Installing a werewolf-sized pet door in a rented flat turned out to be more complicated than anticipated.
"You want to do what to my property?" our landlord, Mr. Fitzgerald, had asked when I'd called to request permission for "minor modifications to improve ventilation."
"It's really quite small," I'd lied smoothly. "Just a little door for better air circulation."
"How little?"
I'd glanced at my measurements. "About four feet by three feet."
"That's not a door, that's a hole."
"A functional hole."
"In my wall."
"We'll pay for professional installation and restoration when we move out."
There had been a long pause. "Why do you need a four-foot hole in your wall?"
"My flatmate has very specific mobility needs."
"Is he disabled?"
"You could say that."
"What kind of disability requires a hole in the wall?"
I'd scrambled for an explanation that didn't involve lycanthropy. "He's... very tall. And he works nights. Sometimes the door sticks and he doesn't want to wake me by forcing it."
"The door sticks?"
"Terribly. Old building, you know. Warped frames."
"I can send someone to fix the door."
"No!" I'd said quickly. "That is, we've grown attached to the character of the building. Historic charm and all that."
"You want to put a four-foot hole in the wall to preserve historic charm."
"Exactly."
Another long pause. "Are you running some kind of business out of that flat?"
"Just trying to be considerate flatmates."
"By cutting holes in walls."
"By finding creative solutions to minor inconveniences."
Mr. Fitzgerald had eventually agreed, mostly I think because he was too confused to keep arguing. The installation had cost us nearly three months' rent, but the results had been spectacular.
The first full moon after the dog door installation had been a revelation.
I'd positioned myself strategically in the kitchen with a cup of tea and my chemistry textbook, ready to observe Marcus's reaction to his new freedom. The transformation had proceeded normally, complete with the usual complaints and furniture rearrangement, but around midnight, everything had gone quiet.
Then I'd heard it: the soft whoosh of the dog door opening, followed by the sound of very large paws padding across our tiny garden.
No howling. No scratching. No frustrated pacing.
Twenty minutes later, Marcus had returned, and I'd heard him settle down in his room with what sounded like a contented sigh.
"How was it?" I'd asked the next morning, finding Marcus in the kitchen looking more relaxed than I'd seen him in months.
"Brilliant," he'd said, grinning despite the collection of minor scratches and what appeared to be a leaf stuck in his hair. "Absolutely brilliant. I had no idea how much I needed that."
"Where did you go?"
"Just around the neighborhood. Very careful to avoid people, obviously. But Jamie, I could run. Properly run. Do you know how long it's been since I could do that during a full moon?"
"Since you were bitten?"
"Three years of being trapped in small spaces once a month. Three years of destroying furniture because I had nowhere else to put the energy."
"And now?"
"Now I think I might actually enjoy being a werewolf."
That had been the turning point. Over the following months, Marcus had developed what could only be described as a fitness routine around his lycanthropy. He'd started researching local parks and wooded areas, planning safe routes for his monthly runs. He'd bought a GPS watch that could withstand supernatural transformations and began tracking his distance and speed.
"I'm actually quite fast," he'd told me proudly after June's full moon. "Covered nearly fifteen miles last night."
"Any close calls with people?"
"One jogger around three AM, but I hid behind a tree until she passed. I think she just thought she saw a very large dog."
"Technically true."
"Exactly."
The change in Marcus had been remarkable. He'd stopped apologizing constantly for his condition, started taking pride in his nocturnal adventures, and even began researching werewolf folklore with academic enthusiasm rather than desperate self-help seeking.
"Did you know," he'd announced one evening while preparing his pre-transformation meal, "that in some cultures, werewolves are considered guardians and protectors?"
"Are you planning a career change?"
"I'm just saying, maybe being a werewolf doesn't have to be all doom and destruction."
"Maybe being a werewolf with proper infrastructure doesn't have to be doom and destruction."
"You think that's what made the difference?"
I'd considered this, watching him carefully portion out raw meat with the methodical precision he'd developed over months of practice. "I think what made the difference is that you stopped trying to fight what you are and started working with it instead."
"That sounds very wise."
"Don't sound so surprised."
"It's just, most people would have moved out months ago."
"Most people don't have to deal with your passive-aggressive approach to dish washing."
"I do the dishes!"
"You do some of the dishes. Sometimes. When the mood strikes you."
"I'm working on it."
"Add it to the list."
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