Natural Habitat

"Some people have a gift for occupying the present moment without asking it any questions. I've always envied that."

I opened the bathroom door, and Millie launched.

There was no gradual transition from resigned bath victim to liberated creature — just an explosion of damp fur and coiled energy that had been building through every moment of shampooing, rinsing, and towelling. She hit the hallway at full speed, claws scrabbling against the tiles, her body low and streamlined as she tore toward the living room.

"Millie—"

But she was already gone, a blur of wet black and white disappearing around the corner. I heard the thud of her paws against carpet, then the distinctive sound of her shaking — that full-body convulsion that sent water spraying in every direction. Charles's voice rang out, half-protest and half-laugh.

"What the — Millie! Get off!"

More scrabbling. More shaking. The particular chaos of a dog who had been forced to endure indignity and was now reclaiming her sense of self through sheer velocity.

I leaned against the doorframe and let her go. There was no point trying to intervene — once the zoomies took hold, you simply had to wait them out. She'd run herself into exhaustion eventually, leaving a trail of damp pawprints and scattered cushions in her wake.

The bathroom behind me looked like a disaster zone.

Water pooled across the tiles, spreading outward from the tub in a slow-moving tide that had already claimed the bath mat. The towel I'd used — one of the good ones, too late to regret that now — lay in a sodden heap where I'd dropped it. The mirror was spotted with water droplets. The air hung thick with lavender and wet dog, a combination that would probably linger for days.

I caught my reflection in the spotted mirror and grimaced. My hoodie was soaked through — not just damp but properly saturated, clinging to my chest and arms in a way that made me look like I'd lost a fight with a garden hose. My hair was plastered to my forehead in sad, wet coils. There was something that might have been soap or might have been something worse streaked across my jaw.

My arm throbbed beneath the bandage, which had gone from damp to properly wet somewhere during the second shampooing. Stephen had said to keep it dry. Stephen hadn't anticipated Millie and her communion with decomposing wildlife.

I peeled off the hoodie and dropped it into the sink with a squelch. The shirt underneath was nearly as bad — wet patches spreading across the fabric, the cotton sticking to my skin. My socks had passed from uncomfortable to genuinely unpleasant, each step producing a small squishing sound that made me wince.

The shower was tempting. I could see it through the glass of the separate cubicle — clean, warm, promising relief from the accumulated grime of the past half-hour. Hot water sounding very appealing right now.

But the bandage.

I looked down at my forearm, at the gauze that had darkened with moisture, and made myself think practically. The wound was still fresh. Stephen had given clear instructions about keeping it clean and dry. I'd already compromised the dressing more than I should have — adding a full shower on top of that felt like asking for infection.

I settled for the sink instead. Turned on the tap, let the water run warm, and splashed my face until the worst of whatever Millie had transferred to my skin was gone. I wet a flannel and wiped down my neck, my arms, the places where soap and dog water had accumulated. It wasn't satisfying — not the way a proper shower would have been — but it was enough. It would have to be.

From the living room, I could hear Millie still careening around, her nails clicking against the carpet and tiles as she traced circuits through the house. Charles was saying something — his voice carrying that particular mix of exasperation and amusement that Millie seemed to provoke in everyone.

I wrung out the flannel and hung it over the edge of the tub. The bathroom floor would need mopping, but that could wait. Right now I needed dry clothes and a few minutes of not being actively uncomfortable.

The hallway was dark after the bathroom's fluorescent brightness, and I navigated toward my bedroom. Millie's damp pawprints traced erratic patterns across the tiles — loops and figure-eights that mapped her post-bath celebration. I stepped around the worst of them and pushed open my door.

My room was quiet. Still. The familiar shapes of furniture and books and the small accumulations of a life in progress. I stood for a moment in the doorway, letting the silence settle around me, before crossing to the wardrobe.

Dry clothes. Simple choices. I pulled out trackpants and the old Adelaide Zoo shirt from the back of the drawer — faded grey cotton, the logo cracked and peeling after years of washing, soft in a way that newer clothes never quite managed. They'd given it to me at the end of my Year 10 work experience, along with a handshake and a reference letter I still kept in my desk drawer. Two weeks of mucking out enclosures and preparing feed and watching the keepers work with animals I'd only ever seen through glass. Two weeks that had confirmed what I'd already suspected about what I wanted to do with my life.

I stripped off the wet things and left them in a pile on the floor, something to deal with later, and pulled on the dry ones with the particular relief of someone who had been cold and damp for too long.

The bandage on my arm was definitely going to need changing. The gauze had darkened with moisture, and I could see the edges starting to curl away from my skin where the adhesive had lost its grip. Stephen's instructions had been clear — keep it clean, keep it dry, watch for signs of infection. I'd already failed on the dry part. The least I could do was not leave wet gauze pressed against the wound overnight.

The first aid kit was in my desk drawer, restocked after yesterday. I sat on the edge of the bed and unwrapped the old bandage carefully, peeling it back to examine what lay beneath. The laceration looked better than I'd expected — the butterfly strips still holding, the skin around them pink but not angry, no sign of the redness or swelling that would suggest infection. Small mercies.

I cleaned the area with antiseptic wipes, the sting familiar now, almost grounding. Fresh gauze. Medical tape, pressed firmly along the edges. The process was methodical, calming in its own way — a problem I could actually solve, unlike most of the things that had been circling through my mind all day.

I ran my fingers through my damp hair, pushing it back from my forehead, and headed for the living room.

The scene that greeted me was approximately what I'd expected.

Charles was still sprawled across the couch, but his position had shifted — legs now tucked up defensively, the packet of BBQ Shapes clutched to his chest like a shield. His shirt bore a large damp patch across the front where Millie had clearly made contact during her rampage. One cushion had migrated to the floor. Another was wedged at an odd angle behind his back.

Millie herself had finally exhausted her reserves. She was lying in the middle of the carpet, sides heaving, tongue lolling, looking enormously pleased with herself. Her fur had dried into uneven spikes and tufts, giving her the appearance of a creature who had been assembled from spare parts by someone with only a vague understanding of dog anatomy.

The television was still blaring — some reality show where people seemed to be simultaneously cooking and arguing about relationships, the two activities blending into a single stream of manufactured drama punctuated by aggressive sound effects.

I leaned against the doorframe, arms crossed, surveying the damage.

"You realise the entire suburb is being subjected to that laugh track, right?"

Charles didn't move except to reach into the packet balanced on his chest. "Just doing my civic duty. If the Hendersons can blast Midnight Oil at eleven on a weeknight, I can broadcast peak Channel Ten trash at reasonable hours."

He shoved a handful of Shapes into his mouth, crunched loudly, and grinned. His hair was a halo of disarray — though whether from Millie's assault or simply his natural state was impossible to determine. One sock was halfway off, bunched around his ankle like it had given up partway through the process of being worn.

"I see she found you," I said, nodding toward the damp patch on his shirt.

Charles glanced down at himself with theatrical dismay. "Found me? She used me as a drying rack. Jumped straight onto the couch, shook herself dry, and then did three laps around the coffee table before collapsing like she'd run a marathon."

"That's the zoomies. It's a thing."

"It's a menace is what it is." But there was no real heat in his voice. He reached down without looking and scratched behind Millie's ears. She thumped her tail against the carpet once, weakly, too exhausted for more. "She got water all over the Shapes. I had to eat the soggy ones first so they wouldn't go completely soft."

"A true sacrifice."

"Someone has to suffer around here." He shifted on the couch, making room that I hadn't asked for, an implicit invitation. "What did she roll in anyway? She smelled like death warmed over."

"Something behind the compost bin. I didn't investigate too closely."

Charles wrinkled his nose. "Gross. Though I suppose we should be grateful she didn't try to eat it."

"I think she was working up to that when I intervened."

On the floor, Millie had closed her eyes, her breathing settling into the slow rhythm of a dog who had burned through all available energy and was now surrendering to sleep. She looked peaceful. Content, even. Completely unrepentant about the chaos she'd caused.

Charles was watching her too, his expression softer than his usual performative indifference. "You know what I reckon?" he said, reaching for another handful of Shapes. "She does this on purpose. The rolling in dead things. She knows exactly what she's doing."

"You think she's strategically covering herself in decomposing wildlife?"

"I think she's emotionally complex, remember?" He grinned, throwing my earlier question back at me. "She just hides it behind psychological manipulation. The dead thing is a power move. Asserts dominance. Reminds us who's really in charge."

I shook my head, but I was smiling. "You've put way too much thought into this."

"I've had time. She spent a solid ten minutes trying to dry herself on my legs. A man reflects on things during that kind of ordeal."

The television erupted in another burst of canned laughter, and Charles turned his attention back to the screen with the particular absorption of someone who had no intention of doing anything more demanding for the rest of the evening. I watched him for a moment — my younger brother, sprawled across the couch in his natural habitat, utterly unbothered by wet dogs or loud television or the general chaos of a Friday night in the Smith household.

There was something almost enviable about it. The ease with which he occupied space, demanded nothing of himself beyond the immediate moment. I wasn't built that way. Never had been.

"I'm getting a drink," I said, pushing off from the doorframe. "Want anything?"

"Grab me a Sprite if there's any left."

"There won't be. You drank them all yesterday."

"Then grab me whatever's there. I'm not picky."

I headed for the kitchen, leaving Charles to his television and Millie to her exhausted sleep. Behind me, the laugh track swelled again, and I heard Charles crunch through another mouthful of Shapes.

Friday night at the Smith residence. Loud, damp, and entirely ordinary.

Or at least, that's what I was trying to tell myself.