Rowf began snorting his way around the room, nose to the floor, his stubby tail twitching with excitement. When he reached the little old lady’s shoes, he paused for a deep sniff, then sneezed explosively on her ankles.

  “Ooo! Sorry about that,” Marco said, wincing as Rowf snuffled into her feet again, louder this time.

  Sheila perked up. “This is Iris Marbles. Newest member of my Kitten Brigade.”

  The Kitten Brigade. Blech.

  Marco didn’t like most old people. Especially bored, rich socialites obsessed with cats.

  Stupid cats.

  Assuming the batty old woman was hard of hearing, he raised his voice.

  “Hi, nice to meet you. I’m Marco, and this is Rowf.”

  The little old lady replied with far more enthusiasm than he was expecting.

  “Hello, young man! I’m Iris. So you’re the one who saved that poor puppy!”

  She clapped her hands together.

  “Well, what a wonderful young man you are. And with such a fine, handsome little doggie, too.”

  Mrs. Marbles smiled broadly, inspecting Marco from head to toe through her thick lenses.

  “I think he looks a little thin,” she said, turning to Sheila. “Don’t you?”

  Iris dug through her huge tapestry bag.

  Her heavy glasses slipped off her nose and dropped inside, rattling against plastic pill bottles and an alarming amount of loose change.

  “Oopsie daisy!” she giggled, clearly more amused than embarrassed.

  Finally, she unearthed an old, stale pack of salt-free peanuts and thrust them into Marco’s hand.

  “There you go, sonny,” she insisted. “Eat up.”

  Then she retrieved her glasses, wiping them off with her delicate lace hanky as if nothing had happened.

  Marco stared at the packet: Use by Oct. 15, 2008.

  Then stashed the stale peanuts in his front pants pocket.

  “Um, thank you, Mrs. Marbles.”

  She told him, “Oh, just call me Marbles. Everybody else does.”

  Marbles dabbed her eyes, then blew her nose delicately into her little handkerchief.

  Her eyes were swollen, and the hanky was damp.

  Had she been crying?

  He could ID a plant in two seconds flat.

  But people? Not a chance.

  I’m such a jerk.

  A slow, uneasy shame crept over him.

  Sheila said softly, “The puppy needs a name, Marco. They don’t know what to call him… for the paperwork.”

  Inspired by his Lucky shirt, Marco nodded with certainty.

  “Lucky. Definitely call him Lucky.”

  Sheila tapped her temple and began rattling off fashion designers like flipping through a record collection.

  “Hmm…”

  “Dior, Chanel, Givenchy, McQueen, Valentino… aha!”

  She beamed. “Lucky Valentino. That’s the one.”

  Marco always found it funny how she liked to glam up pet names. Literally half the cats in Palm Springs were named Chanel because of her.

  At that moment, the access door swung open, and Dr. Scuffles entered, nodding to them all.

  She asked Marco, “Oh. You brought Rowf. Good. How’s his behavior been?”

  This book was originally published on Royal Road. Check it out there for the real experience.

  Rowf announced his disdain with a sharp bark. “Grrr. Rowf! Snort!”

  Then he turned his back on her.

  The doctor wrote something down on her clipboard and continued,

  “So… can you tell me what happened? The wounds on that puppy you found are a bit… unusual. Maybe there was another animal involved?”

  She looked straight at Rowf, not so subtly checking for fight wounds.

  Marco stuttered, “I… I was working at the golf course when I saw this huge raven with a small, furry animal hanging from its beak. I couldn’t tell what it was. Then the raven flew right over me and landed in the top of a palm tree.

  Somehow, the animal escaped and dropped.

  I saw it!

  Rowf and I ran over and dug through this big pile of palm fronds under the tree, and that’s when I found the puppy.”

  “That fiend!” Marbles cried, pulling her tapestry purse in close, as if it might be the next victim.

  Sheila blinked rapidly, her lashes fluttering as she smacked her freshly glossed lips together. She looked confused, like she’d shown up to perform on the wrong night.

  The doctor continued her cross-examination.

  “A raven, huh? Fascinating. That’s unusual behavior for a bird like that around here, wouldn’t you say? Are you sure that’s how you found him? And are you absolutely sure it wasn’t a hawk… or perhaps even an eagle?”

  Once again, she looked directly at Rowf.

  “No one will be in trouble if this was just another dog fight.”

  Marco answered quickly, “Yes, I—I would’ve taken a picture of the raven, but I was holding the puppy with both hands. I didn’t have time to do anything like that.”

  “I see... quite a tale,” said Dr. Scuffles, her tone edging toward condescension.

  “I’ll have to cross-check my database and see if there were any other reports of ‘a raven’ attacking pets in the area.”

  She nodded knowingly to the others and let out a dismissive chuckle.

  It felt humiliating, especially in front of Sheila. And he knew he was telling the truth.

  “The puppy’s stable. Sleeping now. I’m confident I can fix the breaks.

  Surgery and follow-up will be expensive. Maybe $2,000, maybe more.

  We take cards, and we offer a payment plan here at the clinic, if that helps.”

  She paused and no one spoke. The tension in the room thickened.

  “However…” she added grimly, “the techs are here today, if you need to go the other way.”

  Her voice dropped to a whisper.

  “We can take care of the body. It’s paid for—no cost to you.”

  Marco cringed. He knew he didn’t have that kind of money.

  Sheila nodded emphatically. “Absolutely, do the surgery,” she said quickly.

  “What do you need today? We’ll handle the rest.”

  He glanced at her, stunned by her certainty. A knot tightened in his chest.

  The doctor smiled broadly, her voice suddenly bright.

  “Head to the front desk and work out a payment plan with Tommy. I’ll start resetting the bones. Come back tomorrow, say around nine?”

  Marco left the clinic with Marbles and Sheila. He felt glum, wondering how he was supposed to pay for all this.

  In the parking lot, a raven stood on top of a car.

  A small crowd had gathered outside the café, watching it.

  “Auk! Auk! Auk!” it called out, addressing the other ravens perched on the roof of the shopping center.

  “Here they come again!” someone shouted.

  A pair of ravens swooped over Sheila’s Cadillac and pooped on it. The crowd erupted in cheers.

  Sheila cried out, her voice a mix of horror and astonishment.

  “My car!”

  It was clear this had been going on for a while. Sticky white bird poop splattered the roof and windows of the Blue Lagoon.

  As they watched, a frantic man, desperate to protect his flamingo-pink Thunderbird from the raven mayhem, kicked it into reverse and shot backward.

  He slammed it into a slowly passing, fully restored 1950s Ford pickup truck with a bang that set off car alarms across the parking lot.

  Both men jumped from their vehicles and began shouting over the blaring sirens.

  While the lively crowd kept cheering for the ravens, Sheila ran to rescue her car. Struggling to see, she flicked on the windshield wipers, smearing the poopy mess into broad, pale streaks across the glass.

  Somehow, it looked even worse.

  Revving the engine, she backed the Cadillac up, then hit the brakes hard.

  She was completely boxed in by the accident.

  Marco fumbled with his bike lock, feeling exposed.

  He knew the raven mayhem was all his fault and he didn’t want anyone else to find out.

  Rowf barked excitedly at the swooping ravens and let out a low growl.

  The man with long, frizzy hair stood in a slim strip of shade by the sidewalk, cradling his guitar.

  He pointed and laughed. “She must’ve done somethin’ real bad to piss off all those ravens!”

  Marco simply nodded, fumbling with his bike lock as fast as he could.

  “You know, you never wanna mess with a raven,” the man said, still watching the birds.

  “My brother used to work at the old golf course—before all the changes.

  Tossed a string of firecrackers into a nest behind the maintenance shed.

  After that, they never let up.

  He started goin’ to the car wash twice a week, grew a big ol’ beard, wore cowboy hats—anything to throw ’em off.

  Didn’t help. They always knew it was him.

  Lost a girlfriend over it, too.”

  “Uh huh,” Marco said, half listening as he climbed onto his bike.

  “It went on for years,” the musician laughed.

  “Didn’t stop ’til he left the state.

  Still flinches. Runs inside if he hears one.”

  Without warning, a wet glop of raven poop landed on Marco’s head and shirt.

  Above, the raven let out a triumphant “Krunk!”

  The street musician froze, then backed away beneath the bougainvillea, shaking his head in pity.

  “That’s how it starts,” he said quietly.