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Coast Guard rescue swimmer Jackie Cormier makes some new friends as a gale pounds Cannon Shoals. And, speaking of pounding, Danny Hayes gets a taste of his own medicine.

It's another Cannon Shoals story, this time as a commission for Golden Fox, who kind of kicked off this whole storm arc by asking for a story with one of his characters. It follows "Take the long way home" and "The tough guy" chronologically. Thanks to Golden Fox and Spudz for the idea! Also note that, while this specific text is CC-licensed, Jackie Cormier belongs to her owner.

Released under the Creative Commons BY-NC-SA license. Share, modify, and redistribute -- as long as it's attributed and noncommercial, anything goes.

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"Riders on the storm" cycle:

1. Take the long way home
2. The tough guy
3. All along the watchtower
4. The Oregon rain

---

"All along the watchtower," by Rob Baird

---

Storm conditions were expected to worsen. All over, they were battening down the hatches and tying down the tackle and dogging whatever the fuck got dogged. Dan Hayes, a town policeman, didn't really care.

The upside of the storm that had lashed Cannon Shoals for the previous twenty-four hours was that there was very little traffic, and that meant very little reason for him to be out on the road watching for miscreants.

The downside was that the weather was shitty. Ungodly shitty. Wind howled against his patrol car, and came in gusts that angrily shoved his Crown Victoria in the direction of the highway shoulder.

Checking his watch, the stoat decided he'd had enough for one day. Officially he was off the clock, anyway. He grabbed for his mic. "Alpha Three to Homeplate." Silence. "Alpha Three to Homeplate."

Did that mean the station was empty, too? Not a surprise, considering the fuckin' slacker of a partner he had. And after all Danny had done for him, too! Probably had his laptop open and his pants down.

He tried one last time. "Hey bridge, this is your fuckin' away team. Put your cock away and answer the goddamn phone." This language was not in their manual; it went against all the dictates of procedure and protocol.

But it worked. "Uh. Homeplate. Go ahead, Alpha Three."

"Jesus fuckin' Christ, Scout. You gonna be cleaned up when I get back there?"

Carlos Ortiz -- 'Scout' -- was a coyote and, despite that, a pretty good guy. That was why Dan put up with him. "I was in the john, Alpha Three. Calm down. What's up?"

"I'm done out here. Headed back."

"Can't say I blame you. We lost power for a bit about twenty minutes ago."

"Great." He had the windshield wipers on full, and even that wasn't enough to keep up with the rain. And with the afternoon sulkily gliding on towards evening, it was getting darker by the minute.

But that didn't matter. His shift was all but over. He could go back, park the car, fill out some bullshit forms for Clint or Gus or whoever was pretending to care that particular week, and then go home.

More likely, he'd go to Annie's. If Scout was up for it, they could play some godawful pool and drink cheap beer until it was time to make their way through the gale back home.

Either way, the storm was none of his business. He started looking for a place to turn around -- and that was when he saw it: steady orange flashing lights, from up ahead. Dan bared his teeth, and tried to pretend that he didn't see them -- but they persisted, glaring in the dull, ugly light. "Alpha Three to Homeplate," he said, with an irritated sigh.

"Homeplate. Go ahead."

Alpha 3. Got a possible 12-16, yadda yadda. "Some fuck's got his hazards on, just northa... one thirty-four. Gonna check it out. You fuckin' wait for me, you prick."

"Of course, dear," Carlos teased.

The indicators flashed on a blue Kia Rio with a bumper sticker that proclaimed it to be from SOCCER CITY, USA. A window cling said it was SEMPER PARATUS -- 'always ready,' the motto of the Coast Guard -- and it had Washington plates.

The stoat figured the Coast Guard probably didn't own any cheap economy cars, so the Latin was probably coincidence. The plates, though, were not, and the stoat's dark brown fur bristled. Out here in the rain on account of some Seattle fuck...

But it was obvious why, always ready or not, the compact was not going back to Washington: fifty feet of Oregon pine had toppled across the road, and there wasn't enough room to get by on the far side of the highway.

Its driver was standing, in the glare of the headlights, surveying the trunk of the tree with about as much displeasure as Dan felt. He had to force the door open against the brisk wind, and immediately the fur of his face became soaked.

Better be fuckin' worth it. Goddamn rain. Goddamn tree. Goddamn Seattle asshole. "You okay?" he asked the figure, who was wearing a heavy raincoat. "Car okay?"

The driver turned, and nodded. "Yeah, I saw it in time." She had a hint of an accent that was not from Washington, although Dan had a hard time placing it. Southern, perhaps. "Stuck, though... wheels are in the mud..."

"Where you headed? Seattle?"

She shook her head. "I live here. Down in Cannon Shoals." The woman was some kind of canine, like most of the town; Danny had a hard time keeping the precise variety straight and she was nondescript enough to make the job more difficult. "What?"

"With those tags?"

She rolled her eyes -- which were, he saw, different colors. The right was sky blue; the left, a piercing mahogany brown. That was unusual. "I'm with the Coast Guard, okay?"

The Coast Guard kept a cutter in Neatasknea Bay and had some kind of station north of the town; Dan didn't know much about either, but it explained the window decal. "Right. Well, you ain't goin' anywhere now. I'll call it in, but with this weather..."

The dog shook her head again. "My luck."

Her luck? He was the one getting soaked. "You had plans?"

"Just returning something to the base. Doesn't matter -- it can wait. You want to try moving this?"

As a guardian of the peace and a representative of the town, what Dan meant to say was: _while I admire your moxie, I must express some doubts as to the likelihood of successfully moving the tree by ourselves. I believe this would require heavy machinery which, as you can probably assume from my appearance and mode of transit, we do not possess. _

Besides which, fellow citizen and storm-traveler, it is cold and we are both underdressed for the weather, myself in particular. All in all this is not a course of action I can support.

What he actually said was: "Don't be retarded."

"What?"

"I look like I got a Caterpillar sitting in the trunk of my squad car? Not to mention, it's a goddamn gale and only one of us is standin' around like we trust the Gorton's fuckin' Fisherman."

The odd-eyed dog, unfazed, shrugged amiably. "Not a bad point. Alright. Put down signs, at least?"

That wasn't unreasonable, and she had some reflective hazard signs in the back of her car just like he did. The 'something' she was returning to the base, she explained in pointing to it, was a collection of video games.

Well, even a blind squirrel could have some decent pastimes.

If she truly lived in the town, they were going the same way -- pretty much all of Cannon Shoals lay in one square mile between US-520, US-101, and Neatasknea Bay to the south. It was the least he could do to offer a ride, and he was at least moderately pleased to see that she folded her rain gear and set it into the trunk rather than dripping water all over the inside of the Crown Victoria.

Beneath the jacket she had a hoodie that advertised something called the 'Seattle Sounders,' and a pair of blue jeans that seemed cut for function rather than as a fashion statement.

Between a surprisingly well-muscled body and the workmanlike clothes the impression he had was something like a modern-day Rosie the Riveter. The effect was, indeed, completed by a blue-green kerchief that tied her short hair up.

It wasn't a bad look, just unusual. She caught him taking her in, and tilted her head. "Yeah? Are you going to tell me your name, by the way? Mr... Hayes?"

"Danny." Everyone called him that; it was just a question of what adjectives they paired it with. "You?"

"Jackie Cormier."

Definitely wasn't a last name he'd heard before. "Is that a Seattle name?"

"Well, if you count me, sure," she teased. "But as to what you're really asking, yeah, my family is from Louisiana. Our line is all, uh, Catahoulas, if you know what that means. Mostly you can tell from the eyes."

"I did notice those, yeah."

"See? That's a Catahoula thing. For me, well... I don't claim to be real cajun. I go back to visit, but if you told me they were gonna open either a Raisin' Cane's or a Burgerville here? Give me that pepper bacon cheeseburger. Tillamook cheddar? Mm..."

"Rainbow's Diner doesn't cut it for you?"

"Oh, c'mon, weasel." He had not given her permission to call him anything like that, and certainly there had been no permission given for the rolled eyes. "I love chrome and neon, but at this point it's so dated I think most of the people there are archaeologists. Malts are good, though."

Damn straight. She kept doing that -- redeeming herself at the last possible moment. "They're okay. Guess we ain't exactly Seattle, for food and all." The most exotic joint in Cannon Shoals was probably the Great Wall Kitchen, where they served their egg rolls with a side of ketchup.

What could even bring someone from the city? Generally, he found, dumb things. Once upon a time Cannon Shoals had fish canneries and lumber mills and a railyard. Now, rich techies in love with the 'rustic' atmosphere were buying up the abandoned warehouses and doing fuck-all of any use with them.

With his luck, Jackie was just one more. "You said you're Coast Guard?"

The dog nodded. "A guardian of the flock, yep. You and me both. Looking out, like those princes along the watchtower or something."

It suggested a very favorable reading of the stoat's personality. "Princes? If you say so."

"C'mon. Hendrix? Anyway, yeah. Coast Guard. I'm a swimmer."

Dan looked at her with a raised eyebrow. "Lots of people swim. Ain't much good on the coast if you can't swim." Even he could swim, although he wasn't as partial to it as some of the others.

Again, she rolled her eyes. "I mean it's my job, Danny. The United States Coast Guard has some very nice, perfectly good helicopters. You see 'em, right? Well, I'm supposed to jump out of them. On purpose."

"Like in that one movie? Perfect Storm?"

"That was Air Guard, but yeah. Like that."

Dan kept his eyes on her for a second round of inspections. Without the raincoat, and with her hoodie sleeves rolled up, he could see more of the dog's body -- the short, white fur of her arms hid the sinewy athleticism of her form very poorly. "Pretty metal," he said. Even if she was an outsider, he could grant her that. "Good at it?"

Jackie smirked. "They don't let you do it if you're not good at it. We're not exactly the Mayberry PD."

He pulled the Crown Victoria off the highway and into the parking lot of the town's police station. "Yeah? I look like Andy fuckin' Griffith to you?" She didn't answer. "I'm serious, here."

There was still no answer. But, after he got out and started walking towards the door to the station, he caught her whistling the theme -- and when he glared at her, the Catahoula's only response was a wink.

Scout was not in. His place had been taken by Clint Kendrick -- Cutter, as Dan called him -- an older wolf with black fur and a blacker temper. "Hey, lieutenant. Where's Scout?"

"Bugged out. Who's your pal?"

"Jackie. Coast Guard, I guess; picked her up on the highway. Where'd he bug out to?"

Cutter was lagging a sentence or so behind in the conversation. "'Picked up'? Jesus wept, Danny, you really need a hobby."

Sometimes, the older man was an ally; today, Cutter seemed more than a little resentful that he was stuck with the evening shift in worsening weather. "There was a tree blocking the road," the stoat explained through gritted teeth.

"Sure. See a tree down; first thing you do is start looking for beaver. Makes sense. Jackie, if the pants come off? Feel free the tase the guy."

Dan growled. "Cutter. Have you ever thought you might be a little uptight? Keepin' something bottled up..." Kendrick had been cited for his temper on more than one occasion, which was something of a running joke in the department.

"Hey, I can unwind."

"Yeah, I fucking know; I've seen you in action, remember? We work together. Speaking of, you've got a shift to take care of, and I've got places to be. So if you don't know where Scout is..."

"Skinny bitch went to Annie's. I think."

"Yeah, figures. Okay. Ah, look, we got a downed tree a couple miles north. It should be in the log. You know if they're clearing it?"

"Was that what that callback was?" Kendrick flipped the book open, found the entry he was looking for, and shook his big black head. "Yeah, they're clear it -- in somebody's lifetime. There's so many downed trees between PC and Newport you could get yourself a whole harem of cute Coasties."

"Thanks," he said, in as flat and withering a voice as he could manage.

"At least they're on it. Look, you and Scout gonna hang? One o'ya pick me up something when you leave?"

"Sure." Cutter might've been a bit of a prick, but you did the right thing by comrades anyway. After all, the wolf had done the same for him many times. "Great Wall?"

"Orange chicken and wontons? Probably ain't gonna deliver in this weather. The mangy cunts," he added as an afterthought, although it wasn't really like anybody would've volunteered to courier cheap Chinese junk food in a gale.

The same gale made even the brief walk between the door and his car something of an ordeal. Jackie fastened her seatbelt before letting go the astonished laugh she'd been holding in. "Charming guy."

"He's... tense. Needs to get laid. Whatever."

"Common problem?" The Catahoula smirked, and then dismissed the question with a wave of her paw. "Anyway, you're going to... what is it, a bar? Restaurant?"

"Bar. Annie's."

"Want some company?"

The question was not, exactly, did he want some company but was the alternative of having to take her home and then go to Annie's worth the hassle and, considering the storm, he decided it was not.

Annie's, the dive bar at the corner of Lincoln and Second, was as much a fixture of the town as the lighthouse was. Instead of a towering edifice, though, it was a squat and dingy building that looked out over the harbor on the hill below Lincoln. And instead of a shining beacon, it had a flickering neon sign.

Both served the same essential function, however, which was to reassure fishermen and make their lives a little easier. It was also a haunt of the hardcore locals who did not work at sea but were lifers in the town. The cops, the glass factory workers, the machinists, the lumbermen.

Not the new fucks, the yuppies with their lacquered-driftwood dreams and their expensive cars. Dan's neighbor was a Californian emigrant named Paul, a useless Saab-driving wretch of a wolf who was always whining about cultural sensitivity and who ran a frilly bookstore.

Shelley Mills, the bar's owner, would've thrown him out on general principle, and this was why Dan went there. Annie's was a place for people who did not want to be bothered. They liked routine; they were willing to deal with a drinks menu that really only had three items: "beer," "whiskey," and a shrug from Shelley Mills.

Sure enough, Carlos Ortiz was already at the bar. He spun on his stool and grinned at his partner. "See, Shel? I told you he'd make it."

The lioness nodded to acknowledge Dan's arrival. "Isn't much of a surprise. Hello, Daniel. Hello, Daniel's friend."

"Hey, Shel. Hey, asshole." He gave Scout a shove that was just a few pounds of pressure still on the side of friendly. "Leave me at the goddamn station, will ya?"

The coyote's grin, which failed to waver, did not look especially apologetic. "You seemed like you were busy. From the radio, I mean."

Dan narrowed his eyes and poked his friend's shoulder. "What'd I say? You know who you left at the desk? You know who new-person here got to meet? Cutter fucking Kendrick. You bastard."

"Oh, crap -- I thought Gus would be in already. Sorry. Clint's the guy we keep around to make Danny look good," the coyote explained.

'Sorry,' particularly followed by the left-handed compliment, didn't cut it. "Bastard. Asshole bastard. Blue falcon mother-fucking..."

"Shel, Danny's picking on me."

"Play nice," the lioness warned. "What're you and your friend having?"

"Just a beer for me." Dan looked to the dog, who shrugged questioningly. "Olympia's what they got on tap."

"Oh, boy."

"Two, then." Order placed, the stoat leaned against the counter and looked around to see who else might've filtered in. Unsurprisingly, given the weather, the dive bar was busy -- unable to put to sea, the fishermen would've had no place else to go. "You ain't been here before?"

Jackie shook her head. "Nope. There's the other one on, uh... State? Like State and Washington?"

"Fuck, Three Sheets?" That was the bar that passed for 'higher-end' in Cannon Shoals; Three Sheets Tavern also had a reputation as a bit of a tourist trap. "God, I'm sorry."

"At least I can get a G&T there."

Who the hell would do a thing like that, though? Her and her Coastie buddies, probably, the poor dumb fucks. "You got problems. Three Sheets -- Christ. Like, I respect Doug Collins for makin' a good business outta you guys with too much money, but..."

Scout leaned around the stoat, giving a wave of his paw and calling across him to the other canine. "I'm Carlos, by the way."

Oh. Right. "Yeah, yeah. Jackie, this is Scout; I work with him. Kinda. When he's not fucking off. Scout, meet Jackie. Jackie's a swimmer."

"Like... Olympics?"

"Like Coast Guard," she corrected. "You know, for a cop, you're not so great with the clarity thing. Nice to meet you... Carlos? Scout? Both?"

The coyote rolled his eyes. "It depends on how much time you're gonna be spending around my best friend, here. He calls me 'Scout' because I used to drive an International Scout. Everyone else calls me 'Carlos' because it's my name."

That wasn't exactly true. Dan's nicknames had a way of catching. "Whose fault is that?" Scout tried to defend the honor of his parents in choosing the name, but it was a lost cause. Half an hour later, and Jackie too had made the switch.

Really, Danny explained to her, Scout was not a bad guy. He also proved that it was possible, at least in theory, to assimilate -- the coyote originally came from somewhere in the southwest. And when he asked for her own opinion, the Catahoula didn't dismiss the possibility of settling down out of hand.

So Scout seemed to think that there was hope for her. An hour of conversation later, the two canines were getting on well enough that Dan felt he could excuse himself to use the bathroom. Outsiders. He was not a fan of them, even if they did have one hell of a pair of... eyes.

He came back to see that Jackie and Scout had drifted even closer. She leaned up to the coyote's ear and whispered something. Whatever it was, Scout laughed out loud, opened his mouth to reply -- then thought better of it, and shrugged.

Jackie was saying something else when Scout saw Dan and gestured towards him. The Catahoula grinned and abandoned whatever she'd been proposing. Had the damn coyote already developed some weird canine chemistry with her?

Worryingly, neither of the two seemed to change when he rejoined him -- it wasn't like he'd interrupted a private moment. When Scout snickered and said that they'd been talking about him, the stoat had the unsettlingly keen suspicion that he might've been telling the truth.

Before he could pursue the topic, the door swung open and someone else entered -- a dingo woman he knew casually. KJ MacRory was older than Dan by a few years: old enough to have a kid with her husband, at least; she had the pup cradled against her chest.

"Uh. Hi Dan, hi Shelley. Hi... Scott?"

"Carlos."

"Carlos, sorry."

Dan didn't bother to correct her; she'd learn eventually, anyway. "Ain't seen ya in awhile." She'd never truly been a regular at Annie's, even then; she was one of the good Cannon Shoals types. Respectable.

"Well... couldn't drink." She ruffled her child's ears gently. "And then, you know... busy..."

The problem with respectability was that it was a burden; KJ always, in Dan's mind, looked harried. This was no exception, and Shelley picked up on it, too. "You getting anythin', hon?"

The dingo shook her head. "No, just, uh." She adjusted her hold on the infant, who was staring with wide eyes at the interior of the bar. "Has anything heard anything about the Kalitan Fox?"

"Not that I know of." Immediately the lioness's mood had changed. "Carl's not in?"

"No." Carl MacRory was a fisherman: a big, square-shouldered mutt with odd ears and a coarse laugh. Fortunately, Dan thought, KJ's kid seemed to have inherited its mother's looks -- which weren't all that bad, really.

Hopefully it would get its mother's personality, too. Dan sparred often with MacRory, who had a bad habit of getting drunk and fighty. "Check down in Newport?"

KJ looked at him with the slightest, faintest flicker of shame on her husband's behalf. Most of the time the two talked, it was Dan telling her that Carl was down at county lockup. "Ah. Yeah. I did."

Carl was enough of a fuckup that Danny hadn't even bothered giving him a nickname. And he didn't know what KJ saw in the mongrel; she definitely could've done better for herself. But it didn't matter: "Take a seat," he ordered, and stepped from his stool to free one up. "You sure you don't want a drink?"

The dingo held her child close, ears drooping. "'Want,' yes... 'afford,' well, depends on the catch... and that depends on Carl getting back, and..."

"Yeah, yeah. It's on me. Nothin' on the sideband?"

KJ shook her head again; every time, it seemed slightly more dejected. "And everyone keeps talking about the storm. Rain's getting worse... force six now, seven in places..."

Shelley Mills poured the dingo a glass of beer, and then ducked below the counter. When she stood, with a little effort, it was to haul a radio onto the counter. The lioness checked the power and antenna cables, and then flipped it on and turned the volume up. All of them listened, carefully.

"Quiet... You on sixteen?"

"No," Mill said. She turned one of the switches, and again they waited. Silence. Half a minute passed, and Shelley picked up the microphone. "Kalitan Fox, Kalitan Fox, Kalitan Fox, this is Kilo Uniform Foxtrot Six Three Niner. Over." Nothing, and nothing when she called again two minutes later.

"Oh, lord," KJ murmured.

"Hey, now. Calm down, Kiara." Shelley set the mic back on its cradle and patted the dingo's arm soothingly. "Probably just went south to get out of the worst of it. Carl's a lot of things, but he isn't stupid."

"I just..."

"I know, girl. I'll keep listening, don't you worry."

Jackie, who had been following along with a lifted ear, leaned over. "You, um. You know you're not allowed to do that, right?"

"Excuse me?"

"Marine radio. It's supposed to be used by boats. It's illegal to operate one on land."

Shelley locked eyes on the dog, and not for the first time Dan felt some gratitude that, despite their differences, he'd never wound up on the wrong side of the lioness. "No, really? Maybe that's why I have a license. You want to card me, Seattle, or do you want to fuck off?"

The heat in her words seemed to startle Jackie. "Ah. Sorry, I didn't know. We're just used to..."

"Being a busybody? Daniel, take your pet somewhere else. I'll look after KJ."

The stoat snorted, and nudged Jackie's arm to turn her in the direction of a table on the far side of the room. "Good goin'."

"How the heck was I supposed to know she had a license?"

"Didn't need a license to open your muzzle, did ya?" His faint irritation came less from being yelled at by Shelley than from having to relocate -- the only table with enough room for more people was currently occupied by Yong Riley. "Yong and his fucking stories..."

"You don't like stories?"

"I don't like dumb fisherman stories. Oh, fuck, here we go..."

But the akita was happy to have company. Dan sat warily next to him; Jackie took the seat across from the stoat, and Scout joined her to face Yong Riley. "Hey, buddy."

"Scout!"

"How ya been, bud?"

"Not wet, that's for sure. Hope you guys are keepin' dry. It's a doozy, that's for sure. How 'bout you, Scout? Dan? Person Dan and Scout haven't introduced me to?"

"Jackie," she said, and shook his paw. "I get wet all the time; I'm with the Coast Guard."

"Oh. Wow. Do you work on that boat, the Daggertooth? She's a real beaut, now I tell you."

"No. I work on helicopters."

"Well, the Daggertooth... is a real beaut. She's this cutter that the Coast Guard actually has in the harbor. I mean, not all the time, but it's based there."

"I... know..."

"She lives here," Dan added. "And she works for the Coast Guard."

Jackie nodded her confirmation. "But, you know, you're right. It is nice. What about you? You're a fisherman?"

"I am! I've been fishing for, oh, gosh, I guess it's more than thirty years! It's a good life. I mean, I've seen some things, trust me! But I wouldn't give it up for the world. Not for nothing!"

Fortunately Jackie didn't take the bait. Or, she'd ignored it. "Give it up for a gale, though; that's only safe. You wouldn't be out there in this."

The akita leaned to look over Jackie's shoulder, towards the door and the storm outside. "No. Not a chance. Lord, you know what happened last time I was out with only two people..."

Dan was a third-generation Cannon Shoals resident, and to the best of his clan's knowledge and ability and volition they had never gone to sea. This had some advantages. It meant that they tended to live longer, for one thing.

More relevantly, it meant that the Hayes were able to get through a day without making up random things to impress other people who were busy making up tall tales of their own. Fishermen, on the other hand, did so compulsively -- the result of subsisting on nothing but diesel fumes and ethanol.

And Yong Riley, though not without his endearing side, was among the worst. "It's not really anything to do with the storm, though, you know?" Dan tried to be diplomatic; at the same time he was feverishly attempting to find some way of telepathically telling Jackie to let the matter drop. "Besides, Yong, we've already heard this."

Telepathy failed. Jackie eyed him, and then grinned. "I haven't. What happened?" It was more than a little difficult to shake the suspicion that she was trying to rile the stoat up.

Yong's ears perked at the interest shown. "Well. Now, this was two years ago. I was on the Idanha Maru. Now, there was a boat if there ever was one! Thirty year old steel-hull forty-footer with this cherry Isuzu diesel. Still can't rightly forgive McDaniel for selling her. You hear what happened to her, Dan?"

"No," Dan said. Does it fuckin' matter? Jackie's smirk wasn't helping. "What happened?"

Yong Riley shrugged, and went for his beer. "Beats me. I was hoping you knew."

"Jesus fuck, Yong."

"Well, 'cause you're connected, Danny."

"Yong, you fucking useless --"

Jackie raised a paw. "You had a story. Right?"

When they weren't at sea, many of the fishermen lived at the bar and subsisted entirely on Olympia. Yong was one of them. "Well... hm..."

Dan took a deep breath. "You were on the Idanha Maru. It was March, two years ago, and you were on watch while Fitty fuckin' Butcher was cutting bait."

The akita blinked. "Oh."

"Yeah."

Yong's glass was empty and of all fucking people Scout offered to fetch him a new one so the dog wouldn't have to get up. Scout was having far too much fun.

Danny made a mental note that the coyote would require some talking to about proper chatty-civilian-handling procedures. For now, there were other matters to deal with. "Either talk or close your goddamn mouth, Yong."

"Oh," he said again. "Well. So." And he turned to Jackie, who was in any case more receptive. "This was March, about two years ago. I was on the Idanha Maru. It was late at night, and I was on watch heading south while Fitzgerald Butcher did some work below. He was cutting bait, I think. Do you know Fitzgerald?"

"Nope, can't say I do."

"Nice man. Hey, thanks Scout." The coyote had returned; Yong took the beer he was given and slurped less than thoughtfully. "Anyhow, so. I'm watching, and I see this... light off to starboard. It's so bright that at first, I think I must be turned around and I'm seeing one of the lighthouses! But I check my compass and sure enough, it's coming from the ocean."

He went on to describe, in excessive detail, the light's blinding approach until it became clear that it was some sort of flying object. Like, a plane or a helicopter, Yong said. Or a plane, or... Jackie steered him out of the impending loop:

"But not? Did it make a sound like a helicopter?"

"No, it didn't." He shook his head, and leaned forward so his lowered voice could still be understood. "It didn't make any sound at all. Just this bright, blue-white light floating there! Of course I put a call on the radio, but would you believe -- my radio's not working!"

Jackie widened her eyes, which put their striking colors to good effect. "Now, you know, as a good Coast Guard employee I have to point out that you're required to have a working radio..."

Scandalized, Yong held up both paws. "We do! That's my point! There was nothing but static! I figured it musta been the Russians or something... or... or a drug-runner -- you know Holly was saying they caught a smuggling ship, it wasn't two months ago off Bandon?"

"So that's what it was?"

The akita settled back. Taking and holding a deep breath, he strove to put appropriate gravitas into his voice. "I just don't know. Maybe I never will know. Minute later it just took off north, like a rocket -- a fast rocket, I mean -- and... and then my radio started working again."

"Wow," Dan said flatly. "That's pretty mysterious."

"Well it isn't the first. It's just the closest. There was that time... well..." He stared at his now-empty glass of beer, and glanced around hopefully for a prompt to continue. "I wouldn't want to bore you, but..."

"You know, I was camping out in the Siskiyou once --"

Dan snapped the coyote a look. "Scout, don't encourage him."

His partner smiled the kind of innocent smile no coyote could possibly hope to pull off. "It's true, though. Maybe it was the same thing Yong saw. What do you think it was, Dan?"

Danny still thought the same thing he thought when first hearing the story. The likeliest answer was that the fisherman had been drunk enough to misinterpret a helicopter, or a meteor -- or, fuck, a near-death experience for all Dan cared. "Aliens," he said.

Jackie was still smiling, and that had gone on long enough that the stoat was torn between being unsettled by it and suggesting there were better things to do with her muzzle. "You know..." She trailed off, and her eyes drifted upwards in thought. "You say that, but it's not completely absurd..."

As a matter of fact, it was. "Are you being serious?"

The Catahoula nodded. "Before I came here the Coast Guard had me in Seattle. You see a lot of strange things working a job like that. Yep, we saw one of those drug-running submarines once, custom-built job -- like, picture halfway between Top Gear and James Bond and you got it."

"Between what and James Bond?"

The way she ignored Yong and turned towards Dan was disconcertingly calculating. "Don't worry, it doesn't matter. My point is... there was a storm this spring, kind of like this one: lots of wind, lots of rain. You guys know the deal; you're out in it. Well, not you Dan, but..."

"Cute."

She winked. "We get a distress call from a sinking ship. Now I want you to picture, I get called to suit up knowing nothing, here."

"Alright..."

"Dan's assuming you were naked first," Scout said with a snicker. "That's the kind of picturing he does."

Jackie took that in stride. "I bet. Now, we find it, okay? We're told it's a ship. It's not a ship. This puppy looks like... I mean, I said Top Gear, imagine a stingray crossed with a stealth fighter, in a Clarkson wet dream. It's low in the water when we get there, flooding -- clearly some kind of submersible, but too good at the job."

"More drugs?" Scout suggested; it was not clear whether he meant to imply that they were being smuggled or consumed. "Where do you think it came from?"

Jackie's piercing eyes glanced between the coyote and the stoat. "Here's the thing: I don't know. It was ours, don't get me wrong -- English letters, NATO radio protocols on the distress call, the whole thing. Must've been some experimental thing. Actually -- you know how they reverse-engineered the death glider into the F-302?"

"Yes," Dan and Scout said, at more or less the same time. Yong was out of his league, but pretended to follow along for the sake of the story.

"Sort of looked like that, like it came outta some lab at Area 51."

Yong perked up again. "Area 51! I told you!"

"Not passing judgment on that. But I'll say: I pulled somebody out of the water. And he had a helmet on, and a diving suit. And I have never seen his species before."

Of course, Dan had been around his share of boastful fishermen -- cops, for that matter. They all exaggerated or, like Yong, just made things up. "Sure. First contact was a shipwreck in the Staits of goddamn Juan de Fuca. Rest of us ain't heard, so I guess ya must've chucked him back in the drink. 'Cause, you know, immigrants."

Jackie grinned. "I didn't say he was an alien. Your words, Dan."

"Then what happened?"

"Well, Scout. We landed. They thanked us. They told us never to speak about it again, and they transferred my whole team here."

Yong clearly believed her, at least, judging by his pricked ears and the way he demanded to hear more of the story just as soon as he returned from the toilet. Dan, who had the disadvantage of sobriety, rolled his eyes. "Doin' a good job protecting that classified information."

"Are you calling me a liar, Dan?" The Catahoula leaned over the table towards him. "Really?"

Not that he was giving to flinching. "I think ya got an overactive muzzle, how's that?" And not acquitting herself terribly well as a newcomer, except to drunks like Yong Riley.

She parted it, with the sort of feral grin Dan himself was given to employing. "Oh, is that so? You want to say that again?"

"What," he asked, head canting. "T'yer face? I just did."

The grin stayed, and she kept staring at him. "Hey, Scout? I think your partner and I need to have a talk in private about what happens when you make accusations like that."

"Outside?"

"Maybe. Does that have any hard surfaces? I don't want to hurt him."

"There's the break room. I know, 'cause I passed out there the first time we came. I woke up on the couch and, uh, Dan and Gus had painted rings on my tail."

He couldn't quite tell where the Catahoula's thoughts were, but either way he wasn't about to back down first from the staring contest that had developed. All the same, he roughened up the edges of his voice. "Y'ain't helping, Scout."

"Sure he is. Break room, huh?"

"Scout..." Dan muttered, as a warning.

The coyote looked between the pair. Dan couldn't see his expression, but even from the corner of his eye he picked up the waving of his brushy tail when the coyote stood. "I'll get the key."

Dan threw himself back in his chair, breaking the stare with a roll of his eyes and a growl. "Fuckin' coyotes. You can't trust coyotes."

"Well. Maybe you can't. C'mon. No reason to get excited, Danny."

"Who's 'excited'?"

"Well, you're acting awfully high-strung."

"So? The hell you want, anyway?" She didn't seem angry, exactly, despite the impugning of her honesty. The wicked smile suggested something else. "You want to open yer fuckin' mouth again, you can yell at me here. Jesus."

"Maybe it's more serious than yelling."

He scoffed. "Yeah? Then you can blow me here, too."

"You know, Danny, you're kind of an asshole."

"'Kind of' is a step up for him." Scout helpfully reappeared, and handed his fellow canine a keyring. "It's just around the corner. Across from the john."

"Thanks," the dog said. "Let's go."

"Oh, come the fuck on. I don't give a fuck about your fuckin' story."

Jackie got to her feet, and dipped closer to him to snap her teeth. "So what? I do. Get up."

"No."

She took a pawful of his uniform, bunching it in her fingers. "Up, Sergeant Hayes. I'm pretty sure I outrank you, so you know..." If he had not already been reminded of the strength in her well-practiced muscles, the threatening tug she gave him did the trick. "Don't make this difficult."

Growling, Dan pushed his chair back and stood. "Calm yer tits. Fine. We can talk."

Scout stepped back to let them through. "Don't break anything, Jackie. Our health plan isn't that great."

"We'll see."

Dan narrowed his eyes and followed Jackie's lead, after a fashion; the iron grip of her paw on his wrist had ill portents for any resistance. The Catahoula unlocked the door to the small office -- a sofa, a filing cabinet, and a desk cluttered with invoices and other paperwork.

She looked around, clearly unimpressed. Then she unzipped her hoodie, and tossed it onto the arm of the sofa before pulling the door shut solidly.

When the latch clicked, he gave a short sigh. "Okay. What --"

Jackie shoved the stoat, and the rest of his question, against the wall. Her strong, toothy muzzle loomed before his eyes. "Say I made that story up. Do it."

"You did. Coast Guard didn't find no goddamn F-302." He rolled his shoulders, which had been pinned somewhat roughly. "You an' yer fuckin' aliens. Tradin' bullshit stories in Annie's like you're one of us..."

"So what?" The Catahoula curled her lip. "I am one of you."

"No you're not."

"Screw you. You don't get to decide."

"I don't have to. Look, bitch. Yong's a dumb, drunk fuck but he's one of us until the day he winds up in the dirt or at the bottom of the goddamn Pacific shelf. And I am a... well, consensus says I'm a fuckin' asshole, so maybe. I was born here, my folks were born here -- my grandma has a fuckin' street named after her. Shithole of a street, fine."

"What's your point?" She leaned heavily, pushing him harder against the wall.

"My point is I might be an asshole but I ain't some fuckin' out-a-towner, come here thinkin' just 'cause I got money, I got connections, I got whatever the fuck I can waltz in like I own the goddamn place."

Like, he did not say, the yuppies who were drifting in from Portland and San Francisco to take advantage of cheap real estate now that the canneries and mills were closing. People with no connection to the land and no desire to have one.

Any bastard who had ever used the word quaint or picturesque. The slack-jawed idiot who'd run out of electricity for his car on US-520 and felt the need to lecture Dan about "the future." Useless motherfuckers, all of them.

Jackie's curled lip shifted into that teasing smile of hers. "You're cute when you're angry, weasel."

"Fuck off."

"Almost like you do care about something."

Dan snorted, and finally gave the dog a shove that proved insufficient to dislodge her. "Yeah. Well, the talk therapy's been good, but --"

"Yeah, about that."

"Alright, Seattle. You've had your fun."

"Yeah. About that." She bared her teeth, and when he gave her another shove she crushed him hard against the wall. "Do you want to know what I think? No? Too bad. I think you talk too much."

The real problem, Dan found, was that he did not have a great deal of leverage. He gave her a push with one leg, but she braced herself and forced him further back until he had to cough. "Th'fuck do you..."

The Catahoula twisted to free up her right arm, using her shoulder to keep him in place and pulling the kerchief from her hair. Then the bitch reached for his muzzle, and when he jerked it away she grinned. The grin was very dark, and he understood it: there wasn't much room for him to maneuver, his muzzle hadn't gone very far, and when her paw lifted up to force it shut he was, more or less, out of options.

"You need to watch yer -- hmrf." He grunted and kicked the dog's leg, which didn't stop her from wrapping the kerchief around the stoat's muzzle and drawing it snug. The smell of her shampoo filled his nostrils when he growled at her.

"So. Now that you're quiet, you're going to get a lesson."

He glared. She returned to smirking.

And now Dan found himself in a quandary. He was caught between the wall and a good hundred and fifty pounds of well-muscled dog. With some effort, he could've gotten himself free -- he presumed.

But said well-muscled dog had a heat behind her soft fur that was difficult to ignore, and since she'd used her body to pin him he could feel Jackie's every breath. Besides which, there was her grin to contend with: it was not especially difficult to figure out what sort of lesson she had in mind.

"You think you can be obedient now, Danny-boy?"

Under different circumstances it would not have been his goal. Catahoula was not something missing from his life. Jackie relaxed, so that he could breathe more easily. It gave him just enough freedom that he could turn his head to look at the doorknob.

"Apparently not. The first thing you learn in obedience is -- 'sit'." Jackie seized the stoat's uniform with a tight grasp at his chest, pulled him from the wall, and shoved him unceremoniously onto the couch. His snarled oath, inaudible, did nothing but flood the scent of lavender into his muzzle.

She had him straddled before he could get back up, and put one paw over each of his to fix them in place against the cushion. He couldn't even tell which of her eyes looked more predatory.

Possibly the blue one. That was the most striking anyway, and the closest in color to her teeth. "I should've clarified that you don't get a choice. Next thing you learn is 'stay.' Are you going to stay?"

She rolled off him, and waited. He glanced for the door. And, more out of curiosity than anything else, he leaned forward to get his feet beneath him.

Jackie shoved him back into the couch. She pulled a stapled stack of invoices from the trash can next to the desk, rolled them up, and brought the paper down between the stoat's ears. "No, that was bad. Stay."

He narrowed his eyes. But he stayed, until finally she snickered and nodded approvingly. Still grasping the roll of papers, she went to his uniform trousers with the other paw. The belt was easy enough. The zipper, too, came free with no great effort.

Then she ran into problems, because with the stoat seated his pants were not going anywhere. Her brow stayed furrowed for only a second or two; then her ears perked. "Roll over."

He did so carefully, and the Catahoula pulled hard to bunch the trousers around his knees. Then there was nothing. He started to turn back, and the rolled-up papers snapped hard on his hip.

"No. Not yet. Let me see what I'm up against." Jesus, he thought. Get on with it. The dog's finger snagged his briefs, and she worked them down and over his chocolate-furred rear -- then she went ahead and patted it. "Not bad. Okay. Roll over again."

He dropped into the sofa, and glared at her with a raised eyebrow. With his pants now mostly around his ankles and his briefs not much more useful, his crotch was quite bare -- both the thick, soft, short white fur of his belly and thighs and the bulk of his imposing sheath.

Jackie caught the look he was giving her, because she returned it in kind. "What? I'm supposed to be impressed?"

Even a self-assured bitch like her could only keep the act up so long; he was willing to wait. It didn't take long. Her paw fondled him, first cupping his heavy balls and then threading her fingers along his sheath until his stiffening cock began to slide free.

The Catahoula kept her touch light, practiced and teasing. She used the backs of her fingers, not the pads, stroking him with feather-soft fur as he throbbed and swelled larger. And larger. And larger. Even Jackie's smirk betrayed her.

She held his shaft in her paw, letting him harden and grow right in her skilled grasp. When she was satisfied, enough, she squeezed firmly -- and Dan granted her the soft grunt of pleasure that the warm pressure drew from him. Too thick for her to completely circle, she did the best she could anyway.

Another squeeze, another gasp: clear, musky precum glistened at the tip of his cock and she paused to investigate. The smooth grey pads of her fingers worked the slippery liquid over his prick. A few less-gentle pulses that followed eased the steady pumping of the dog's paw.

"No knot," she said, regretfully. Fuckin' dogs. Why the hell are they so focused on the goddamn -- the thought was completely blotted from his mind as she pressed her fingers down to squeeze him where a knot might have been, and kept her grasp tight until she had his tip nestled in her palm.

He bit back his growl that time, and the next few times she did it. Knot-fixated bitch or no, she was too goddamn good with her paws to care for long. Either the Coast Guard or the Seattle public school system had done a damn fine job.

Jackie's fingertips when she nudged and prodded him had the touch of melting wax, ebbing fast into comforting, coaxing warmth. The tingling hints of pressure were beginning to build into a deeper, more insistent inevitability.

Of course she knew it. She had to know, the minx -- relaxing a bit, stroking faster until he tensed and throbbed and she tightened her fingers again in response. Then she drew a swift spiral with her thumb and the stoat finally groaned.

The roll of paper caught him across the side of his muzzle. "Didn't tell you 'speak,' did I?" She didn't let up on the rhythm of her paw. Everything Dan felt was warmth and movement beyond his control. Even silent she could read the signs -- his breathing coming faster, heavier, hitching his chest. "Close, hm?"

So she stopped.

The lack of... anything... was so abrupt that it came almost as a shock. Dan shut his eyes, panting, feeling his peak steadily recede. Being denied was not something he was given to taking well -- and, seeing that, Jackie raised the paper threateningly. "Behave. Can you behave?"

At least he had his breathing almost under control. Less controlled was the thinking that it would be easy enough to show the bitch who was really in charge. But there were those muscles to contend with...

And, a moment later, the jolting touch of her claw just barely alighting on his prick. "Behave and you don't have to be punished." A few more strokes and he was already headed straight back for the edge. Jackie's lopsided grin was problematically understanding. "Let's figure out the punishment, then. It's not just the swatting."

Instead it was worse. Jackie stood and took two steps back before sitting down on the edge of the desk. Her paws were folded in her lap, and she still held her paper with the firm authority of a Victorian governess.

Dan recognized the absurdity of the scene. Sitting there, waiting, his rock-hard shaft bobbing in time to his irregular breaths. And, observing its generous heft, the studious dog. A minute passed -- long enough that he no longer felt the urgency of her fingers around him. The need was no longer quite so aching. "Hm."

He narrowed his eyes to prompt a reply.

The canine winked her blue eye, which he decided was indeed the more mischievous of the two. "Stay," she said. "You think you can stay?"

Whether she could or not, she decided to extend some trust in the matter. Abandoning her perch, Jackie got to her knees on the floor before the sofa. She inspected the stoat's member up close -- if he tried, the warmth of her breath was almost as teasing as her claw had been.

"Stay." The reminder offered, he had a second to steel himself before her broad tongue pressed into him, spilling over his prick like liquid silk. The smooth lap left a giddy, lingering tingle that hadn't even started to fade before another came.

He kept himself still. Jackie tilted her head to bring her muzzle closer and wrapped that gorgeous canine tongue around him to tug the side of his cock into her lips as she slid along it. Danny had no care for knots, complicating factors that they were -- but tongues?

Nothing beat a bitch with a good tongue on her, and the Catahoula auditioned like a champ. Nuzzling him, she curled and wormed her tongue over every inch he offered. Her licks and laps and kisses went on until she'd bathed him thoroughly.

Jackie paused at his tip. He knew the look she was giving it, the how-do-I-do-this-one? look, but instead of getting caught up in the details or needing to be shown like some of the other dogs he'd known she trusted in her own skill.

Her lips encircled him. She suckled wetly, taking him deeper a quarter-inch at a time. Danny had to shut his eyes -- it was all he could do to cope with the heat engulfing him, and the writhing dance of her tongue. Watching her stuff her muzzle with stoat cock would've pushed him right over the edge.

Rather than trying to get it all inside, she contented herself with what she had -- a nice, heavy few inches that formed a solid mouthful. It was enough room for her tongue to keep up, and enough that the breath whistling through her nose didn't overpower the messy, wet slurp of her rocking muzzle.

When he thought he could manage, he glanced down. Jackie was looking back. Her eyes glinted. When she saw him watching, she sucked nice and hard, slowly dragging towards his tip -- the sly grin unmistakeable even with her lips taut around his prick.

The pounding need for release came back with a vengeance. Every gasp of the dog's breath, every provocative tap of her tongue. The way she suckled and lingered practically demanded that he blow his load right in the bitch's muzzle. He could almost feel it -- the jolting hammerblow of pleasure finally taking him, and the pressure of her swallowing to try to keep up, and the wet half-choking breath washing his length when she couldn't and his cum spilled from her lips.

If she had other ideas she showed it poorly. His member throbbed faster, and she picked up her pace to follow. Seconds away -- his sac started to draw snug and waiting. She cupped it, squeezing.

He couldn't help himself, bucking into her. The second time, his cock met empty air, and then the stinging snap of firm paper smacked his nose. "That's twice! Twice. Stay! Do you not learn?"

Dan snarled, even behind the kerchief muzzling him, but as soon as he started to rise the Catahoula's paw at his shoulder dropped him back down.

"No. No. You are completely untrainable." Seeing his eyes flash, she struck his nose again. "Bad. Because if you expect to get off..." It was a strange sort of threat, she seemed to understand, because then she grinned. "Oh, I know. You think you could take me anyway. With your pants around your ankles and all that."

Now, though, he did expect to get off. It had not been his original plan, to be sure -- but the odd-eyed bitch had about ten heartbeats to come up with another proposal before he went with plan you're-goddamn-right-I-could-take-you.

"Last chance. Stay."

The dog shoved his shoulder gently, to remind him of her ability to do so, and then stood. Waving the rolled-up paper warningly, she brought her foot up to work one sneaker free, and then the other. And paused.

When he didn't move, she unfastened her jeans. Then she unzipped them. Slowly, smoothly, she worked herself free. Her bare leg was sleek blue-grey, dappled in black spots in a pelt short enough to accent every twitch and flex of her muscles. Its partner was just as perfect, just as lean and tense with power.

Dan supposed a career as a rescue swimmer had to be good for more than karma. Jackie grinned, her tail wagging at the attention his eyes paid. She held it for several seconds before finishing the job by sliding her panties off. The same silvery fur wrapped around her hips and sides -- just a hint of white along her belly, before it disappeared under her shirt.

"Stay..."

Watching to ensure his compliance, she stepped backwards until she met the desk, and sat along its edge. The dog spread her legs, more than wide enough for him to see every last blessed bit of detail.

Then, like it was a guided tour, she drew her fingers up her inner thigh, grazing the bare, soft skin of her pussy just enough to let him see that she'd done it. A second time let her splay her fingers, spreading her lips for a achingly brief moment.

Jackie stroked herself slowly at first, planning and following through with every gentle touch like a painter at an easel. The fluidity of it, the smoothness was captivating -- and when she saw the glint in the stoat's eyes, she snickered breathily.

"What, Danny? Am I distracting you? You don't think I might be..." She paused for a wavering sigh as her fingers nudged just that more insistently and he watched one threaten to disappear inside her. "Might... be thinking, do you? Fantasizing..."

She slid her fingers in with an arch to her back that he took to be mostly theatric, except that it did take a good few seconds for the Catahoula to decide what to say next.

"About you? I am..." She dropped her eyes from his to the stoat's erection, flagpole-stiff and waiting. "'Cause this might not... be enough." This, she made sure he was damn good and aware, was the slow, firm pumping of her two fingers, sunk in all the way up to the knuckle. "What do you think?"

It was a game with no way to win. He could not speak, clearly; he was not supposed to move. Jackie kept going until a subtle shudder of her hips seemed to take even her by surprise and, reluctantly, she slipped her paw from between her legs.

And stood. "Better. Now you failed obedience at staying. And you speak out of turn..." The dog padded to the sofa. Her weight settled onto it, and she swung her leg over him to straddle the stoat properly. "One thing left..."

She shifted her stance, wriggling until the soft fur of her belly glided on the underside of his shaft. The Catahoula lifted her hips -- then he felt her, wet and soft and right on the eager tip of his prick. But her strong thighs kept him more than fixed in place.

Jackie tossed her papers to the side. She reached for the stoat's muzzle, and undid the kerchief's knot to pull it loose. And she grinned to show her teeth. "Beg."

The electric tension of anticipation made words difficult. He had to pick them one at a time, and every choice made him keenly aware of the wet heat just barely nuzzling his shaft. "I take back... doubting your story..."

"Good," the dog said. "But that's not begging."

He grunted. "I... need you. Fuck, I need you to stop teasing me."

"Better." She rolled her hips slowly, pressing him for a fraction of a second just a little deeper. "Keep going."

"Fuckin' -- Jesus, you bitch, fuck me."

Jackie's eyes danced. "That's the spirit. Notice who's doing the fucking, Dan? One more time. Neither of us want you to mess up at the last moment."

The stoat gritted his teeth. "Fuck me! Please -- goddamn it, please fuck me! Jackie, for fuck's sake, I need you to fuck me! I --"

Her hips dropped with all the subtlety of a guillotine. Before he could finish her slick, hot folds had engulfed him and his guttural gasp of relief had been more than matched by the canine snarl that filled his ear. "There you go," she finally panted.

Not quite, unless she only meant the begging. The Catahoula's quivering thighs had done their work well enough, but a third of the stoat's length was still free and considering how tight she was even that had been a bit of a shock to her. Served her right. "God, you're a bitch. If you hadn't..."

"Shut up," Jackie told him. Her muzzle clenched and she drew her hips upward with an effort, dragging the stoat's cock free. When he opened his mouth to reply she slammed down on him again. "No. Shut up."

He bit his tongue as the Catahoula arched her back, rocking her lean hips in his lap with determined, forceful strokes. He could feel every yielding, textured fold stretch and part around the head of his cock as she rammed him needily into the begging vise of her pussy.

Between his enforced silence and her need for focus the room was filled instead with the slurp of flesh on supple, silky, hot flesh. The dog had him thoroughly drenched: her juices glistened copiously, drooling down the stoat's shaft as she rode him until when she finally managed to hilt him the fur was sodden and their hips clashed in a wet squelch.

At least she didn't begrudge him a groan or two. Jackie herself was panting and growling hungrily -- there was something like a rhythm to her movements but it was sharp and fierce. The athletic canine called on her muscles shamelessly, hips bucking to drive her partner's thick cock all the way inside.

He could see what she'd meant, about who was fucking who. The dog's pace was wild, fast enough that he couldn't even savor it. Jackie was using him -- her paws kept him pinned, constraining the stoat to short upward jerks of his hips that slammed them together with a cry of delight from the Catahoula.

The rest of the work was hers. Their coupling was heated and rough and bestial -- the sofa's legs grated and squealed, and it jolted in heavy thumps against the wall. And she didn't relent, though he could feel the growing effort it took to keep her body in check: her muscles trembled; her ears pinned.

He'd fucked enough dogs to figure the rest out. She was losing control around Dan's prick, shuddering and relying more and more on gravity to do the work of pounding him into her soaking cunt. Her moans were becoming whining yelps.

Then he gave one of his own, because her fingers were digging hard enough to leave marks in his shoulders. "Christ on a fuckin' --"

"Danny," the Catahoula growled back, voice slurred and husky. She had enough breath for two syllables at a time, at best, and he had to fight to understand the ones she managed. "God -- gonna -- gonna cum, Danny..."

You don't need to fucking claw me to say that. "I know! Lay off!"

Instead, for a moment at least, she squeezed harder. From the quiver in her taut form he gathered she couldn't help it. "N-no -- Imeany'too, cum with -- cum with me, Danny. Cum -- ohfuck, yes! Ohgodfuckyesthat's --"

A groaning scream that she sobbed into the couch capped the exhalation. Before he could decide whether it had been a plea or an order she was crushing herself into his lap and it didn't fucking matter. Obedience training or not the dog was helpless.

Jackie squirmed and wailed, cumming hard with her snatch crammed full of stoat cock and gripping him tightly -- forcing his overtaxed brain to realize just where he was. Namely, hilt-deep in the bitch and so desperately on-edge his hips were hammering into her before he even knew why.

A second later, and to the sound of another wail from the Catahoula, Danny snarled with a peak that was almost painful. It blotted out everything -- all he felt was the throbbing gratification of release. His pent-up load surged into her in hot, long spurts -- ropes of sticky, warm cum painting her insides thoroughly.

She deserved it, he figured, either for better or worse. Judging by the way Jackie jolted and tensed again and again as he filled her it was on the "better" side. His balls ached by time he had nothing left to give, and she collapsed, slumped and panting on his chest.

"Danny... oh, lordy Danny, that was... intense..."

"Got what you came for?" He was mumbling more than usual. In truth, the stoat felt completely drained. Considering most of the physical exertion had been left to the Catahoula, the simple act of finishing had taken one hell of a toll.

"More than, even. God, you musta filled me so full... and that cock, Danny... just... wow..."

The stoat was too beat to do anything but just take the compliment. He let her rest on him until their breathing had slowed to normal -- her chest rose and fell, but everything else was motionless, even her tail.

Finally, Jackie looked up and smiled. "Are you really sorry for doubting my story?"

"Well, you did make it up."

"Let's say... it was part of the plan."

He tried to narrow his eyes, and eventually managed an expression that would serve. "Plan? You didn't plan this... did you?"

"Well..."

"'Well' what? Let us stop talking falsely, now, Coastie."

The dog froze, and then burst out laughing. "I knew you got what I was saying! You son of a bitch!"

All things considered, it was one of the nicer things he'd been called. "Sure. But did you plan it?"

"The specific details, no. But you're pretty cute, and... well, I have to admit: getting into your pants became more fun when you didn't want it. I like a challenge."

"Uh huh. How cocky of you."

She stretched out to grab the papers, rolling them up again and tapping him on the nose. "I know you could've fought back harder. You want to know the deal?"

"What?"

"Next time we can switch. I'll be nice and feisty for you."

'Next time' was a very presumptuous thing to be saying. "That ain't exactly un-cocky itself. I could just tell you to fuck off."

"You did. It was before I shoved you onto the furniture. I'm pretty sure I can rile you up, weasel. You'd like having an excuse."

"It ain't always about excuses."

"I know. I asked Scout if you were actually trouble."

"He said I need to be knocked down a peg?"

She grinned. "No, he just volunteered when I said it. You are... kind of trouble..." To clarify her meaning, she slid her paw down to his crotch, gently brushing his softening length.

"You managed."

"Well, sure. After I saw it, of course I was going to find a way to manage. There's a difference between handling your cock and handling your... storm surge. I thought dogs were something!"

"That was your idea."

"Well... I didn't know how it would work out at the time." The critical moment was approaching swiftly. She pulled her t-shirt off, and when the stoat's cock slid free she made a game attempt at stemming the rush of their juices that followed.

He'd done his job well, though -- between the two of them they'd made a proper mess of her. A fair amount dribbled past, to drip from the dog's fingers; the shirt wasn't really enough. But it would have to do -- that, and an apology to Shelley Mills for the sofa.

The Catahoula rolled onto her side and pulled Dan with her for what felt uncomfortably like cuddling: at least, her arm hooked around his back in something of an embrace, and she rested her muzzle on his shoulder. Danny played with her fur, fondling the sinewy dog's chest until she murmured and sighed.

The moment was broken by an electronic jingle, and it wasn't until he looked up at a clock on the wall that he realized they'd been lying together for almost half an hour. Scout was probably congratulating himself, that was for sure.

Unless that was him calling, trying to figure out what had happened to the pair. It didn't sound like his ringtone. "Phone? Yours?"

"Yeah. Mine." Jackie scowled, and reached over for the hoodie. Her paws batted at it until a cellphone tumbled free -- an older, ruggedized model. She pressed it to her ear. "Cormier. Yes, five by five. What's up? Really? Yes, I'm in town, but the road's down."

"Probably for a bit yet," Dan said. That was almost okay. He almost wouldn't mind reeducating the spotty Catahoula bitch. Almost.

"Might not be cleared for awhile, road crews are backed up. What's going on, Chuck? What? Lord almighty -- okay." She covered the mouthpiece. "Pan-pan from a fishing boat. Base is going on all-hands standby."

That caught his attention, seagoer by nature or not. "What boat?"

Jackie raised an eyebrow at the tone in his voice. "It's, uh -- oh. Right. It's not yours." She lifted her paw from the phone. "Chuck, yeah, I hear you. Look -- yes, I hear you. Chuck. Do me a favor. We got anything from a Kalitan Fox? Kalitan. Kilo. She's a crab boat out of Cannon Shoals. Papa Victor Quebec Four... One something, I think?"

"You know that off the top of yer head?"

"I told you," the Catahoula reminded him. "I'm one of you guys. What's that, Chuck? Yeah? Ah, copy, okay. Copy that, too. Cormier, out." She switched the phone off and tossed it back towards her jacket.

"Yeah?"

"Skipper went south to try and get ahead of the weather, but the weather had the same idea. They're in port in Coos Bay."

"Not calling, though?" Carl was a fuckup, but even that should've had limits.

"Landlines are down south of Yachats. Power's intermittent, too... you want to know the best thing, Danny? I'm going out in it."

"Can't be fuckin' serious. They're sayin' it's a force seven gale out there."

The Catahoula grinned. "Nine, actually. You know how it goes, though. Better me than one of those guys out there..." Jackie pointed out towards the bar. "I have to go. It's my job."

Danny turned the last three words over in his head. He hadn't spent a whole lot of time connecting the dots between what she said she did and what it must've implied. "Hell of a responsibility."

"Somebody's got to. Of course, with the roads shut and eighty-mile gusts on 101..."

"I'll take ya."

"With the roads shut," she repeated, emphasizing the words.

"Yeah, yeah." He was thinking over the map in his head. "Can take forest roads around, if it comes to it. Track'll be shit, but hell, that's why we got four wheel drive."

"This isn't your job. I know that much."

Nor was he looking forward to going out in the storm. Even with the department's truck, or Scout's FJ40, it was a bad route, on terribly maintained roads. He would much rather have stayed indoors.

All the same, sometimes the choice wasn't his to make. Sometimes you had to be willing to put yourself out. Even if it wasn't your job...

"So it ain't. But I guess if you're one of us, well... you have to do right by your own."

And the hour was getting late.