(c) 2024 J. D. Osborne-McGavin. All rights reserved. Lyrics are (c) their respective owners and quoted under Fair Use. No part of this work may be used in the creation or training of generative AI or natural language models.

THE PRECIPICE,
or
INSIDE THE SCREENWRITER'S STUDIO
by J. D. Osborne-McGavin

 *  *  *  *  *

Chapter I
Duet

Fall 1989


To say Raleigh Records has seen better days would be an understatement. The formerly red awning over the storefront has faded to a pale pink, tattered remains flapping noisily in the wind. Judging by the equally faded Elvis, Johnny Cash, Beach Bums, and Beatles albums covers behind the front window, the display hasn't been updated for years, if not decades. And despite commencement having occurred several months ago, the flickering marquee still reads:


      C NGRA  LATI0NS CLA S OF 89


A set of bells ring overhead as Isla pushes the door open, the air within stale and heavy with decades of tobacco smoke. Despite its name, the rough collie swears there are fewer and fewer records with each passing visit, long ago usurped by cassettes, and now CDs. The display cases, originally made to match the width of vinyls, have been narrowed with makeshift cardboard dividers to accommodate the newer, smaller formats.

A pair of wall mounted speakers softly play /Carolina in My Mind,/ but otherwise the store is quiet, completely empty save for the sole employee behind the register. Isla recognizes the bitch from her numerous visits to the store, a blue---literally blue---merle Australian shepherd whose name escapes her. Three increasingly longer industrial piercings ladder each of her spotted ears and, as always, she wears a cut-off denim jacket completely covered with patches and buttons. Most are band logos: Metallica, Iron Maiden, Black Sabbath---although Isla catches an anarchist symbol patch with a Kalashnikov forming the horizontal bar as well.

But even more striking than her fur, her piercings, or her punk-inspired clothing are those mismatched, blue and brown eyes, which glance to the door when Isla walks in. The merle sets her pen down atop the legal pad she had been writing on and rubs her wrist.

"Hmm, don't tell me..." she says, pausing before snapping her fingers. "Isla, right? Here for the Neil Young album?"

Isla chuckles as she approaches the counter, "Am I that predictable?"

"We all have our preferences," the shepherd says as she crouches behind the counter, digging around the unorganized collection of CD and cassette cases held for reserve. "I think Percy said he stashed a copy away for you."

"Supposedly, never sure whether he will actually remember to," Isla replies, setting her bag on the counter. She looks down at the legal pad the shepherd had been scribbling on and reads:


                             STETSON
                 Where's the rest of it!?

                             TELLER #1
                 I already gave you all I have!

                             ASHLEY
                           (to Teller #1)
                 Like hell you did! It's fucking Friday,
                 everyone knows you have more than that.
                 Need I remind you it ain't even your
                 money! So don't be a God damn hero and
                 just cough it up! Otherwise you're going
                 to have to explain to your branch manager
                 why his shiny lobby's been turned into a
                 modern art exhibit!

     Ashley points her shotgun at Hostage #2, who SCREAMS.

                             TELLER #2
                 Let me, let me do it. Just let everyone
                 else go!


The cashier snorts, "Far be it from me to judge what critters do in their spare time, but Jesus. You know, yesterday that stoned idiot put Steele Dan under `metal.'"

The sound of plastic-on-plastic clatters out from beneath the counter as she rifles through stacks of tapes and CDs. "Ah, found it!" she says, standing back up holding a cassette case with a slip of paper wrapped around it, held in place with a rubber band. `FOR ISLA' is written across it in sloppy pawwriting. She pulls the rubber band off and strips the paper away, only the let out an exasperated groan, "Oh for fuck's sake."

Isla blushes hotly, blood running cold with embarrassment thinking the bitch caught her staring at the notepad. A mix of relief and disappointment washes over her as she sees what the shepherd is holding: a Neil /Diamond/ album.

"I swear to God if he moved Neil Diamond under `rock,'" the blue dog sighs, rolling her eyes, "I'll be right back." She wanders down the rows of cassettes and CDs, singing the wrong Neil's most famous song obnoxiously off-key, "/Sweet Cass-i-dy, /bomp bomp bomp/, good times never felt so good.../"

<Cassidy, right,> the rough collie thinks to herself as she watches the blue and white tail sway back and forth as its owner searches through a bin of cassettes. She returns her gaze to the legal pad.


     Stetson pistol whips Teller #1, who collapses. He puts the gun to
     Teller #1's head.

                             STETSON
                           (to Teller #2)
                 Move your God damn tail before I change my
                 mind and pop your useless friend!

                             TELLER #2
                 Okay, okay, just need a moment!

     Teller #2 begins to unlock the SAFE as SIRENS approach from the
     distance.

                             ASHLEY
                 Hurry the fuck up!

                             TELLER #2
                 I'm trying!


Isla reaches the end of the page and lifts it, continuing to the next:


     SIRENS grow louder.

                             STETSON
                 Too slow! Three...

                             TELLER #1
                 Please, don't...

                             STETSON (CONT'D)
                 Two!

                             ASHLEY
                 Are you fucking stalling!? He's not
                 joking, he will snuff your friend if you
                 don't get that damn safe open right now!
                 Do you want his blood on your paws?

                             TELLER #2
                 No, please, I just, I just need a
                 second...

                             STETSON (CONT'D)
                 One!

                             ASHLEY
                 That's your last one!

     Stetson COCKS his pistol.

                             TELLER #1
                           (to Teller #2)
                 Becky, please...

                             BECKY (Teller #2)
                 I can't, I can't...

     A GUNSHOT is heard. Becky SCREAMS as---


"This what you're looking for?" Cassidy asks, sliding a plastic cassette case---one with the correct Neil playing an acoustic guitar on its cover---over the page Isla is reading.

Isla blushes again and looks up at the blue bitch, an apologetic half-smile drawn across her muzzle.

"Oh don't look at me like that," the shepherd chuckles as she finds a pair of puppy dog eyes staring straight at her. "I don't usually like others reading works in progress, but---" She pauses, then shrugs, "It's sorta funny I guess."

The collie picks up the cassette with the coyote on it. `Neil Young -- Freedom' reads the front and spine. She flips it over to the track listing, making a show of reading it instead of the yellow paper both know she had been engrossed in. "Funny how?"

"You know, obviously the goal is to get it optioned and hopefully have it produced one day for all to see. And yet, it still feels strange actually having someone in the fur, right in front of me, reading it. When I send something out, it's all so very clinical. I'm not in the same room with whoever's on the other end. I don't get to watch their reaction. It's almost like they're not really..." Cassidy pauses again, trying to think of the right word. When she can't, she continues anyway, "Real, you know? They're just names and addresses I send screenplays to and months later I might get a rejection letter, /if/ I'm lucky. For all I know there's nothing on the other end except a Magic 8 Ball."

Isla's ears still feel hot as she tries to look anywhere except the notepad. "Sorry, I just... I didn't mean to... It was there and I couldn't help but---"

Cassidy waves a paw, "Hey, it's cool, alright? I shouldn't be doing that here if I'm not okay with the occasional pair of roaming eyes glancing over it every now and then. Hell, the whole reason I got this job is so I can sorta get paid to write during the down time. Which there is a lot of if you haven't noticed."

"But just because you leave something out like that doesn't mean I shouldn't respect your privacy," the collie says sheepishly as she digs into her bag for her wallet. She slides a five and two ones across the counter.

The shepherd takes the cash and taps on the register. The cash drawer pops open and she silently counts out change to herself, before holding it out for the collie. "Like I said, no biggie. You don't seem like the judgy type, at least I don't think so," she replies as their paws meet.

Isla blushes anew as her paw brushes Cassidy's, but somehow she keeps her composure enough to manage a response, "Yeah, I don't think so either."

Cassidy smirks, regarding the collie curiously, ears perked.

"I mean, I know I'm not!" the collie corrects herself, feeling like a flustered pup in front of the shepherd.

"Hey, again, it's cool. Wish my mom thought like you. She was constantly going through my things until I moved out. Before then, the only place I ever had privacy was in my head, if that makes sense."

"Is that why you write?"

The shepherd glances up at the clock on the far wall, then offers the collie a smile. "Tell you what, it's about quitin' time. There's a bar down the street, Curious Calico, you know the place?"

Isla feels blush creep into her ears again, seeing where the conversation is going. "I think so? They've got local garage bands playing there a couple nights a week?"

"Insofar as you can call any of those awful collections of wannabe musicians a `band.' And don't forget the terrible caterwauling during open mic nights. We can go gawk at the local wildlife and I'll tell you whatever it is you want to know, whaddya say?"

Isla rubs the back of her neck sheepishly, thinking. She should get back to her apartment and study, but there's no pressing exams at this point in the semester. And it has been a while since she's had company. "Sure," is about all she can say to the blue-furred, punk-attired bitch.

"Alright, give me a sec," Cassidy says as she gathers her papers and places them into her bag. After locking the register, she wanders over to the window and turns the open sign around.

"/Après vous/," she says, gesturing the collie to the door.

As the collie exits onto the sidewalk, the shepherd pulls the door closed behind them, locking it. She gives a few tugs and when satisfied turns to head down the street with the collie in tow. Her paw reaches into the pocket of her denim vest, retrieving a soft pack of cigarettes, giving it a few requisite taps before drawing one free.

Isla lets out an audible sigh as Cassidy brings the cigarette and a lighter to her muzzle.

"What?" Cassidy says muffledly from around the cigarette, annoyed. She exhales a stream of smoke, "You forget what state you're in?"

"Don't remind me," the collie grumbles, waving a paw in front of her muzzle. It's useless, of course, as the acrid smoke continues to assail her sensitive nose.

"So you're not from around here? Just here for school?"

"No, well yes, sorta. I'm not from /here/, but I am from NC. I grew up in Asheville."

The shepherd is careful to turn her muzzle away from her companion when she exhales again.

"Blue Ridge bitch, eh?" she says, giving the collie a once over with her mismatched eyes. "I guess you do look like the outdoorsy type."

Isla shrugs, "Kind of. The mountains are the only good thing out there. Or in the entire state, really. No offense if you're from here."

"None taken," Cassidy says with a chuckle, tapping the ash from her cigarette as the pair continue to stroll down the relatively quiet sidewalk.

"You here for school too? I didn't think NC State had a film program," the collie asks sincerely, only to be met with laughter.

"Film school, good one. Even if the University had a film program, like hell I'd waste my time listening to some washed up has been, and that's assuming they ever had a /has/ to have been washed up from to begin with. Only thing film school's good for is teaching you how to be pretentious, `aspiring' for the /haute couture/ that is arthouse. No one wants to see that, except maybe other film students."

Cassidy pauses to take another drag from her cigarette, regarding her fellow bitch. "It's like any other form of art. You either got it, or you don't. Can't be taught. And before you ask me what I'm doing here if I've `got it,' just you wait and see. First opportunity I get, I'm gone."

"Wasn't going to say that," Isla replies reassuringly, sensing the shepherd's defensiveness. She assumes the budding screenwriter hears that enough as it is. "What I read of whatever it is you're working on is pretty good."

Cassidy mumbles a half-hearted `thanks' from around her cigarette in response.

"I'm serious! I mean, sure I don't really understand the craft, but I've seen enough TV and movies to know what's good and what's not. You've got me wanting to know what comes next."

The shepherd lets out a hollow chuckle that sounds more like a sighing /hmph/. "Me too," she says simply while smothering the butt of the cigarette on top of a trash can they pass.

Isla cocks her head, lifting one of her partially flopped ears in Cassidy's direction, confused. "What do you mean?" she asks.

Cassidy waves her paw dismissively, "I mean exactly what I said. I don't know what comes next." Seeing the quizzical expression on the collie's muzzle, she sighs and elaborates. "It starts as an idea. Maybe a scene or a character or a piece of dialog. It grows from there on its own. I don't have an outline or anything prepared ahead of time."

"I always figured writers of all stripes use something like a storyboard to organize their ideas."

The shepherd laughs and shakes her head, "No, that's for the critters way, way further down the assembly line. Directors, animators, cinematographers, those kinda beasts. I just tell the story, literally everything else gets left to them. What you should be thinking of instead is a `beat sheet.'"

"What's that?" the collie asks, tilting her head.

"Something I don't use," Cassidy replies curtly.

When she notices Isla's frown, she sighs. "Sorry, didn't realize you were being genuine and not just humoring me, like most critters. They don't care to hear about how the sausage is made, and that's not even how I make my sausage. Anyway, a beat sheet is just a type of outline. I feel they're restrictive and force the writer to make decisions before things have a chance to develop naturally. It railroads the process and makes things formulaic, like the Mad Libs version of a three-act play."

Isla nods, "Yeah, I think I've seen things that were probably made that way."

"See? You didn't even know about the process and you can spot it from a mile away. It has to flow naturally, like a river. You can either fight the current or let it take you wherever it wants to go. One's a whole hell of a lot easier than the other."

"So, like life?"

Cassidy snorts dismissively, "If only."

Before the pair even open the door to Curious Calico, the drunken, off-key `singing' of a tod and tortured wailing of a saxophone greet them. When the shepherd pushes the door open, they see the full extent of the grisly scene. The tod attempts to slur the words to /Careless Whisper/ on stage while a vixen sits at a nearby table, face in both her paws.

Cassidy gestures toward the stage, "The local wildlife."

Isla nods, unsure whether to feel more embarrassed for the tod or vixen. Even more obnoxious than the fox's serenade, however, is the overwhelming odor of cigarette smoke and the personal scents of a few decades' worth of college students Calico has fostered. The smell is blinding and leaves the rough collie without her keenest sense.

When the pair take their seats at the end of the sticky bar, the shepherd instinctively reaches into her vest, pulling free another cigarette. An attentive dachshund behind the bar is quick to hold out a lighter for Cassidy who gladly accepts.

"Who's your friend tonight?" the dog asks, glancing over to the rough collie.

"Isla," Cassidy mumbles from around the cigarette. "And the beanpole is Harvy," she says to Isla, gesturing to the dachshund.

The dog nods in acknowledgment as he drops a few cubes of ice into a rocks glass. Bourbon from the well follows. He sets the drink before the shepherd and turns to the rough collie. "And for you, Isla?"

"Just a Coke," she responds as Harvy places a cocktail napkin in front of her.

"Sure thing," the dog replies without judgment. In one deft motion, he fills a pint glass with ice and soda from the gun and places it before Isla.

Cassidy looks askance at her fellow bitch, but otherwise makes no comment regarding the collie's libation. "Lovely crowd tonight," she says, glancing at the tone deaf tod still on stage.

"I cut him off, so with any luck him and his vix will wander off soon."

"Hopefully not to another bar," Isla chimes in.

Harvy chuckles, "Nah, no one's going to serve him until he sobers up some. And I wager he'll fall asleep before that happens."

"If you believe in a merciful God and not the one from the Old Testament," Cassidy snorts.

A ferret further down the bar catches Harvy's attention. "Excuse me, bitches. If you need anything, just holler."

Both nod as the short legged dog makes his way to the short legged weasel, leaving the pair to their drinks.

"So what else you wanna know?" Cassidy asks, turning to face Isla, cigarette in paw.

Isla chuckles sheepishly and dips her muzzle into her glass to buy herself a few extra seconds to come up with something. "When did you start telling stories?" is the first thing that comes to mind.

Cassidy flicks her tail and grins, "That's easy. As soon as I could form words, same as any other pup. Problem is I never learned to take a hint and shut up."

"Really? Ever since you can remember?"

"Sure, always been making up dumb movies or TV shows in my head. Probably on account of my dad leaving my mom, and her using the TV as a foster parent. Big mistake putting an impressionable young pup in the care of hundreds of screenwriters like that. Could only possibly lead to one place," Cassidy says, gesturing around the bar.

Isla frowns. "I'm sorry," she says sincerely.

The shepherd snorts, "For which part?"

The collie splays her ears and offers the bitch an apologetic set of puppy-dog eyes.

Cassidy chuckles, "Hey, I'm just giving you a hard time. I know what you meant and there's no reason for you to apologize. You didn't have a paw in raising me."

"I know, but that doesn't mean I can't empathize," Isla offers. "You mentioned something about your mom going through your things?"

"Yeah, never had any privacy and living in a cramped one-bedroom apartment together didn't help. She was convinced I was always hiding something from her, usually drugs or booze, projection I guess. She'd tell me `my nose knows' so often it might as well have been her catchphrase. She never found anything but that didn't stop her from turning the apartment upside down whenever she had the opportunity. I don't know what it is she thought she would accomplish, but all it did was teach me how to better hide things. And I hid everything from her. Both the tangible and whatever was going on in my life."

"Did you have anyone else you could confide in?"

Cassidy shakes her head, "Not really. My mom is estranged from her family, so relatives never entered the picture. No siblings since my parents split and my mom, ever the charmer, never found another mate. Shocker. Not many friends either, turns out cubs don't like hanging out with the weird bitch who listens to loud music and lives in her head. Another shocker."

She pauses to add her own contribution to then thin haze of cigarette smoke swirling around the bar. A clawtip taps her cigarette over the ashtray before continuing, "Since I didn't have many friends, sleepovers were a rare and much needed escape. I'd stay up telling stories for as long as I could, like that'd somehow delay my inevitable return home just a little longer."

She chuckles to herself and turns to Isla, "Didn't mean to turn this into a pity party. I'd much rather talk about this Cass, not the Cass that once was, if that's alright."

"And I didn't mean to pry," Isla says sheepishly, muzzle retreating back into her glass.

Cassidy shrugs, "Hey, no problem. I said I'd tell you whatever you wanted to know, so that was fair game. If anything, I should be sorry for the bait and switch, but apologizing doesn't come naturally to me, like it apparently does to you."

The rough collie's ears blush again as she mutters muffledly into her soda, "Sorry."

"Heh," the shepherd chuckles with a smirk. "You seem like an innocent bitch, so let me give you a piece of advice. The Triangle's a big, busy place. It's not like Mayberry."

"Asheville."

"Same difference. I know Mayberry's not literally based on Asheville, but pretty damn close. Doesn't change the point I'm getting at. Out here, bad things happen to critters, doesn't matter if they themselves are good or bad. Call it luck or fate or whatever your religion or creed tells you to believe to make you feel better about the unfairness of the cosmos. Like the Beatitudes, if you believe in the Lion like most of the critters around here."

Cassidy pauses to take an unusually large gulp from her glass. She closes her eyes for a moment and fights the burn, clearing her throat afterward. "Didn't mean to get all preachy, just don't want to see you get hurt."

Isla regards the shepherd for a moment. Despite the bitch's seeming condescension, she gives Cassidy the benefit of the doubt and views her `advice' as well-intentioned, if unneeded.

"I know, maybe better than most."

Cassidy glances to Isla incredulously as she takes another drag from her cigarette.

Isla continues, "I've seen more than my fair share of the universe's unfairness. Yesterday I met this tigress, couple years older than me. Typical story, broken home, in and out of juvie for the usual: theft, vandalism, trespassing. Graduated to more serious crimes. After she turned eighteen, she started working getaway for these other two beasts. They'd hit a convenience store or do a quick smash-and-grab at an electronics store or pawn shop. Their `luck' eventually ran out when they tried to stick up the wrong gas station. Cashier was the owner and he took robbing his place of business a little more personally than an employee would. Shot one dead instantly, hit the other in the gut. Our tigress fled the scene as soon as she heard gunfire. The beast that survived was all too happy to sing like a bird to the DA. Cops picked up the feline a couple days later. Public defender tried to work a plea bargain, but the prosecutors were adamant that she---now an adult---be convicted of a felony.

"She served three years of a five year sentence. Released early for good behavior. Tried to turn things around, but it's hard to get a job or an apartment with a record. By the time I talked to her, she'd been living under the 440 rail overpass not far from here for a couple months. She was at her wit's end with no where else to go. Life was better for her behind bars, where at least she had a roof over her head and regular meals.

"Police, prosecutors, and politicians like to talk about recidivism like it's some great mystery. It's not. When a beast is convicted of a crime, their `debt to society' should be paid in full once the sentence is complete. They shouldn't continue to be punished after release, forever bearing the brand of their past mistakes. They're entitled to a chance at a new life, with a clean slate and a fair shake. But that's not what some want. They speak of `a thousand points of light' and `climbing the ladder' while extinguishing those lights and sawing the rungs out from under the rest of us."

Cassidy remains quiet after Isla finishes speaking. It's not until the forgotten cigarette between her fingers burns far enough down to singe her fur that her silent contemplation is broken. She yelps and smothers the remains of the cigarette in the ashtray. "Can't judge a bitch by the silkiness of her coat, it seems."

Isla offers Cassidy a reassuring smile, absent of any gloating for disproving the shepherd's earlier preconception.

"Explains why you picked up that album, I guess. You're one of the ones that doesn't misinterpret the lyrics. I can't say the same about half the critters I've sold that to."

"I like Neil Young, always have, so I would have bought it anyway. But I know what you mean. We've been getting constant requests for that song since it was released, too many for a track that's clearly pointing out our failings as a society." She pauses and shrugs, "Not clearly enough, for some."

Cassidy's ears perk as she sets her now empty glass down. She studies Isla for a moment before recognition flashes in her mismatched eyes. "That's where I know you from! You're on the radio!"

Isla laughs and shakes her head, "Oh, no, I wouldn't say that. It's not like I'm a DJ or talk show host or something. I just answer the request line and---very rarely---fill in for someone. The most I've ever said on air is station identification. It's volunteer work, more than anything."

The shepherd clears her throat and does her best impression of the rough collie, "You're listening to the dulcet tones of Isla..." She tilts her head and lifts her ears expectantly.

"McGavin."

"You're listening to the dulcet tones of Isla McGavin on 88.1 WKNC, taking your requests all day, every day."

"Oh please," Isla says with a giggle, trying her best to roll her eyes. "I don't sound like that or say anything like that. Not even remotely close."

"Hey Harvy, we're in the presence of a real radio celeb," Cassidy says to the dachshund when he returns to refresh her drink.

"Hush!" Isla scolds in a whisper.

"That so?" Harvy asks, placing the bottle of bourbon back into the well.

"Yeah! She's a personality on WKNC!"

"Am not! She's blowing this way, way out of proportion! And even if I were, it's just college radio."

The dachshund regards Isla for a moment then chuckles, "I guess the `face for radio' thing isn't true after all."

"I know, right?" Cassidy says with a smile. "It's a crime to keep her hidden behind the dial."

Isla's ears burn hotly as she hides her face in her paws not unlike the now departed vixen who was on the receiving end of the fox's serenade.

Harvy's thin tail wags as he watches the shrinking violet. "Maybe you should put her in one of those movies you're always working on."

"Oh God," Isla groans into her paws.

"You're right!" Cassidy barks as she reaches over to rub one of the embarrassed collie's ears. "Maybe I could write a spin-off of /The Andy Griffith Show/ where the retconned granddaughter of Sheriff Taylor moves out of the hills and to The Triangle! It'd be an odd couple flick, she could be the kind-hearted but hopelessly naïve rookie on the RPD who gets paired with the loose cannon, ends-justify-the-means Dirty Harry type! Wacky antics ensue when two worlds collide! Coming soon to a theater near you!"

"Did you come up with all that right on the spot?" Harvy asks. "Maybe you should be doing improv instead."

"You don't, you don't haf-hafta keep comparing me to A-a-andy Griffith just 'cause Imma rough col-LIE," Isla stammers as Cassidy rubs one of her fuzzy flaps between thumbpad and forefinger.

"Yup! To both of you. And sorry Isla, but you're kinda species-cast. Rough collies will /always/ be portrayed as some combination of folksy, affable, and/or innocent to a fault. Unless..." Cassidy pauses for a moment, thinking. "Yes! You could be cast against type! You're the retconned granddaughter of Sheriff Taylor, but one who has grown tired of slow small town life. You yearn for fame and fortune! You move to Miami to sling dime bags of dope and accidentally encroach on the turf of ruthless drug kingpin Eduardo "Death's Angel" Gonzalez. You murder your way up the mob chain of command, but before you can get to Death's Angel, he orders a hit on ol' Grandpa Taylor! You return to Mayberry crestfallen, a changed bitch with Andy's blood on your paws. It's not until the retconned grandson of Barney Fife offers to join forces do you return to Miami. But you no longer lust for fast cars and sleek yachts. No, you lust for revenge!"

"But I'd, I'd still be r-r-related to A-andy Griffith!" Isla protests weakly as Cassidy continues to nonchalantly caress one of her ears.

"Sorry hun, you're a rough collie from western NC, I'm sorta obligated," Cassidy teases as she lets up on Isla's ear, much to the collie's relief.

"Oh? Whereabouts?" the bartender asks, lifting his floppy ears.

"Asheville," Isla answers.

"Mayberry," Cassidy barks in unison.

"Oh yeah? My mate and I took the pups out there over the summer. Real pretty area," Harvy says as he refills Cassidy's glass, again, as soon as she sets it down.

"It can be. Fall's the best time though. Sometime between about now and next month the leaves will change and the valleys and hills will turn red, orange, gold, basically every shade of fox. Temperature will have cooled off, too," Isla says, watching Cassidy work her way through her third drink in the span of their conversation.

"Sounds gorgeous," Harvy replies as he reaches for the bottle of cheap bourbon.

Isla clears her throat, "Say, Harvy, I think there's someone at the other end of the bar who's trying to get your attention."

The dachshund glances down the bar, but sees no one. He turns back to Isla, confused. When she gestures again, he takes the hint and leaves the bottle alone. "So there is. If you need anything, you know where to find me," he says as he wanders off to attend to the other guests.

The rough collie slides her arm over the shepherd's shoulders and gives her a squeeze. "Say, Cass... you don't mind me calling you Cass, do you?"

"You can call me anything you like, just don't call me late for dinner!"

"Alright, how about we go back to your place? You live nearby?"

"But it's still early," Cassidy whines. She turns to face the stage where a mouse attempts to sing /Round and Round./ "The /really/ drunk crowd hasn't showed up yet."

"Yeah, but maybe you can show me more of what you're working on? Or we can watch something and you can give me a director's commentary?"

"But I'm not a director! I told you I don't use a storyboard and I don't, don't give camera directions! I'm a writer, I tell stories. That's what I do alllll day."

"Maybe you can tell me one while I walk you home?" Isla asks, gazing at Cassidy with her best pair of puppydog eyes.

The shepherd giggles, "Fine, but stop looking at me like that. It's not fair, I could never say no to eyes like those."

"No promises," Isla says, giving the shepherd a nuzzle. As she helps Cassidy up, Harvy returns. "How much to cash us out?" she asks the dachshund.

"For you? Don't worry about it. For her, I'll add it to her tab," Harvy replies with a smile as he cleans up the pair's drinks.

"But we haven't even sung anything yet!? Let's go sing somethin'," Cassidy slurs, leaning against Isla to steady herself.

Isla mouths a silent `thank you' to Harvy, who nods in reply. She maneuvers Cassidy through the crowded bar and to the door. "No, I'd rather take you home and have you tell me a story."

"Aww, come on! Do you know that, that duet with Lita Ford and Ozzy?" the shepherd asks as she stumbles out the door, Isla supporting her. "Wait, whaddam I sayin'? You're in radio, 'course you do! Let's sing that one."

"Cass, I'm not `in radio.' And I'm not---"

"/If I cloooooooose my eyyyyyyyyes forrrrevvvvvverrrrr.../"

"Come on, Cass. Which way's home?"

"/...willllllll it allllllllll remaiiiiiiin unchanggggggggged.../"

"Hey! Shut up out there or /I/ will close /your/ eyes forever!" a voice heckles from an open window as Isla tries to keep the shepherd upright. She slides her paw into Cassidy's bag and feels around for a wallet.

"/...if I cloooooooose my eyyyyyyyyes forrrrevvvvvverrrrr.../"

Isla's digits glide over a thin, laminated card in Cassidy's wallet and pull it free. She struggles to read the ID which appears washed out under the dim glow of the sodium vapor street lamps. She squints and makes out the name: CASSIDY JACQUELINE OSBORNE.

"/...willllllll it allllllllll remaiiiiiiin the saaaaammmmmmmmeeeeee.../"

The rough collie's eyes continue to struggle with the ID, both due to Cassidy's meandering gait and the color muting light. D.O.B. 11/22/1963 she reads. <That can't be right. That has to be an `8,'> she thinks to herself and tries again. D.O.B. 11/22/1963 remains unchanged. <She's... six years older than me? And born on that day of all days...>

"/...willllllll you eeeevvvvvveeerrrrrrrr take meeeeeeeeeee.../"

Isla nearly topples over when Cassidy's weight suddenly shifts as the shepherd attempts to dramatically swing herself around Isla. The collie catches the bitch and helps her back onto her footpaws. She brings the card up and skims again. 4285 J---

"Icela... Icela! It's your line!" Cassidy urges, elbowing the collie insistently.

"/No, I just can't take the pain,/" Isla adds to the duet, reluctantly. She returns to the ID. 4285 J---

"/...wooooooooooould you eeeevvvvvveeerrrrrrrr trust meeeeeeeeeee.../"

Isla quickly scans the card, 4285 J---

"Hey! Hey! Icela, it's your turn!"

The rough collie sighs. "/No, I'll never feel the s---/"

"Guitar solo! BrrrRRRrRrr RRrrrRrrRRRR..." Cassidy growls, playing air guitar.

Isla finally makes out 4285 JOHNSTON ST, APT 3B. She glances at the street sign: Jefferson St. <Good, Johnston should be n--->

"/I knooooooow I been so hard on yooooooooou, I knooooooow I told you liiiiiiiiiessssss.../"

The pair reach Johnston Street. Isla looks down the street to her left and reads: 4281 ... 4283 ... 4285. <Finally.>

"/...if I couuuuuuuuuld have just oooooooonnnneeeeee more wiiiiiiiiishhhhh.../"

The rough collie practically carries the singing shepherd up the stairs to her third floor apartment. When they reach the door marked 3B, she fumbles around in Cassidy's bag blindly again. "Cass, where's your k---"

"/...I'ddddddd.../" Cassidy sings and then suddenly pushes her muzzle to Isla's, her odd-colored eyes gazing up at the collie's brown ones.

Isla mrrrfs muffledly into the kiss as it catches her off guard. She clutches the shepherd as she feels the bitch's tongue hunt for an opening into her maw. She looks into the brown and blue eyes gazing back at her as she parts her lips softly for Cassidy. The shepherd's tongue wastes no time invading Isla's muzzle as she feels around in the bag for the keys.

Cassidy's kiss grows more aggressive as Isla's paw hunts. She finally finds the keys and pulls them free with a jingle. Having to support Cassidy with one arm forces her to awkwardly try key after key until one slots into place with a satisfying /click/. She breaks the kiss as she turns the handle, pushing the door open.

"Cass, we can't. Not like this..."

"Why? You, you not havin' fun?" Cassidy asks, a confused expression on her muzzle.

Isla feels around the dark room for a light switch. Once she finds it, she flicks it on and finds herself in a cramped studio apartment. A small bed, unmade, is shoved against one corner. A small sofa rests in the middle of the room, facing a television. Shelf upon shelf upon shelf next to the TV contain countless VHS tapes. A few are in commercial jackets, but most are recordable media. Sloppy pawwriting in black marker cover their labels, sometimes scribbled out numerous times from reuse. A VCR beneath the TV hums quietly as it records an ongoing broadcast.

A small table serves as Cassidy's desk. In front of the chair is an electric typewriter, a paper partially fed into it. An ashtray rests to the right of the typewriter, overflowing with ash and cigarette butts. A nearby coffee mug is half full of a stale, black liquid that barely passed as coffee when it was fresh. Several more cigarette butts float atop the dark fluid. A yellow legal pen rests to the left of the typewriter, and next to that, a small stack of paper. Every square inch of the rest of the table is covered with what look like booklets, each bound with a pair of brass brads. A wastepaper basket rests on its side next to the table and a sea of crumpled up paper litters the floor underneath.

The small kitchenette is in a similar state of disarray. Dirty dishes are piled so high in the sink that the faucet is unusable. Several greasy pizza boxes occupy what little counter space the kitchen has. A stained, white coffee maker holds more of the murky liquid. Empty beer cans surround a trash can filled beyond capacity with their fallen brethren.

All in all, it's about what Isla has been expecting.

"I am, but it wouldn't be right," she says as Cassidy attempts to persuade her with eager nuzzles and licks.

Cassidy pauses, tilting her head in confusion. "Why not?"

Isla shuts the door behind them with a footpaw and leads the shepherd to the small bed. She sits on the edge of it after Cassidy lies down. She brushes a paw over the shepherd's cheek, her thumb rubbing one of the blue spots there. "Because you're drunk and you won't remember anything," she says softly and without judgment.

Cassidy slides her paw over Isla's, cupping it against her cheek. She nuzzles along the rough collie's wrist. "Is fine, nobody else cares. And I don't remember lots of things."

The rough collie smiles as the shepherd holds her paw. She leans in and nuzzles, licking the bitch's nosepad softly. "That may be, but I want you to remember me," she says soothingly, touching her muzzletip between the shepherd's mismatched eyes.

"How could I, I forget? You're Icela, Andy Gripit's grandpup. Came all the way here from Mayferry to go to DJ school," Cassidy says with a giggle.

Isla glances at the shepherd's alarm clock which blinks 11:10 back at her. "Do you remember if you work in the morning?" she asks, continuing to stroke Cassidy's dyed cheekfur.

"Nah, Purry gonna open tomorrow," the shepherd giggles, licking along the rough collie's forearm softly. "I gotta do my real job in the morning, though."

The rough collie leans in to kiss Cassidy's forehead, then carefully lies next to her in the small bed. She nuzzles one of the bitch's ears, only to find the cool caress of metal piercings against her muzzle. "Yeah, and you need your rest to do that," she coos softly.

Cassidy nods as she pushes her head against Isla's chest, taking in a deep breath of the collie's scent. Her grip on Isla weakens as she relaxes and closes her eyes, "Mmm, good night Icela Gripit."

"Good night, Cassidy Jacqueline Osborne."