Brandy pouted and folded her arms. "Can't you make her sit still?" she said to the stylist.

Oh god, thought the ninetales. Here we go.

The pokemon stylist clicked her scissors uncertainly and reached for the ninetales, who shook his muzzle and pawed at his nose. He was sat on one of the swivel chairs, facing the mirror.

There he thought. Just you try to cut my hair, and I'll bite you. And I'm not a goddam girl!

"She doesn't seem to want her hair styled today," said the stylist.

Or any day.

"But look!" Brandy cried, "her fur is all disgusting. Can't you do something?"

"It does look a bit matted. I suppose it's from all the battling?"

"But she doesn't do any battling – she stays in the house with me, looking gorgeous."

Brandy fluttered her huge plastic lashes. It looked like two butterfrees attacking her face.

"Are you sure she doesn't go outside?" asked the stylist, lifting a particularly dirty lock of fur.

"No – only when we go for strolls down the promenade."

And when I sneak out under the fence.

"If you want her coat to stay glossy try to keep out of the rain," the stylist said, pointing at the mud smeared up the ninetales' forelegs.

Brandy cocked her head. "We never go out if it's raining. Ugh, my hair! Could you imagine?"

The stylist raised an eyebrow. "Well, I can try to comb it, and rub some oils into it, but I'm afraid I can't do any cutting. Your ninetales simply won't stay still."

As if to accentuate the point, the ninetales began chewing at the base of his tails. Brandy huffed and stomped around to the other side of the chair so that she was facing him. She crouched down, looking at him eye to eye.

"Listen, you brat," she said, "you're getting your hair done, and it's going to look beautiful, because you're a goddam show-pokemon. Got it?"

The ninetales levelled his amber gaze at her, his hackles rising. She wagged a finger in his face and he snarled.

Brandy looked indignant. "Don't you dare growl at me, stupid dog. You will do as I say, because you are my pokemon!"

A dumbass like you isn't good enough to deserve my obedience.

The ninetales opened his mouth and spat a few cinders at his trainer's face. She spluttered.

"You feral!" she cried, rising to her feet, "you best start behaving, otherwise I'll chuck you out on the street with all the other strays. I'll get myself one of those pretty Alolan ninetales instead."

Back on the street, where you found me thought the ninetales. He pictured the days spent scavenging from bins, filching cooked pidgeys from the backs of delivery vans. He started salivating at the thought.

"Ew, he's dribbling," said Brandy, looking at the stylist as if demanding she make it stop. "Why can't you be elegant and suave like the other ninetales?"

Ninetales wasn't listening. He was thinking now of nights running through back alleys, growling at tourists, urinating in the public park. I miss those days.

"Hey," said Brandy, clicking her fingers in front of his face. "She really is stupid," she said to the stylist. "How did I end up with a dud like her?"

I'm a fucking boy!

The ninetales stood up, wobbling on the chair, and loosed a blast of fire that sailed over Brandy's head, setting a shelf of shampoo aflame.

"Fire!" yelled the stylist, ducking for cover.

See how you like this, prim bitch thought the ninetales. He leapt from the chair, barrelling into Brandy's chest and knocking her to the ground. She screamed, the noise muffled by his fur as he rubbed it into her face. Eat dirt he thought.

"Ew ew ew!" she screamed, as he kneaded her with his muddy paws, wiping his slobbering jowls on her face.

"Hey, over here," shouted one of the stylists, holding out ninetales' ball.

Shit thought the ninetales. Before the stylist could return him, he bounded for the door, making sure to trail his filthy tails over Brandy's clothes. She shrieked, tears in her eyes.

Ninetales looked back at the scene; the fire spreading to another shelf, the stylist crouched behind the chair dialling emergency services, Brandy desperately trying to rub the dirt of her face. He smiled.

No more sitting still for me. Feral life, here I come!

And he bolted down the street.