Chapter 7
Mane Event at the Dog Park
Arke, mistaking a poodle for a small, fluffy lion, tries to engage in Lyran dominance displays. The poodle's owner is not amused.
The sun, bless its oblivious heart, was shining. Not a cloud in the sky, which usually meant one of two things: either it was going to be a glorious day for ice cream and questionable life choices, or Arke was about to accidentally set something on fire. Given our current location – the local dog park, a veritable petri dish of canine chaos – I was leaning heavily towards the latter.
Arke, bless his majestic, perpetually flustered mane, was attempting to "observe canine social hierarchies." His Lyran understanding of dominance displays, it turned out, involved a lot more roaring and chest-puffing than was generally considered polite in suburban England. He’d been practicing in my living room, which had resulted in a shattered lamp, a terrified cat (mine, thankfully, and already prone to existential crises), and a distinct smell of ozone. I’d figured a controlled environment, like a place specifically designed for animals to yap at each other, might be a safer bet. Oh, the optimism of youth.
"Sandy, my dear," Arke rumbled, his voice a low thrum that vibrated through the soles of my trainers. He adjusted the collar of his impeccably ironed tweed jacket, a sartorial choice that, even on Earth, screamed "I’m here to judge your life choices and possibly offer unsolicited financial advice." "Observe that creature. It possesses a similar… fluffiness to the lesser predatory felines of Lyra, yet it appears to be in a state of perpetual excitement."
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