Page 5 of Hoofin’ It

Hopper and Skunk seemed happy to see me, whinnying and bobbing their heads when I led Sally to her new stall. Either Dad had no idea how large an alpaca was or Mom had demanded a palace, because the new addition offered plenty of space for a Clydesdale.

“What’s the holdup?” Dad bellowed from the house.

“Revenge tastes a lot like dinner,” I informed the old horses, who bobbed their heads and lipped at me in bids for attention. Spending five more minutes stroking them resulted in my father prowling into the barn in his hybrid form, towering over seven feet tall.

While my father’s head was shaped like a massive wolf’s and he had a long, fluffy tail, his resemblance to his canine form ended there. Thick fur covered his body, his oversized legs and feet supporting a muscular torso with long, thick arms, and hands equipped with long claws sharp enough to easily decapitate someone.

I’d heard of fainting sheep but never a fainting alpaca. Then again, the first time I’d seen my father in his hybrid form, I’d learned how potent smelling salts were and why they were used to restore someone to consciousness. I’d been four or five at the time, and it was one my first memories. Sally thumped over, and I sighed, opening the door to check on the poor animal.

Her heart raced a mile a minute, and I realized the clever little beast was playing dead. “Dad, so help me, if you keep scaring my poor alpaca, I’m going to find out if you regenerate nearly as fast as you think you do. Don’t make me remind you that Mom wants an eyeball in a jar for her desk.”

“I’m hungry,” my father growled.

“And you just added an extra ten or twenty minutes to my work by trying to terrify the life out of my alpaca. I’ll come in as soon as I’m sure she’s not going to have a heart attack. Go in the house, and for fuck’s sake, at least be human for supper. You know Mom hates when you drool on her tablecloth.”

“Furry chicken.”

When my father was in his hybrid form, there was only one way to deal with him: with violence. Rising to my feet, I stepped out of Sally’s stall, closed the door, and cracked my knuckles. “I’m going to count to ten, Dad. If you aren’t in the house by the time I’m done, I’m going to use you as a punching bag for a while. I haven’t been to the gym in a month, and I could use the exercise. Once I’m done beating the sense back into you, I’m going to get Mom’s shears so she can card your fur and turn it into yarn. That should keep her busy for at least a week. I’ll even be nice and buy her the bleaches and dyes she needs and suggest she use the garage as her workshop.”

My father’s ears turned back and he bared his teeth at me. His dark eyes took on a faint silvery gleam, and he licked his tongue over his three inch long incisors. A better man would’ve started counting.

I hammered my knuckles between his eyes hard enough he yipped and staggered. My second blow caught him underneath the chin and floored him. With a wince-worthy thump, my father crashed onto his back, his arms and legs twitching. I nudged him with my boot and was rewarded with a groan.

My hand throbbed, and I hoped I hadn’t broken anything attempting to beat sense into his thick skull.

In his hybrid form, Dad weighed between four and five hundred pounds, so I grabbed one of the hauling chains hanging from the wall, secured it around his feet, and hooked it to the tractor. After snagging Mom’s new electric shears from the tack shed, I dragged Dad to the front porch. I checked on Sally, and when she seemed like she’d be fine, I went to work before Dad woke up and stopped me.

Sometimes I loved my life.

Without his fur, my dad looked like an oversized mole rat with a steroid addiction and a gym membership. Gathering his precious fur in several garbage bags, I hauled them into the kitchen and showed them to my mother. “I come bearing a gift, Mom.”

“What have you done now?”

“I found your electric shears in the tack shed, so I thought I’d take them on a test drive.”

Her eyes widened. “You sheared Sally already?”

Grinning, I replied, “Not quite.”

The moment realization of what I’d done dawned on my mother, her eyes bulged, she grabbed one of the bags, and peeked inside. “Your dad really let you shear his fur? How on Earth did you manage that? You darling boy. It really is Christmas.”

“Let is a really strong word.”

Mom stared at the three bags before turning her gaze to me. “I should be scolding you for this, Shane. I raised you better. Yet…”

“Yet you have three bags of Dad’s fur to card and spin into yarn. I’ll even buy all the bleaches and dyes you need so it can be just the right colors for your knitting adventures.”

My mother’s eyes gleamed with unshed tears. “I truly have the best son.”

I set my offerings at her feet and kissed her cheek. “I left him on the porch. I’m sure his concussion will heal after he shifts a few times.”

“You’re grounded. As punishment, you must eat your supper. Then you’ll bring Sally into the house to begin her indoor training. Bad Shane. Don’t do it again.”

The infuriated howl from outside promised a great deal of trouble, but I laughed all the way to the table, where I dropped onto my seat and waited for the fireworks. Angry werewolves scared sane folks, but only an idiot accused my family of sanity. The sight of the oversized mole rat invading her kitchen reduced Mom to helpless laughter. She slid to the floor, leaning against her cabinets, chortling so hard tears streaked down her cheeks.

“Shane.” My father snarled and snapped his teeth at me.

Maybe leaving a little bikini of fur to preserve his dignity hadn’t been the best move. The bikini challenged my ability to keep my expression calm and neutral. “You’re in great shape, Dad. Have you been working out at the gym lately? You’ve got some nice muscle tone. That’s a pretty spectacular six pack you’ve got.”