There are no real monsters. Except for the one in my closet

[extra_psychic]

According to all the literature, you weren't supposed to make any big changes in the first year of recovery. That might be all fine and good in the world she came from, Pamela thinks, but with the way the island is...well, it's bullshit. People come and go, there's snow, she's heard you can wake up as a dude. Those are some pretty major changes. So

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[faithanbegorrah]

The dog catches Terry's attention at first, and though she recognizes the woman as having sat through one of the support meetings a while back, she doesn't outright say so. Not yet, anyway. Sometimes it's easier to start out thinking they're a world of their own.

"Cujo?" she asks, as she stops in front of the dog, holding a hand out to let him sniff her. "Ye sure ye aren't tempting fate with that one?"

[extra_psychic]

Pamela turns her face toward the sound of the woman's voice and scours her memory to place it. She's heard it and she knows she has...Somewhere. It's distinctive. As distinctive as that Southern kid.

Terry. That's right. From AA. Even though she'd been there mostly against her will, she'd paid attention.

"I didn't name him," she says lightly. "He was just there when I woke up and it's the name he came with. He doesn't feel like a St. Bernard, so I think it's probably cool."

[faithanbegorrah]

Considering what's recently happened, Terry doesn't think having a dog called Cujo will be so cool for too long, but she hopes for Pamela's sake that he stays as good as he looks. Anything else would be way past cruel.

She crouches down a little, giving Cujo a good scratch behind his ears. "It seems like everyone I know's gettin' a dog these days."

[extra_psychic]

"Tis the season," she agrees. "But it seems like most of them are puppies. The card on this one said he's been fully trained. He's going to make getting around a lot easier than just having my cane."

Although, not that she'll admit it, but that cane has been a good friend. But, she thinks, Cujo won't lead her to the bars as well as that stick can.

[eggman_henry]

Cujo.

The name sounded familiar, and Henry racked his brain for a few moments before he remembered where he'd heard it. It had been all over the news, back in high school - the rabid St. Bernard that had terrorized that mother and son, trapped them in their car over in Castle Rock. Henry thought he remembered something about the kid dying. The four of them had talked about that for days afterward, though never around Duddits. They hadn't wanted to upset him; he loved dogs.

He saw that it was a service dog, so he didn't try to pet it, instead addressing the woman. "Interesting name," he commented. At least it wasn't a St. Bernard. "Have you had him long?"

[extra_psychic]

Pamela lifts her arm as if to look at her watch, but there's no watch on her wrist and it's apparent she could read it even if there was. She smiles and shrugs.

"Maybe an hour," she says warmly. "He was waiting for me when I woke up. There was a card with my name on it. And his. I heard people just get shit sometimes, but I never thought I'd get a seeing eye dog."

With the question answered, she holds out her hand to him, only a little bit off from where he's actually at.

"I'm Pamela. I don't recognize your voice."

[eggman_henry]

Henry stifled a laugh at the watch pantomime, even though he had a kind of feeling - not the line, like before, just a feeling - that she wouldn't have really minded. "I've heard that myself," he replied, shaking the hand she offered. "I'm Henry. It's good to meet you, Pamela."

[extra_psychic]

"Good to meet you too, Henry," she replies. Her grip is firm and sure and she smiles warmly. Cujo surprises her by just sitting. She's never met a more well-disciplined dog.

"I was thinking about seeing if he could get me to the beach, but now I'm thinking a cup of coffee and some water for him might not be a bad idea. You weren't heading to the kitchen, were you?" she asks in a roundabout invitation.

[thirdboxcar]

Walt is actually a little surprised when he sees Pam with a dog- one he hasn't seen before.

"That is one helluva dog you got there," he tells her as he catches up with her. He's seen German Shepherds before, and he's only heard good things about them where he's from.

[extra_psychic]

"Bitchin', isn't he?" she replies, her smile lighting up her whole face. The kid seems to have that effect on her, even on her worst days. But this isn't a worst- it ma well be the best damned day she's had in a long time.

"He was in my new place when I woke up and he had a note card in his little harness thing. Cojo, this is Walt. Walt, I guess this is my new best buddy. Cujo, can you say hi?"

The German Shepherd sits at attention, an air of business surrounding him. But at her command his tongue lolls out and he lifts one paw and holds it there, offering it in his way to the man.

[thirdboxcar]

Walt's eyebrows rise in a pleasant surprise at the lifted paw, before he kneels down, taking said paw in his hand to lightly shake it. "Does he have any other awesome tricks, other than guiding you around, obviously?" He asks.

Shit, he's wanted a dog for ages; had actually told himself he'd get one after coming back from Iraq. Turns out this probably won't happen anytime soon.

[extra_psychic]

"I don't know yet. I didn't get up that long ago," she replies. "We're just getting used to one another...except he seems like he's pretty used to me already. And he knows things like kitchen. He brought me right here. I think this is the beginning of a beautiful friendship, you know?"

[saikamai]

Cuthbert jogged down the steps of the compound, several large rolls of paper cradled in the crook of his arm and a pen lodged behind his ear. Glue was waiting for him in the shade of a tree, tail whisking as his large eyes regarded a dog across the path. Bert grinned and patted his rear fondly, slipping the rolls of paper into the gunna hanging off the saddle, and, just as he was about to hop up, hesitated, thinking he must've heard the dog's owner wrong. He glanced at her and found that he recognized her from the club; he'd seen her there a few times before. She was blind, and now that he was really looking at the dog, seeing it very well, he saw that it was a leading-hound, though it looked different from the type they had at home.

What really struck him wasn't the kind of dog or even Glue Boy's wary fascination with it-- it was what the woman was saying to it. She kept repeating the word cujo, a word in the High Speech, and even that wouldn't have given him pause, really--- there were plenty of soundalikes that he'd come across

[extra_psychic]

It had been loud in the bar and she'd been drunk, yeah...but Pamela had an ear for voices and she knows his instantly. It's not just the sound of it, it's the quality of it. The way he says things has a peculiar ring. Not bad or anything, just distinctive.

"Thanks, Bert," she says, stone sober now for over two weeks. She's still feeling that void and missing her gift like crazy, but there's something about being clear that's so good that it defies explanation.

"He turned up this morning with a note card," she continues. "He's mine, and I doubt anyone else here wants or needs a seeing eye dog. Right Cujo?" She puts down her free hand and the Shepherd rises his muzzle and gives her fingers a lick.

[saikamai]

Bert smiled immediately at the sound of his name, first pleased to be remembered, then amused to think that she had an advantage with him-- with a mouth like his, it was more like he'd be recognized by his prattle than his face. And then, just like that, her name came to him-- usually he was good with them, but the island's many twinners had made him a little more cautious when matching them to faces. Also it might be said Bert had a tendency of absorbing the losses while behind the counter which may've weakened his wit a wee nubbin.

He walked over and crouched down, offering his knuckles tentatively to the dog, the smile sticking persistently to his face as he heard her say the name again. Her name for it was funny, too: seeing-eye dog. Made sense, but gave Bert an unpleasantly comic mental image of a mutie pooch with 20/20/20/20/20 vision

[extra_psychic]

"I didn't give it to him, it's the name on his tag. I think it's the island's idea of a joke. I was talking to a guy at a party a while back and he asked me why I didn't have a dog like this. I told him with my luck, I'd end up with Cujo..."

Then she stops abruptly. High Speech. That sounds really fucking familiar, but she sure as hell can't remember why. Kinda the way he says 'sai'. Ultimately, she shrugs it off. It'll come to her or it won't, either way it doesn't matter right now.

"...It's from a book where I'm from. A book about a dog who gets sick from a bat bite and winds up killing a fuck-ton of people. If you ask me, it sounds just like one of the jokes this place lays on people. But he doesn't seem sick. He seems pretty damned smart."

She pauses, then smiles.

"What's it mean? Where you're from, what's Cujo mean?"

Because anything's got to be better than 'scary giant rabid motherfuckin' monster dog'.

[kingshit_lloyd]

Lloyd's personal history with German Shepherds wasn't exactly awesome -- he had learned just how sharp their sense of smell was the hard way -- but after living on an island full of giant wolves for over a year and having Hoppy for a pet, he wasn't feeling too wary. Especially since this guy seemed to be a working dog (not a distant relation of the working girl), and belonged to a chick who, as far as he knew, was definitely not a cop.

"That's a nifty name -- sounds like a professional fuckin' wrestler," Lloyd said wonderingly as he approached them, picturing Cujo, the Vicious Undertaker. The dog looked pretty harmless, all in all, despite being the drug-sniffing champion of the world. "What's it mean?"

[extra_psychic]

"Scary giant rabid motherfuckin' monster dog," she says dryly, though there's a smile tickling the corners of her mouth and just dying to bust loose.

"Nah, I'm just messin' with you. I don't think it means anything. It's the name of a dog in a book. He gets rabies and kills a bunch of people and has this chick and her kid trapped in their car. It's a good book. Shitty movie."

Cujo just sits still as she talks. He looks ready to get back to work at a moment's notice, but for now he's sitting peacefully. There's a strange look of knowing in his eyes, the kind that only well trained, disciplined dogs have. Service dogs. Police dogs. Drug dogs.

[kingshit_lloyd]

Lloyd laughed. It was a damn good name for a dog, he thought, though he would've probably gone with something like Snoopy or Scooby-Doo; less inventive, maybe, but a little less inclined to tear out your jugular at a moment's notice. "You know, my ex-boss accused me of givin' him rabies," he said, in a by-the-by sort of way, "but I think he'd dig that book." It did sound just like Flagg's sort of thing. Lloyd, on the other hand, preferred to see the movie, shitty or not.

He got a funny feeling all of the sudden, like he was being watched. He looked down, puzzled, and after a few long seconds of looking at the dog, he started to get a little nervous. He wanted to say 'good boy' or something nice and neutral like that, but his mouth was drying up, and suddenly, Lloyd thought that he would have preferred the rabid zombie dog to this.

"He's looking at me kind of funny," he complained, finally breaking down. "Jesus, like he wants to bust me or somethin'."

[extra_psychic]

"Oooh, guilty conscience? He's just a dog, man," Pamela says, though she does reach down and stroke Cujo's head. It breaks him out of his contemplative reverie and he looks up at her, awaiting her command.

"Don't worry about it. I've got his lead. You're...you're Lloyd, right? The bartender at the titty bar? I'm Pamela."