David Davidoff and his partner, Dr. Markus Stevens, lived in Oakfield since the Grayfish-Storm, the Oatsville Uprising, and their wedding day. In a spring-flower field where they held their breath beneath a clear sky, and had the best playlist this side of Pottersville, or even Hokey-Alto.
Shortly after they moved to Barktown proper, near the dog-park-bistro hub, with its mandatory-brunch laws, distant-enough relatives to not-seem-rude. And their two sons, Miskeet and Sojo Milove. David wanted to call their first, Sojourn, but Markus intervened. As most of all, he wanted a family that stayed.
Miskeet was the hastily reworked spelling of Markus’s grandad, Old-Paul Parky’s, austerely donated barbecue preference. When mistakenly asked for input at their weekly barbecue. And because most of Parky’s friends were dead, the old-coot almost always got his way.
Parky claimed-on-repeat, that mesquite was lighter and sweeter than hickory. And the boys, recognizing an unmatched ice-breaker and inquest into family dynamics by friends and colleagues at dinner parties, agreed. Suspected their first daughter would be named Hikory. If Old-Paul survived.
Miskeet was the oldest, stray whiskers bristled with out-of-town goodness, fed on complex movie-heroes that didn’t always get things right. Played baseball and hockey for the Rocket-Comets and the Sandusky-Strays. Met Markus at a shelter before the pup joined a pinching-club. Ready to be loved.
Sojo was more skittish, stayed close to his new-brother-for-keeps. Both tail-wagging on granddad’s gonna-live-forever biweekly excursions. Bad dreams avoided by late-late movie nights and lengthy discussions on the necessity of character growth and story arcs. And if exposition was actually a crime, with promises of ‘it’s gonna be all right’. Freshly sneaked popcorn and sodas to press their luck. Not long before squinting at the sun’s new light.
Parents changed their family name to Milove when it felt right. David and Markus kept theirs for work.
Prof. Davidoff taught Classics at Collie-Brock-and-Brinkley, local well-ranked university. Dabbled in freeform psychological assessments of unsuspecting locals and sleepy-town detective work.
Markus was broadly considered the town doctor, ran FiberFeastFirst, a mostly-sheep-and-cow shelter for the rurally-displaced Bovo-Coalition. Held together by Doris ‘The Hag’ Clearwater and her sister, Priscilla ‘The Other One’ Mansfield.
Doris was a hard-as-horns revolutionary-for-sickness-and-in-health, with a wardrobe to match. Priscilla felt equally committed, but married rich and only volunteered weekends. So didn’t count, according to Doris.
Marmie ‘Dipper’ Tanks ran logistics, was a storm-watcher, occasional chaser, an amateur astronomer, and awarded the best-Bovo-ally two years running.
Worked at the docks on weekends. Liaised with fisher-folk and farmers for whatever they had left. Rarely grew violent, knew when to compromise, where to find things fallen of the back of trucks. Always had great luck.
Henry Windswept kept the books and their heads above water. Came down from up north. Had a wood-paneled station wagon, an impressive boardgame collection, the baritone voice of a beefy-angel. And a daughter back in Hokey-Alto no one knew about.
It all started after Oatsville, because the government failed them so many times. And eating the rich was voted ‘unpalatable’ by their mostly herbivorous constituency. Doris was the only bovine brave enough to keep her hoof raised, followed by a muddle of angry-beyond-my-bubble sheep, willing to give a meat-based diet a try, if it meant social change. But it wasn’t enough.
The shelter experimented with pork and lamb additives for a week, but quickly backed down to hot summer and fall veggie soups. Added counseling and support, occasional ice cream, soft hay and a safe place to stay. Naturally rumors persist that Doris had a hidden room behind a bookshelf or a fridge, and was planning the mayor’s demise. We can’t all be heroes in the light.
‘Why pay politicians with our blood, when all they do is take our money and break our hearts.’
Doris ‘You Best Believe The Hag is Coming for You’ Clearwater.
Follow the tree-hill line. Just on the outskirts of town, lived Toby ‘Jigsaw’ Malone and Gladys Hancock. She was the brains, he was the paws. Up near Forest’s Edge, made the wood easier to carry. Always-faint-chimney-trail for tea, ornate copper kettles on the stairs heading up. Listen out for the wood-shop noise, and you’ll find your way.
Went into business together on a whim and late-night whiskey. Sold life-affirming furniture to wealthy-lost-folks from the big-city at local-house prices. Corporate it’s-not-my-fault and how-did-I-get-here drones, willing to pay-up anything to barter back their souls.
Toby, named after his long-gone-father Tobias Malone. Both carpenters by trade. His dad preached progress and blamed ancient-hound-bound civilizations for all the ills of their modern kind.
Ran a good business, always proud of his son. Knew Toby was kind and could sculpt wood like refrigerated butter, left out just right. Left Toby the business even though it made no sense. Made Toby choke up and smile, and cry, sometimes.
Toby was equal parts consumer and forgetter of tea. Another proud Malone family tradition, among the spicy smell of wood and waiting-workshops on rainy days. Sound of heavy double doors swinging. Followed his heart and Gladys’s voice. Anxiety cleared his throat.
There’s was a rarely said, often shown arrangement. Full of fresh wildflowers-they-loved, oversized-for-him-and-her blankets, and sleepy-smiles waking up. Afternoons reading, breathing deep. Long slow-down hugs of it’ll-be-all-right.
Gladys used to be an attorney at Wolfhound-and-Lockheed, big firm back in Bulkreach, overpopulated city to the east. Waylaid way back when the weather turned foul and their pilot had a heart attack. Didn’t make her stop, had a colleague help out, rented a room near the lake. Week later, discovered she had a taste for the quiet life. And kind-hearted bulldogs, willing to help out.
Was asked to represent the pilot’s estate, but he didn’t pass. Pericles ‘The Artist’ Faintsworn writ large in serifed-tombstone-font on heavy stone, left waiting, rain-slicked in the crowded-enough graveyard, up at Forget-Me-Knots. Stone church the locals renamed. Said they’d love to have him some day. Till then, he’d be gathering moss. Toby offered a small cabin nearby. All Pericles wanted was a quiet place to paint. Had some savings, thoughts. Sold most of it to make rent. Kept the ones he couldn’t part with crowded against the walls. Kept his ears warm from his leather-cap goggled-up piloting days. Told popular animated war stories at dinner, because the truth was a little unkind. New home felt like he was flying again, but in a good way.
ARH Forester 