cute so cute so cuuuuuute.”
“Stop it or I’ll need an insulin shot.” I gently nudged Fur off my toes.
Well played, tiny missile with teeth. Perhaps I shall spare your life.
“They can be appealing, I’ll give ’em that.”
Laura had knelt and scooped up Burr and was nuzzling noses with her, so: ew. “Do you know where she puts that thing?”
“How can you be so cold?”
I jerked a thumb at my chest. “Undead.”
She ignored my lameness. “They’re irresistible. I’d think after Giselle died, you’d want another—”
“Cat,” I finished. “Not dogs, plural. Here’s the problem: dogs try too hard. All the time. And it’s kind of flattering for a
very
little bit and then it’s just sad. Dogs are the awkward kid in high school who wants
so
much to fit in, who tries
so
hard to pull off cool and just can’t. And then you have to pretend you didn’t notice that they’ve been trying too hard, and that makes it awkward. Pretty soon you feel sorry for them, which is annoying. You don’t want to feel sorry for them. You kind of wish they’d give up on the cool thing and go home. But they don’t ever. And so you’re stuck. Because who’s going to have the courage to tell them, ‘You’re not cool and the more you try the less cool you get, it’s like an equation that way’? Nobody.”
“And . . . ?” She’d tucked the puppy under her arm like a football and stood.
“And . . . oh, right, my analogy: that’s why I prefer cats. Because cats
are
the cool kids, and they don’t give a shit. And the less they care, the cooler they get. That’s also like an equation.”
“You were like this before you died, weren’t you?”
“Yeah,” I admitted, and her lips twitched upward for half a sec. A tiny smile or the onset of a seizure? “Oh, and I forgot—way more apartments will let you have a cat but hardly any let you have dogs. And you can actually leave town for more than eight or nine hours if you have a cat, but dogs, in addition to being super needy, need near-constant supervision. It’s like hanging around a toddler who isn’t yours, who can’t talk and isn’t toilet trained and freaks when you leave and almost knocks you down when you come back. Yeah, a nonverbal randomly pooping toddler who you didn’t give birth to but are still trapped with.” Since she was looking more and more appalled, I tried to get off the dog thing. “You could have a cat at your place, right?”
She glanced away. “I’m not there anymore. I moved out a few days ago.”
“Oh.” Huh. Not a peep to me, and vampires could lift a
lot
; we were invaluable as movers. But that was understandable. It hurt but I understood. It burned like fire but I understood. The sting of betrayal was like acid on my eyeballs but I understood. “You left the Dinkytown apartment?”
“Yes. I had t—yes.”
“I’m sorry.” I meant it. Dinkytown was a stretch of Minneapolis near the East Bank, a neighborhood that had been around since the 1940s but was always trendy. Unlike McMansions and bomb shelters, Dinkytown had never gone out of fashion; it was a town within a town, crammed with bookstores and bike shops and quick-but-good restaurants. Laura’s apartment had been in the Historic, which (also like Dinkytown) had always been cool. The building had been built in the late 1800s and had recently gone through a massive update, so the place was classically historic on the outside, but had Wi-Fi and flat-screen TVs on the inside. I knew she’d loved it, not just because we all love our first apartment when we escape—uh, move out of our parents’ house—but for its own schizophrenic self.
“A kid lived there,” Laura was saying, “and I’m not a kid anymore.”
Oh-ho. Behold the signs we are enduring the rise of the Antichrist: for nation shall rise against nation, many false prophets shall arise, and the most terrible sign, the Beast shall giveth up her cooleth Dinkytown digs.
Beware.
Time for
“Stop it or I’ll need an insulin shot.” I gently nudged Fur off my toes.
Well played, tiny missile with teeth. Perhaps I shall spare your life.
“They can be appealing, I’ll give ’em that.”
Laura had knelt and scooped up Burr and was nuzzling noses with her, so: ew. “Do you know where she puts that thing?”
“How can you be so cold?”
I jerked a thumb at my chest. “Undead.”
She ignored my lameness. “They’re irresistible. I’d think after Giselle died, you’d want another—”
“Cat,” I finished. “Not dogs, plural. Here’s the problem: dogs try too hard. All the time. And it’s kind of flattering for a
very
little bit and then it’s just sad. Dogs are the awkward kid in high school who wants
so
much to fit in, who tries
so
hard to pull off cool and just can’t. And then you have to pretend you didn’t notice that they’ve been trying too hard, and that makes it awkward. Pretty soon you feel sorry for them, which is annoying. You don’t want to feel sorry for them. You kind of wish they’d give up on the cool thing and go home. But they don’t ever. And so you’re stuck. Because who’s going to have the courage to tell them, ‘You’re not cool and the more you try the less cool you get, it’s like an equation that way’? Nobody.”
“And . . . ?” She’d tucked the puppy under her arm like a football and stood.
“And . . . oh, right, my analogy: that’s why I prefer cats. Because cats
are
the cool kids, and they don’t give a shit. And the less they care, the cooler they get. That’s also like an equation.”
“You were like this before you died, weren’t you?”
“Yeah,” I admitted, and her lips twitched upward for half a sec. A tiny smile or the onset of a seizure? “Oh, and I forgot—way more apartments will let you have a cat but hardly any let you have dogs. And you can actually leave town for more than eight or nine hours if you have a cat, but dogs, in addition to being super needy, need near-constant supervision. It’s like hanging around a toddler who isn’t yours, who can’t talk and isn’t toilet trained and freaks when you leave and almost knocks you down when you come back. Yeah, a nonverbal randomly pooping toddler who you didn’t give birth to but are still trapped with.” Since she was looking more and more appalled, I tried to get off the dog thing. “You could have a cat at your place, right?”
She glanced away. “I’m not there anymore. I moved out a few days ago.”
“Oh.” Huh. Not a peep to me, and vampires could lift a
lot
; we were invaluable as movers. But that was understandable. It hurt but I understood. It burned like fire but I understood. The sting of betrayal was like acid on my eyeballs but I understood. “You left the Dinkytown apartment?”
“Yes. I had t—yes.”
“I’m sorry.” I meant it. Dinkytown was a stretch of Minneapolis near the East Bank, a neighborhood that had been around since the 1940s but was always trendy. Unlike McMansions and bomb shelters, Dinkytown had never gone out of fashion; it was a town within a town, crammed with bookstores and bike shops and quick-but-good restaurants. Laura’s apartment had been in the Historic, which (also like Dinkytown) had always been cool. The building had been built in the late 1800s and had recently gone through a massive update, so the place was classically historic on the outside, but had Wi-Fi and flat-screen TVs on the inside. I knew she’d loved it, not just because we all love our first apartment when we escape—uh, move out of our parents’ house—but for its own schizophrenic self.
“A kid lived there,” Laura was saying, “and I’m not a kid anymore.”
Oh-ho. Behold the signs we are enduring the rise of the Antichrist: for nation shall rise against nation, many false prophets shall arise, and the most terrible sign, the Beast shall giveth up her cooleth Dinkytown digs.
Beware.
Time for
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