"Hey, pup." Saturday crouches down, extending a hand as the strange dog makes overtures. "Aren't you a cutie?"

The dog is, by her standards. Red Town hounds are working dogs: guardians loved but kept for a purpose that is not companionship, or mutts abused into vicious madness. This dog is neither, she thinks: there's too much intelligence in its black eyes, and it's far too openly friendly.

"What a snuggly-wuggly cutie pie, yes you are -

A thought occurs to her, moments before her fingers make contact with the base of the dog's ears.

"Wait. You're not Alloran or somebody else who shapeshifts, are you?"