For a while, things are good. The Doglefox follows Ozzy home every day, then trots off to Fyora-knows-where, leaving a stick at the front door to pick up in the morning; then morning comes, and the Doglefox is always there waiting to follow Ozzy back to the Neopian Plaza and stay with him while nobody looks at his paintings. Strangely, Ozzy doesn’t even mind that nobody looks anymore—sure, he still needs the money, but Mr. Hornelius doesn’t really bother him for it, and the looming threat that he may not have a place to live if he doesn’t sell his paintings soon seems like a distant memory.

But of course, it’s all too good to be true.

It’s one day when he’s throwing one of the Doglefox’s many sticks that it happens. While the little guy is off fetching, taking a little longer than usual to return (he probably found an even bigger, better stick to bring back), familiar voices pierce through Ozzy’s hearing like the whizzing of an arrow:

“Wow, look at all this junk!”

“A bunch of ugly, washed-out paintings to match an ugly, washed-out painter. Ha! My baby sister could paint better than this.” 

Dread curls its icy claws in Ozzy’s chest, but he turns around anyway, toward the source of the voices. He knows who it is before he sees them, though: the pastel Chomby and spotted Quiggle that Nyx chased away what feels like a lifetime ago, back to torment him again.

The Quiggle leers at Ozzy’s paintings. He’s holding up one of the canvases now, between his finger and thumb, like it’s a gross, smelly rag that he’s afraid to hold properly. The Chomby laughs and points.

“Yeah, and all your baby sister knows how to do is scribble!” he says. “Give that painting here, I know how to make it better.” 

“N-no!” Ozzy protests, reaching out for the painting. “Stop, give it back—”

But it’s too late. The Chomby pushes him over, then turns around and shoves his foot through the canvas.

“No!!!”

The Quiggle bursts out laughing, and drops the half of the canvas he’s still holding to point at Ozzy. “What’s wrong, washout? You gonna cry about it?”

“Of course he is,” the Chomby chimes in, before Ozzy can even open his mouth to protest. “All he does is cry now that his big sis isn’t here to wipe his nose.”

A too-familiar burn rises up in the back of Ozzy’s throat and behind his eyelids. No, no, he can’t cry now, he can’t prove them right—!

But he can’t help himself. A sniffle escapes him and he curls up on the ground, clutching at his ears. The bullies’ laughter rings out above him, filling him, their words sinking in past his skin and settling right into his heart…

“Owww! What the—?!”

Suddenly, the laughter stops. Ozzy cracks a tearful eye open to see what could have possibly silenced the bullies, and for a moment—just one tiny, breathless moment—he half expects to see tall antenna-ears, vibrant purple hair, and a righteously furious expression.

Instead, he sees… a stick?

“What the heck was that?” The Quiggle asks, eyeing his Chomby friend warily. The Chomby rubs at the back of his head, gritting his teeth.

“I don’t know, I—”

“Grrrr-rrr-rrr-ARF!”

The bullies turn to the side. Ozzy opens both eyes. There, just a few metres away, the little Doglefox stands, rump raised and fur bristling. His nose is curled up and his teeth are bared in an adorably ferocious snarl, warning the bullies away.

They burst out into laughter.

“Ha ha ha! Oh, that’s rich!”

“You’ve got to be kidding me!” 

“Seriously! There’s no way that mangy thing could ever—”

“What, now that your sister’s here, you’ve got a little pest to fight your battles for you, washout?”

The laughter continues, and Ozzy pulls himself to his feet. He dusts himself off, ready to tell the bullies that his friend is not mangy and is not a pest, but before he even gets the chance, the entire world seems to leap into action.

“Rrr-rrraaar!” The Doglefox moves first. He runs up toward the Chomby and launches himself into the air, jaws open and sharp teeth glinting in the sunlight. Before Ozzy even knows what’s happening, the Chomby bully cries out and flails his arm around in a blur of minty green and orange.

“Waaugh!”

“I couldn’t believe it. For the first time ever…”

After what seems like way too long, the Doglefox lets go. He lands firmly, almost gracefully, on all four of his paws, then whips around so fast Ozzy almost can’t comprehend it. His tail is still bristling, and his ears are pinned back flat to his head. 

“ARF! RARF ARF ARF ARF ARF!”

“Wahh!” The Quiggle jumps about four feet in the air, and the moment he lands, he turns and scrambles away. “Help! This thing is feral! RUN AWAY!”

Together, the two bullies take off, leaving Ozzy behind to blink disbelievingly. He shakes his head, trying to clear his brain out long enough to process what had just happened. As he does, though, something else catches his eye…

“Um…”

He reaches out for the Doglefox’s discarded stick, and holds it out to him gingerly. “You, uh… you dropped this.” 

The Doglefox blinks. All at once, the anger drops from his face—no more wrinkled snout, no more flattened ears. His eyes are big and shiny again, and his dopey, tongue-lolling smile has returned. 

“Rrrarf!”

Without warning, the Doglefox leaps at Ozzy. He stumbles back, only just barely able to catch him, and then bursts into his own fit of delighted, uncontrollable laughter as the little guy licks him all over his face.

“I made a friend.”