![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
(no subject)
May. 27th, 2023 02:03 pmMaybe, Mad Sweeney thinks as he walks home, an enormous Irish Wolfhound at his side, he's gone truly mad all over again.
The dog is technically a senior, according to Saoirse's sister, even though it's not noticeable except in a bit of grey around her muzzle. Her name is Mab, because of course it fucking is. Queen of the goddamn fairies here, trotting along by his side, strangely calm. He's got a leash hooked to her collar, but he doesn't thinks he would even need it. She hasn't gone more than six inches from his hip since the moment he signed the papers.
He's done all this without consulting Spike, which he realizes might've been a fucking mistake, but then Mab looks at him with her big, dark eyes and he knows this dog was meant for him. Somehow, she was meant to find him.
"Fuck," he says as she looks at him, ears pricked.
He goes to a pet store, one of the big ones, and gets someone to help him pick out all the stuff he'll need. Bowls, food, a harness -- better than a collar, they promise -- as well as a bed big enough for her frame, treats, the right brush for her coat, and finally, some toys.
When they get home, Sweeney puts her bed down and takes off her leash, then fills her bowls with water and kibble, but Mab is more interested in sniffing around, exploring her new space. Sweeney makes himself a drink, then sits down on the couch to watch her and to wait for his husband.
Mab sniffs at the bed, then turns to look at Sweeney, and instead of lying down there, she hops up onto the couch beside him. Her head is huge, bigger than he realized, and when she settles it into Sweeney's lap, he drops his hand to her ears, scratching gently.
By the time the door opens, they're both half asleep.
The dog is technically a senior, according to Saoirse's sister, even though it's not noticeable except in a bit of grey around her muzzle. Her name is Mab, because of course it fucking is. Queen of the goddamn fairies here, trotting along by his side, strangely calm. He's got a leash hooked to her collar, but he doesn't thinks he would even need it. She hasn't gone more than six inches from his hip since the moment he signed the papers.
He's done all this without consulting Spike, which he realizes might've been a fucking mistake, but then Mab looks at him with her big, dark eyes and he knows this dog was meant for him. Somehow, she was meant to find him.
"Fuck," he says as she looks at him, ears pricked.
He goes to a pet store, one of the big ones, and gets someone to help him pick out all the stuff he'll need. Bowls, food, a harness -- better than a collar, they promise -- as well as a bed big enough for her frame, treats, the right brush for her coat, and finally, some toys.
When they get home, Sweeney puts her bed down and takes off her leash, then fills her bowls with water and kibble, but Mab is more interested in sniffing around, exploring her new space. Sweeney makes himself a drink, then sits down on the couch to watch her and to wait for his husband.
Mab sniffs at the bed, then turns to look at Sweeney, and instead of lying down there, she hops up onto the couch beside him. Her head is huge, bigger than he realized, and when she settles it into Sweeney's lap, he drops his hand to her ears, scratching gently.
By the time the door opens, they're both half asleep.
