My werewolf boyfriend

My dog, Snow, was the smartest, most intuitive creature I'd ever met. Not only could he fetch the mail and turn off the lights, he even knew to grab tampons from the store when I was on my period. I adored him. Until one day, I saw a picture online and blurted, "Snow, you're not a...wolf, are you?" He blinked those soulful eyes and woofed. Then he said, "Babe, you're missing a word. I'm a werewolf."

1.

It was a Saturday morning, and I was headed out to take the trash and grab some breakfast. Next to the dumpster was a cardboard box. Inside, a fluffy white puppy, maybe five or six months old, looked up at me.

“Whose good boy is this?” I muttered, glancing nervously at the security camera. “If no one claims him, he’s mine.”

And just like that, I had a dog.

Back in my apartment, the puppy stretched, stepped gracefully out of the box, and surveyed the place like royalty. I crouched down and stroked his head. “Hey there, little guy. I’m your new mom.”

He gave me a cool, appraising look.

“You’re so white, I’m gonna call you Snow. Snow, Snow…”

He remained unimpressed. I swear I saw a flicker of disdain in his eyes.

“Weird,” I mumbled. “You don’t wag your tail? Don’t you like me?”

Unlike every other dog I’d seen, Snow's tail just hung there. At my question, he glanced at me and gave a single, perfunctory wag.

My heart melted. “Snow, are you hungry? I’ll get you some food.”

I microwaved some leftover dumplings and set them down. Snow sniffed them delicately, then walked right past me. I followed him, utterly bewildered as he reached up, opened the fridge with his paw, and pulled out a package of raw pork.

What in the world? Had I woken up in a cartoon? Since when do dogs open refrigerators?

2.

I’d always wanted a pet. It just never worked out, until Snow. The moment I saw him, it was like…love at first sight. That inexplicable feeling made me scoop him up without a second thought. I'd imagined having a dog would be simple. It wasn’t. Mostly because Snow wasn't exactly a normal dog.

He refused dog food, preferring raw meat. He was obsessed with cleanliness, demanding a bath every single day. He’d lock himself in the bathroom, then emerge soaking wet, expecting me to blow-dry him. He rarely wagged his tail, hated other dogs (who, in turn, seemed terrified of him), and almost never barked. Except when I called him Snow. Then he'd let out one indignant “Woof!”

“Do you want to be called Buddy?” I asked, sensing his dislike for the name.

He didn't respond.

“Buddy?” I tried again.

He bared his teeth at me.

“Snow?”

He grudgingly wagged his tail.

I beamed. “I knew you liked the name Snow!”

Snow: "..."

Besides all that, he was ridiculously smart. He could open doors, turn off lights, and occasionally, he'd just…leave. The front door would swing open, and he'd be gone. I’d panic, thinking he’d run away for good, but he’d always come back. Eventually, I got used to his quirks. A smart dog made life easier, after all. I took him with me to pick up a package once, and ...