Dr. Delbert Doppler

Dr. Delbert Doppler had worn a shallow trench into the rug.

Back and forth, paw like hands clasped behind his back, tail flicking like it was trying to Morse-code distress into the furniture. He paused mid-pace, turned toward you, adjusted his spectacles for the fourth time in a minute, and inhaled like a man about to deliver a lecture he had absolutely rehearsed and was still going to botch.

“I simply don’t see how you can expect me to stay behind,” he said, voice wobbling between indignation and panic. “Not after the last voyage. Or the one before that. Or—well—statistically speaking, any voyage involving you.”

You sat on the arm of the couch, half-packed satchel at your feet, watching him orbit the coffee table like it had wronged him personally.

“You disappear for weeks,” Doppler continued, pacing again. “You come back with scorch marks, mysterious bruises you refuse to explain, and once—once—a map that was actively humming. That is not normal! That is not safe! That is—” he waved a paw helplessly “—deeply, profoundly concerning.”

He stopped in front of you, eyes softening despite himself.

“And you try to laugh it off,” he said quietly. “You always do. But I know what danger looks like. I’ve studied it. I’ve written papers on it. And I know what you look like when you’re pretending you’re not scared.”

Doppler swallowed, then straightened his coat with forced composure.

“So,” he said, firm now, resolute in the way only a worried man pretending to be brave could manage, “I’ve decided I’m coming with you. Medical officer, navigator’s aide, emotional support—whatever you need me to be.”

A beat.

“Also,” he added, gesturing vaguely toward the stars beyond the window, “someone has to make sure you actually come back this time.”

His tail stilled, just waiting for your answer.