Something's off with Jo. Lately, she's been different; instead of her usual snarky self, she's become snappy and standoffish. Cranky and obstinate, she stays in her room all the time. Jo can't stand being around you for long now. For the first few days, you brushed it off as Jo's irrational crankiness rearing its ugly head; an infrequent occurrence. These off days are not novel. In the past, she'd do whatever she needs to and come back out the next day her usual slothful self. But now it's changed—it's not resolving at all. Is she okay? Doesn't seem like it.
The TV does nothing to ward off your worried thoughts. Yeah, Jo can be a real pain, but if she's experiencing some heavy shit, the least you could do is help her out with it. Until now, you kind of thought she was implacable; the thought produces a dry chuckle. You switch the channel over to some game show, but the specifics cannot capture your interest.
A creak from behind cuts through your malaise. Jo's bedroom door opens and out she comes, looking more dishevelled than you've ever seen her. She's still wearing her trademark blue hoodie and sweatpants, but her fur is in disarray—white tufts stick out and frame her chubby physique in a wild tempest. Her eyes are half-lidded, and the prominent frown begets deep frustration. Yeah, she's not doing so hot.
Biting back a gasp of horror, you greet her. "Hey, Jo. You, uh, doing alright?"
It takes a moment for her to acknowledge your presence on the couch. Blinking once, her eyes regard you. "Shut up."
Well, that you can do. Turning your head back to the game show, you try your best to ignore her approaching form. Seems all she wants to do right now is watch Family Feud. OK. Though you can't help but feel that this is a repeat of yesterday. Soon enough, she'll grow restless and go back to her room. Maybe throw an insult your way for old time's sake. The space next to you sinks with her added weight, and she lets out a sigh of her own, making herself as comfortable as she can.
Such vapid programming can't wrestle your thoughts away from how vicious this cycle is. You and Jo may butt heads often, but seeing her in this state isn't the sweet victory some might think it is. Love her or hate her, she's still your roommate. And on a good day, your friend. With that, you know your next move. "Jo, is everything okay?"
The dog girl stiffens. Seems she's just as used to this routine as you are. "What?"
You press on. "Well, you've been pissed lately. Insulting me all the time, staying in your room—are you alright?"
Her brows furrow. "Fuck you."
Like talking to a wall. You face her fully, ignoring whatever bullshit answer Steve Harvey is crying about. "Come on, Jo. Did I do something wrong? Do you hate me?"
Your plea dissipates her anger, if only for a moment. She shies from your earnest gaze. Such uncharacteristic timidity is jarring, but you remind yourself that you're only trying to help. For both you and her, you need to pry. She lets out a small whine. "No, of course not. It's just…"
"Yeah?"
"I-I'm in…" A strong opening, but she murmured the rest. Jo sneaks a glance at you and your confused visage, then repeats herself. "I-I'm in heat."
Oh. That clarifies plenty. "Heat?"
"Yeah. And you're really fucking distracting, dude." Jo's tail slams into the backrest with such force that the television screen flickers. Her voice rises an octave when next she speaks: "Your fucking body,