They bring the dog to the clinic’s emergency room the following morning. While Alima checks her phone for responses to various ads, Brighid makes an interesting discovery: "Oh, good god! We can’t treat wolfdogs, Alima, I’m sorry!"

"Hmm?" Alima puts a hand out to warn Mal, who stays just inside the door. "Brighid, didn’t you get my photos?" Alima pulls them up as Mal goes to a corner with the dog.

"Well, photos can only go so far. Look at his eyes!" Brighid steps forward cautiously, moving her baby-blond braid onto her back. "But he could be a low-content wolfdog that just happens to show more wolf, considering he’s not shy around strangers..."

"He was owned by someone, though," Mal tells her. "Alima just walked over and put a rope around his neck."

"Huh. You said he didn’t have a collar or lead on him?" At their nods, Brighid heads to the desk and phones Dr. Morrison. "Yes, Lou? You know the big white dog that’s coming in today? He looks a lot like a wolfdog in person; could you come over just in case?"

Dr. Louis Morrison arrives within moments, tsking with concern. "Yep, he’s got quite a bit of wolf looks. We’ll have to wait for magic results, but I’m going to put a muzzle on him since it’s protocol anyway."

On Wednesday, Brighid comes over to Mal’s house to check on the healing spell and inform them that the dog is a mix of Malamute, German Shepherd, and twelve to twenty-five percent wolf.

"That means he’s legal for me to treat!" Brighid declares, and ruffles the dog’s neck when he hobbles up to greet her. "Aww, who’s healing up enough to say hello? You are!"

---
Another week later, the shelters they’ve called say that there are no lost white wolfdogs in Mary’s Cape, Cloncarrig, or Red Road. He’s getting restless--more importantly, he’s getting attached to Alima, though he does enjoy Brighid and Aine’s presences as well.

Alima asks Ogma and Marian if it’s okay for her to take him once he’s done healing up.

"Pfft, girly," Marian shoves her. "Noreen took damn near everything home when she was growing up. A dog with a bit of wolf isn’t nearly as troublesome as a parrot."

"Ugh, the fucking bird," Ogma agrees.

"So what do you think I should call him?" Alima gets her keys out.

Ogma attempts to tell her that he already has a name and it happens to be Ned Song, but the curse kicks in again. "Moony."

"’Moony?’" She cracks a smile, and he realizes she hasn’t done that often. (She laughs, of course, but she smiles about as much as Mal or Owen.) "You know almost everyone’s going to think of Harry Potter, right?"

There’s no magic blocking him now, so he might as well make it interesting. "Damn near as big as the moon, isn’t he?"

She takes a minute to think about it, scratching the small white ears. "I think... In Tagalog, moon is Buwan."

Bulan, a woman corrects from the Otherworld, jolting through both their heads, and even the dog flicks his head around.

"Sorry," Alima chuckles. "Me and Mom can’t speak much of it. Bulan."

"Miss? Where are you?" Ogma wonders. "Alima, do you know any moon-gods in the Philippines?"

"My grandparents said only the tribes believe in gods now," she says, with a small curl of helpless fear. "I... I know Maria Makiling? And the diwat are fairies, but they’re not friendly either."

The spirit tries to say something else, but she’s cut off midway, with only the smell of night air.

---
There is no sign of the moon-woman, though Alima puts food on the altar to see if it helps her come back.

So over the week that she waits for the paperwork to go through, Alima makes a trip to the pet store for dog food. Bulan already needs the largest collar size due to the size of his head and neck, so she just decides to braid some leather for a matching leash and collar.

Unfortunately, doing a four-strand braid on five feet of leather (and a bit over two more feet for the collar) is considerably more time-consuming than she expected; leather is far harder to keep tension on than thread or hair, at least since she’s not used to it. So she spends the next two days trading off braiding sessions with Mal.

She’s a bit surprised that Mal takes up the box braid so quickly; a lot of men consider normal braids as big a mystery as Atlantis, but Mal shrugs. "It’s a set pattern for however many strands you have, what’s so hard?"

"Huh." She watches him. "Most guys I’ve known think braids are girly, since we’re mostly the ones who use them."

"Eh, people are weird like that." He grimaces and pops his knuckles.

Alima leaves the couch to get some apple juice, but when she notices he’s still flexing his hands, she pokes his arm. "That’s not good for you. Here--"

"I don’t trust your judgment!" He smiles and tweaks his hand away. "The last time you tried a spell, you shunted us into the park by accident."

"God, drunk spells don’t count!" She replies, but he can hear a smile fighting its way over. "Here, I got fresh spell ingredients last week."

She pulls out a vial of stonemint, then takes his hands and blows on them. The dust turns blue and sinks into his muscles as the ache drains off.

"Well, what do you know? Still at home. Ow!" He rubs his shoulder where she smacked him, but at least he got her to smile.

Next Chapter: XII: i spy