

I make the turn into her street just as she pulls into a driveway about halfway up.

I stop, out of breath and gasping, and just watch.

Her house is a beautiful two-story with pale blue siding and white trim.

She has a few Halloween decorations up for the season.

But there are flower boxes under the windows.

A wraparound porch. The kind of place that says, ‘comfortable retirement’ rather than ‘flashy wealth.’

I duck behind a hedge three houses down, my heart hammering as she gathers her bags, and heads inside.

OK. Now or never.

I look around to make sure no one’s watching, then I slip behind a sturdy trash can and peek around the corner of her driveway before darting toward the back of the house.

My heart pounds against my ribs, each thump reminding me I’m an idiot—an idiot with a silly plan.

But who else has ever given this much thought to being adopted by a human?

Maybe this is my moment for reinvention.

The backyard is a slice of paradise, complete with a manicured lawn, blooming flower beds, and a small gazebo that looks straight out of a garden magazine.

It’s quiet back here, and I take a deep breath, letting the scent of fresh grass and flowers settle around me.

I scan the area for a place to stash my backpack, finding a thick bush tucked against the fence.

I approach it, crouching low, and I feel a wave of absurdity wash over me as I shove my bag into the underbrush.

I glance around. If I’m going to pull this off, I need to commit.

I tug my t-shirt over my head and toss it into my open backpack.

Then I look around again, feeling every bit the creeper as I quickly shuck my shoes and jeans, shoving them in the bag and zipping it up.

Briefly, I think about how ludicrous this is—some dude crouching in the bushes of some old lady’s house, stark naked.

But then the fox side of me flares up, eager and wild, and I close my eyes, letting the sensations swell.

The shift moves through me, familiar and strange all at once. My bones reshape, my senses sharpen, and suddenly I’m looking at the world from about a foot off the ground. My hearing picks up everything—a dog barking two streets over, someone’s television, the rustle of leaves.

I shake out my russet fur and trot toward her house, my tail low, my ears back. I need to look pathetic. Hungry. Harmless.

I can do pathetic. I’ve had plenty of practice lately.

As I approach her back porch, I add a slight limp to my gait. Not too much—don’t want to look injured enough to need a vet—but enough to inspire sympathy. I make a soft, whimpering sound and scratch the door.

Come on, universe. I’m a fox literally begging for scraps. Throw me a bone here.

The door opens and my heart leaps.

She’s there, on the porch, looking right at me.

“Oh my goodness,” she breathes, her hand going to her chest. “What are you doing here, sweetheart?” She leans down a little and I make another whimpering sound. “Do you need help? You poor thing.”

Yes. Poor thing. Very poor. Extremely poor. Please feed me.

I take a hesitant step closer, then stop, giving her my best ‘I’m scared but hopeful’ look. I learned this from watching sad dog videos online. Who knew that would actually come in handy?

“Are you lost, sweetheart?” She comes toward me slowly, crouching. “You look so thin. Are you hungry?”

I whine softly and take another step, my limp more pronounced.

“Oh, you’re hurt!” Her face crumples with concern. “You poor baby. Wait right here, OK? Don’t run away.”

She disappears inside and I resist the urge to do a victory dance. Or would it be a victory prance? Either way, it’s working.

She returns with a small dish of what smells like actual chicken—not cat food, real chicken—and sets it on the porch.

“Here you go, sweetie. It’s OK. I won’t hurt you.”

I approach slowly, eating from the dish while keeping one eye on her. The chicken is delicious—though my fox tongue finds random things in the forest delicious. But when was the last time I ate actual food? Yesterday? Two days ago?

Don’t think about that. Stay in character.

“Such a pretty fox,” she coos. “I’ve never seen one up close before. You must be so scared, all alone out here.”

Lady, you have no idea.

When I finish eating, I sit and look up at her with what I hope are soulful eyes.

“You’re not wild, are you? I think you might be someone’s pet and you’re lost. Would you like to come inside? It’s getting cold out here.” She opens the door wider. “I know people don’t normally keep foxes as pets, but you seem so gentle. And that paw...”

I limp toward her, not quite believing this is working. She’s actually going to let me in. A strange fox. Into her house. Just like that.

Thank god for crazy cat ladies with big hearts.

I cross the threshold into a home that smells like lavender and vanilla and—

Wait.

My nose twitches.

There’s another scent here. Something wild beneath the domestic smells. Something that makes my hackles rise instinctively.

Another shifter.

Are you for-fucking-real?

I turn my head and there, sitting on the arm of a cream-colored sofa, is a tabby cat.

She’s staring at me with yellow-green eyes that are far too intelligent, far too aware to be one hundred percent feline.

We lock gazes.

Her tail swishes once. Twice.

And I realize with sinking certainty that she knows exactly what I am.

And she’s pissed.

Fuck.