The concept itself requires careful examination.
Fun.
A three-letter word is insufficient to describe the neurochemical cascade currently flooding my system. Dopamine. Serotonin. Endorphins. The cocktail of pleasure that has, until now, been relegated to more dignified pursuits, such as wearing the perfect scarf.
Melody dances beside me, her movements as uncoordinated as they are enthusiastic.
“Look at him go!” Finn calls, brushing snow from his excessive layers. “The llama’s got moves!”
I’ve got “moves.”
And I just can’t stop. This is wildly inappropriate but somehow so satisfying.
When Melody loses her balance at the edge of the slope, I feel an unusual sensation in my chest cavity. Alarm. Concern. The urge to intervene. Before I can act, Everett moves with impressive speed, positioning himself beneath her as they tumble down the hill together.
And then I am bouncing once more.
Joy. What a curious emotion. Neither wholly rational nor entirely chaotic. Not useful in the evolutionary sense, yet essential for what humans call “living fully.”
Dr. Hersey once told a patient that joy is not the absence of pain but the presence of connection. At the time, I categorized this as a typical therapeutic platitude. Now, watching Melody and Everett climb back up the hill, snow-covered and laughing, while Gabe and Finn wait with open arms and open hearts, I reassess my evaluation.
Connection. To others. To oneself. To the moment.
I shake the snow from my coat, adjusting my scarf with a toss of my head. Perhaps this is the most surprising discovery of all: that one can be both dignified and joyful, both observer and participant.
As the humans gather at the top of the hill, their scents mingling into what I now recognize as the beginnings of a pack bond, I make a professional notation in my mental case file:
Subject: Oxford the Llama
Diagnosis: Experiencing joy
Prognosis: Excellent
Treatment plan: More sproinging
25
Finn
Retirement homes make me uncomfortable. They smell like a blend of industrial cleaning products, cafeteria food, and the lingering scent of cheap air fresheners.
Every surface is sanitized to a shine, there’s soft generic jazz music playing, and every decoration seems just a shade too bright, as if the place is trying to convince its residents not only that it’s Christmas, but that everything is fine, and nobody is ever going to… You know, die.
I keep that observation to myself as I follow Melody and Everett’s mom through the halls.
After Everett’s mom met Melody this morning, she couldn’t stop fussing over our omega and gushing about how happy she was for all of us. She insisted that Melody join her this afternoon to meet Granny May.
“You’ll love her,” Mrs. Pine tells Melody, her hands clutching a tin of homemade cookies. “She’s the heart of our family. Shewas feeling a little down during my last visit; she absolutely hates this place.”
I’m not sure how I got roped into this visit while Gabe and Everett hung back to play lumberjack detectives; perhaps it’s my charming personality or, more likely, Charlie’s insistence that I’d provide “comic relief” for the elderly.
Speaking of Charlie, she trails behind us now, thumbs flying across her phone screen as she texts updates to Everett about her recon mission. She’d spent the morning investigating the mysterious new tree suppliers in neighboring towns, and from her periodic muttering, I gather she’s found something suspicious.
We find Granny May in the common room, but she’s not knitting or playing checkers as the retirement home brochure promised. She’s not even sulking as Mrs. Pine claimed she would be.
She’s giggling.
Actually giggling, head thrown back, as an older gentleman with an impressive white mustache whispers something in her ear.