The next few days went by exactly the same. John would get up, replace the dog bowl with fresh food, then make breakfast for himself. Shirley never ate a bit of it. He tried everything: mixing in soup, chicken, cheese, even a tiny bit of eggs and bacon once since she'd like them so much before. Nothing got much more than a disapproving look. He swore she even stuck out her tongue once. She never touched the water bowl either, but he caught her coming out of the bathroom a couple more times and sometimes he'd hear the toilet flush after he'd gone to bed. She still hadn't actually gone outside or messed in the house. First a high functioning sociopath, then a toilet using dog. Why'd he always get stuck with the weird friends?

But she was starting to get used to him. As long as he didn't look at her, she wouldn't rush between hiding spots every time he entered a room and she'd stopped pulling her bed around the chair to avoid him. At night they'd sit in the living room together, him on the couch, her in her bed, and watch telly. The dog actually watched telly. She seemed to like animal shows, and the news best, but the second there was shooting, she'd scoot into the kitchen and stare at him from behind a chair leg until he changed it. He no longer had doubts that someone had broken her. How anyone could hurt such a beautiful animal was beyond him. He didn't want to think about it, but he couldn't stop.

At least the wound on her chest had already closed. Now he just had to figure out how to remove the stitches. He didn't expect she'd just let him snip at her neck with a pair of scissors.

He talked to her often and she seemed to listen, cocking her head back and forth or following him those giant ears. She still growled every time he got too close or moved to fast and he had yet to actually pet her, but he was satisfied that progress was being made. However slow, it was steady. At the very least, she hadn't attacked him again. He gave her space when she wanted it, but by day five he was starting to get seriously worried. She still hadn't eaten since the egg incident. She'd been so enthusiastic about food before, but all out refused the kibble he'd gotten her (which had been massively expensive). He searched the internet for a solution and found information on raw diets for dogs. Well that was just disgusting. He wasn't sure he could do that, but apparently neither was everyone else. There was a whole community of people who fed their dogs cooked, healthy foods. Apparently kibbled was the devil of dog foods.

These people made all sorts of meals for their pets. Chicken, steak, pork, mixed with rice and veggies, sometimes even beans. John didn't think she was quite ready for beans, but he did have chicken in the freezer.

Setting the laptop down on the couch, he got up and headed into the kitchen. Shirley started, but didn't growl, watching with curiosity while he emptied her food bowl in the trash and rinsed it out before reaching into the freezer. He set it in the microwave to defrost and started cooking the rice. He glanced over at Shirley, who was up by his laptop, examining the screen. Her tail was actuallly wagging. He just shook his head. No, nope, his dog was not reading. She looked at him, ears forward and took a step closer to watch.

An hour later they were back in the living room. John was smiling and Shirley was sleeping, nice and full and happy. She devoured the tiny cup of food he'd given her, drank a bit of water out of the bowl, and promptly fallen asleep on her bed. John tip-toed back to the couch and eased himself down, smiling. Her feet twitched as she slept and he stifled a giggle.

That night it poured and John tossed in bed, struggling to sleep over the racket of heavy drops pounding against the roof. After a few hours of staring at the ceiling, he got out of bed and crept back into the living room. Shirley was still asleep. It occurred to him for the first time that she probably hadn't slept much since he'd gotten her. He let her, moving his laptop into the kitchen. He opened it and started writing. He wasn't entirely sure where this was going, if he was starting another blog or simply passing the time, but he didn't get very far before he heard growling from the living room. Thinking he'd just scared her, he didn't look up. She always seemed more afraid when he looked at her, especially if he made eye contact. He supposed that made sense. It certainly unnerved him when she watched him while he cooked or read or did anything.

But the growls grew louder and more desperate. His eyes flickered up, expecting to see some stranger in the apartment. Shirley was on her bed, kicking and thrashing against an invisible enemy, eyes fluttering half open. He got up immediately and moved to crouch at the edge of the living room.

"Shirley." She curled her lip upwards and John swallowed hard. My, what big teeth you have. "Shirley, wake up."

She wriggled harder, letting loose the kind of snarl he'd only heard in movies. Abandoning all semblance of common sense, John crawled forward and spoke louder. "Shirley!"

Shirley sprang to her feet, spitting and snarling and ready to rip her would be attacker apart. Her eyes settled on John and he froze, his heart rising in his throat. He remembered the last time she'd jumped on him. There'd been a muzzle on and he was still feeling it. She could kill him…easily. But her eyes focused, her breathing slowed. The dog dipped her head, ears flattening. He backed up and bit and she returned to her bed, dropping onto it with a sigh. He couldn't believe what had just happened. Less than a week ago, she'd have ripped his throat out for being that close.

"Nightmare, huh?" An ear twitch. "I get them too."

Her gaze flipped back to him, ears in his direction.

John slowly stood up and inched onto the couch. She watched him the whole way, but settled once he laid down. A click of the remote and the two of them were watching lions waddle through African swampland. He woke up the next morning to Shirley coming out of the bathroom. When she saw he was awake, she stopped, flicked an ear backwards, and gave him a look torn between hope and confusion. He waited until she crawled back to her bed before getting up to make breakfast.

She ate with just as much gusto as the night before and John couldn't help but smile. Things were looking up.