PyreWolfie

A familiar text tone lets me know that my Lady has sent me a text for the first time in three days. I feel curious, nervous, and excited all at once. I stop to read it and recognize the five-point numeric list as tomorrow’s task list for my service work at their home the following day. The tasks are phrased as sequential commands, a series of “you will” statements that, like well-written code, leaves little room for the neurodivergent kryptonite of ambiguity and decision fatigue.

As I begin reading the last task, I’ve already waded knees-deep into happy subspace. It’s here that, as part of my aftercare, they require that I text them before bed…and inform me that they will not respond to my texts until I see them again for service work in a couple of days. At this wickedly delectable remark, all other thoughts fall away as their therian wolf daydreams about being used, dismissed, and ignored like the aroace, trans-femboy Roomba that it is under their command. I compose myself, thank them, and express excitement for the next day by emoting a tail wag.

The next text they send is one word: “Heel.” It’s five minutes before the time they told me to arrive, but they can see their wolfie’s shared location and, as I’ve parked and am nearly at their place, they’re already looking out expectantly from their door. We talk casually for a short while, a routine that gives me time to prepare myself to transition tasks and fully drop into my service wolf headspace. I giddily share updates from the past few days before they leave for errands, which this wolfie takes as its cue to don its pink nitrile gloves and begin work.

As I tidy the cat litter boxes and take out the trash, I feel more attuned to my therian wolf side than usual. Maybe it’s the physical effort involved in carrying trash down a few flights of stairs. Or maybe it’s being on my hands and knees in a way that can be best summed up as “sexually suggestive”. (It’s not my fault that this also happens to be an ideal pose for scooping cat litter.) Who knows!

Even after they return, they intentionally ignore me; and I, in turn, keep my gaze lowered and avoid talking. That chosen deference belies my enthusiastic joy in taking these tasks off of their hands, a disconnect which can be easily observed in how I playfully bounce on my heels in time with my earbuds’ music while cleaning the dishes. (Notably, it’s easier to bounce like so because they chose to provide me with an anti-fatigue mat.) Feeling satisfied with how deftly I’ve cleaned, dried, and put away their dishes, I approach them with my head tilted down, my nonverbal way of requesting head scritches. They do this only briefly – today’s service session was much shorter than our usual full-day ones – and then send me off to continue with my day.

Having this structure at the start of my day gave me the mental clarity to write this piece, and that’s how I chose to spend my late afternoon. It was part-way through writing that I saw a surprise text from my Lady: “I was able to cook today because of you.” In many ways, this sums up my motivation to serve them. Doing so frees up their time, energy, and emotional bandwidth for more important things in a way that is directly observable both to us and to those close to us.

In turn, they make it easy for me to serve as their service wolf by proactively accommodating my need to balance routines with novelty. I feel safe to unmask and process meltdowns and trauma responses with them because they consistently show care for and accept me on my own terms. Should the need arise, it’s thanks to this foundation of queerplatonic intimacy that I feel fully prepared to protect them from harm as their knight and as part of my pack.