Not the goose eggs, I don't think. Haymitch's geese are as mean and moody as he is, but their annoyance is pretty much restricted to flapping their wings and hissing at me when I get too close. I wonder if he notices how often he turns to look back at them when they follow him, how there's no acid in his voice as he pretends to complain when they swarm around him so he can scratch their necks.
Nah, the geese can stay. But the puppy is a mistake.
It's Peeta's idea, but I guess it's my fault, for bringing it home in the first place. A stray, trembling in a bush, half dead in the cold morning air. It didn't make a sound. I wouldn't even have spotted it if I hadn't bent down to collect some roots. A tiny, ugly thing, covered in freezing mud, and probably at least part wild dog, by the sheer size of its round ears alone. I pretended to consider just leaving the thing there, but I made the mistake of establishing direct eye contact with its tired, weary gaze, and knew I was sold for.
It created a quiet, small bump against the inside of my father's hunting jacket, but at least it hadn't tried to bite me when I grabbed it. Probably too exhausted. It navigated towards the warmth of my neck, and against better judgement I pulled the thing closer, let it nuzzle there.
It stirred at the sound of me entering the house. Peeta's boots were already in the foyer, so I went in search for him. He was in the couch, doodling something, his back to us.
"I have a problem," I said, and he jumped about two feet in the air before throwing me a scolding look. Then he did a double take, his brow furrowing.
"What is tha- KATNISS IS THAT A PUPPY?" He was on his feet and by my side in seconds, his notebook forgotten, bouncing on his feet like a little boy, cooing at the ugly thing. It smelled him cautiously in return, and carefully hid itself against my neck again, which, judging by the noises coming from Peeta's mouth, only succeeded in making it look even more adorable. I tried to ignore his enthusiasm.
"Maybe we can ask around in town. See if someone wants it?" I suggested, very pointedly not looking as Peeta softly scratched the thing behind its ears. I sighed. "Peeta, we can't keep him." Buttercup can pretty much take care of itself, but I'm not ready for a more demanding creature, something that needs more attention than I'm ready, or capable of giving as of now. As always, I had a vision of small hands, blonde curls and baby laughter, and, as always, I pushed the thought away as quickly as it came. Nowhere near ready yet. I find consolation in knowing Peeta isn't ready either. I don't think so, at least.
"I know, I know," Peeta assured me, his eyes still stuck to the thing. "Buttercup is more than enough of a ball of fur for us both. Yeah, we can ask around, soon as we give the little guy a bath and a blanket. And food. We're out of milk, but I can ask Hay-" and then he stopped, suddenly standing straight, eyes wide as saucers. He looked at me in that excited way he does when he's had what he considers to be a genius idea and he's just waiting for me to catch up, a smile emerging and quickly transforming into a grin. I wonder if he knows that look makes stupid butterflies commence some sort of half-mad dance in my stomach.
"What?" Silence. He started bouncing on his feet again, and now I was starting to feel annoyed at being out of the loop. "What?"
"We know someone who'll take him in. They'll be so good for each other! Oh Katniss- Katniss! This is the best idea you've had in years! This is the best idea ever!" He was talking fast now, words running over one another, and I was nowhere near close to understanding what the hell he was going on about.
"What idea, Peeta? What are you-" I watched as he looked pointedly at the window, and then at the puppy, and then back at me, and then repeated the process a couple more times, and it started dawning on me. He wasn't looking at the window. He was looking through the window. At Haymitch's porch.
"No," I said immediately, and shook my head several times for emphasis. "No no no".
"This is a terrible idea, Peeta".
"Best. Idea. Ever." I swear, he knows he makes it so hard to argue with him when he looks like an overexcited puppy- WHEN HE LOOKS EXCITED. PERIOD.
"I said we can't keep it, not that I hated the poor thing."
"Then give it to Haymitch."
"He's going to laugh in our faces".
"When has that ever stopped us?"
"Because you don't hate Buttercup".
Just once, I'd like it if he stopped measuring our responses like Haymitch and I were twins. We are not the same. We are not. "Yes I do."
And because my stupid ugly cat hates me, it chose that specific moment to appear out of thin air and rub itself against my ankles, purring as loudly as his evil, machiavellian body could. I glared at it, and then I glared at Peeta's grin, because he'd won.
And so now we stand on front of Haymitch's door, the creature further hidden under the jacket. It feels weird, knocking and not just letting ourselves in, but Peeta insists this is some sort of solemn moment, and I am apparently incapable to resist indulging him.
Haymitch opens the door warily, eyes the both of us with uncertainty. Doesn't even say hi, just waits for us to explain why we're standing in his doorway like lunatics. Oh, god, the puppy is a mistake, but Peeta looks about ready to do a cartwheel now, and Haymitch, increasingly bewildered, raises an eyebrow at me, and so I sigh and grab the thing with both hands by the angle of its front paws, butt in the air, facing it towards Haymitch. He looks at the puppy, and then back at us. Then he repeats.
"Should I call that head doctor of yours?"
"Shut up," I spit, at the same time Peeta happily bursts out "IT'S A PUPPY!" and maybe we should call Dr. Aurelius, but it's been so long since I've seen him so thrilled about anything that I'm willing to grant him a few more minutes of madness.
Haymitch blinks at Peeta. "I can see that". And, since we offer no further explanation and the silence keeps dragging, "whose puppy?"
Peeta looks at me expectantly, and I cringe internally, but I say obediently, "Yours".
Haymitch blinks again. Trying to figure out if we've hit our heads, I suppose. Then his eyes are on the puppy, and there's a strange look about him, one that doesn't suit him. He almost looks soft. I try to shake the strange feeling away, but then he surprises me.
"Oh", he says with almost no voice at all, and takes the puppy from me slowly.
He holds it close to his face for inspection, and, to my utter astonishment, the previously terrified creature starts wiggling it's tail furiously. And I'm starting to think there was something off in those mushrooms I added to our stew for lunch because Haymitch- Haymitch laughs.
Not one of his usual, bitter laughs. Nothing sarcastic or self-deprecating about it. This doesn't sound like my mentor. This sounds like someone I don't know. It sounds surprised. Carefree. It's almost a giggle. Was this what his laughter sounded like, before the Capitol stole it away? Did he laugh like this at my father's jokes, at his little brother's antics?
It's gone too soon, and suddenly I am desperate to hear it again. It looks like I might, though, because he cradles the puppy against his chest and turns around, leaving us where we stand without a word, not even bothering to close the door. Peeta looks entirely too smug for me to head back home alone with him right now, so I furrow my brow and follow Haymitch inside.
It takes us forever to get the mud off the little guy. Peeta has to go in search for more towels, it ruins all of Haymitch's, and now that I see it clearly I can confirm it is the ugliest creature I have ever laid my eyes on. It's mainly brown, with random circles of darker hair all over. It has more ears than head. Its tail is a mess of long curls and bald patches.
And worse, it looks like it likes Haymitch, which is a clear sign that the poor animal is as dumb as it is ugly. Once it's dry it must decide it isn't afraid anymore, because it chances a bark at him. Haymitch pushes him playfully with one finger. The puppy stands on wobbly paws and barks at him again, moving in an unsteady path towards him, it's wiggling tail and therefore wiggling butt a clear hindrance to its mission.
Haymitch lets it crawl closer this time, and when he doesn't immediately pet it the little monster barks again, lets itself fall to the ground and rolls, exposing its belly. I roll my eyes, and Peeta predictably coos, but there's nothing predictable about the way Haymitch immediately complies with belly rubs, the ghost of a soft smile on his face. He and Peeta stand to heat up milk, already talking about dog beds and toys, the ugly thing tucked neatly in Haymitch's arms, and as they round into the kitchen I'm left wondering at this stranger that looks like my bitter mentor and is somehow anything but.
-------------------------------------------------------
Its name is Goose and I hate it.
The geese shared the sentiment initially, but they have apparently warmed up to the tiny monster, because they now tolerate it as it bounces about happily through their garden and under their legs, barking at them whenever it feels like their behaviour is not up to the Abernathy household standards. Or when it wants to play. Or when they are ignoring him. I guess that's what you get when you hire an apple-tall sized Peacekeeper with the attention span of a concussed butterfly. It tires easily too, sometimes falling asleep right on top of some poor, actual goose that can do little else other than flap its wings in irritation. They don't even protest beyond that, the sellouts.
I'd have thought at least Buttercup would stand firmly with me on this, but, as always, it endeavours to disappoint me. I found them digging a hole together in Haymitch's yard yesterday, all teamwork and cooperation. Traitor.
As if sensing my disdain, the front door opens and Goose comes wobbling out towards me. He does everything wobbling. Haymitch is right behind it, a bag of frozen peas for the geese in his hand. They realise it fast, quickly demanding his full attention. Which leaves me alone to deal with the ugliest of all the ducklings.
It looks genuinely happy to reach me, waving its whole, tiny body in all directions. I bend down and pet it a little, just so it knows it can't get to me. Its eyes get somehow bigger, pretending to shower me with adoration. The schemer. I pet it some more.
I get up and Haymitch whistles, to which Goose quickly responds with a bark and a zig-zagging race to get back to him. My neighbour pushes it around as soon as it arrives, and the monster growls, and they start a game of tug with Haymitch's sleeve. I roll my eyes and walk towards them.
There are two rocking chairs in his porch. One of them was here already, and Peeta must have dragged the other from our own porch at some point. By the time I reach them the tiny devil has worn itself out, so Haymitch picks it up, lets himself fall back on one of the chairs and settles it on his lap. Goose is quick to find a comfortable position to nap in. I wonder if Haymitch will still let it sit on him when it grows into its full size, it would probably knock the wind out of him, but apparently my mentor is ridiculous when it comes to soft things, so I'm guessing he might. It makes things so much worse, knowing that he has a weak spot for something so helpless. I try not to think about Louella, or Ampert, or Lou Lou, or Wellie, or any of the forty-six kids he never managed to bring back home over the years. I try not to think about Sid.
I settle in next to him, watching him scratch its head, and then the rest of its tiny body. I sigh. As usual, Peeta was right. By the way he's been preening lately, he knows it too. He's going to be insufferable.
"He likes you", he says gently. He does everything gently around Goose. I consider this, and his smile, and try for a diplomatic answer.
"I guess it's not so bad. Just ugly", I aim to pat its head too, but Haymitch turns abruptly away, cradling the thing against his chest, shooting an offended look at me.
"He's not ugly." Oh, this will be fun.
"Haymitch, it looks like a soggy raccoon."
"Like somebody started waxing a weasel and got bored halfway through."
"You found him stuck in the bushes! His hair will grow back."
"I've seen more handsome turkeys."
"More handsome than you, maybe. It's your cat who's ugly."
"No he's-" I catch myself, startled. Was I about to defend Buttercup? By the pleased look Haymitch throws me, he knows it too. Goose sneaks its head over his elbow and mocks me from its vantage position.
I take everything back. I hate Haymitch, I hate Peeta, and the stupid puppy was a mistake.
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