Page 2 of Purrfectly Outfoxed

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 pâté, 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 brokeguy 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 myt-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.