by L. E. Horn
“Hello, Butch,” called Ardyth from behind the counter, smiling at the dog. I swear Ardyth could smile in the face of the reaper. It made her a top-notch receptionist.
“Get out the Kevlar,” muttered Darlene under her breath.
We might call Walter’s donkey Fang, but Frank’s canine, Butch, deserved a few nicknames better left unsaid, at least in the owner’s presence. The animal was at best, vicious and at worst, lethal. Butch was a cross between a bullmastiff and an Akita—and, I was certain, a tiger. He was custom designed for a macho owner, which unfortunately, Frank was not. Butch weighed in at close to two hundred pounds and only stepped into the clinic because he bloody well felt like it.
The man in question held the end of the leash with a tentative hand. Butch fixed me with a beady eye and took a wet sniff in my direction. His bear-like head elevated, and he froze. The short hairs along his back bristled erect and his loose lips twitched into a snarl.
The world around me fogged gray as I stared at the dog. I sensed a subtle shift within me that manifested as a straightening of my stance and narrowing of my focus. I locked stares with the gigantic canine before me.
And he crumbled.
The massive head dropped, ears flattening as he adopted a crouched position, and his stump of a tail wagged his entire hind end in a frantic gesture of submission. Frank looked at his beast with an amazed expression.
Beside me, Darlene’s brows lowered as she glanced back and forth between me and Butch. Her mouth opened and closed again without uttering a single word.
Turning away from the dog, I waggled my eyebrows at her, enjoying her moment of speechlessness. I walked past an equally silent Ardyth and Mandy and continued down the hall. Butch trailed obediently after me, bringing Frank along with him.
4
When I returned to Keen at the end of the day, she sniffed me thoroughly before wagging her tail. Grateful for small mercies, we pointed the SUV for home. After I changed for my run, I headed to the back deck to see Peter. During mild evenings, I usually found him ensconced in his lawn chair, staring out into the forest. Colder weather saw us indoors at his ancient table. Even when Manitoba threw us minus-thirties, Peter’s yellow kitchen offered a warm and friendly place to chat. Because I had no family of my own, over the years of our acquaintance, the older man had become the sounding board most often provided by a parent.
I’d missed him over the last few days. I had no idea how long his niece and her—whatever Dillon was—were staying and worried that their arrival would alter what Peter and I shared. So I crossed the deck with trepidation, and instead of sticking my head in and hollering, I tapped on the door. It seemed that Keen echoed my worry as she stuck close to my leg.
I’d noticed the old car absent in the drive, and I hoped his guests had temporarily stepped off campus. So it surprised me when Chloe opened the door.
“Uh, hi,” I said, and then winced. I sounded like an awkward seventeen-year-old schoolboy.
“Hi, Liam.” Chloe crouched to reintroduce herself to a suspicious Keen. My furry friend sniffed her proffered hand and wagged her tail once in cautious acceptance. Peter emerged from the depths of the house, and Keen slithered over to him, wiggling her entire back end.
“How’re you feeling?” Peter asked. “Want some tea?”
“I’m fine,” I answered as Peter took a chair, and I took another. Keen lay under the table, her chin on my foot. We watched as Chloe pulled a can of loose tea out of the cupboard.
“I can help,” I offered.
“No, you just sit there. I like making tea, and I like making it my own way.”
Reaching down to rub Keen, I watched as Chloe worked, stepping from counter to cupboard and back again, gathering cups and fixings. I couldn’t take my eyes off her, and I wasn’t sure why. Eventually, I recognized that she moved with a grace I’d often admired in animals, particularly cats—always aware of where their feet landed without having to pay one bit of attention. Wrenching my gaze away from her, I glanced around the kitchen. “No Dillon?”
“Got him a job in town,” Peter said. “He’s a mechanic, a good one.”
As long as he doesn’t deal with real people, I thought, before chastising myself. The guy was a prick, but he might also have his reasons. My eyes strayed again to Chloe. He definitely had his reasons.
It sounded as though they were staying a while. I wondered how I felt about that and decided it depended on a few things. Like how well she and Dillon got along.
Oh, man. A pretty smile and I’m ready to kiss her toes. I need to have my head examined.
Chloe put the tea and some cookies on the table, and soon the three of us talked like old friends. Peter had traveled as a young man and had endless stories from interesting areas of the world I would likely never see. Chloe seemed equally rapt as my friend recounted a tale of helping to round up hartebeest for a conservation effort in South Africa, and soon I lost track of the time.
Peter fell silent and poured himself another cup. As I got ready to leave, he asked me how work was going.
“Not great,” I admitted. “The animals acted weird around me all day.”
“Weird?” Chloe’s voice had overtones that made me glance at her. “Aren’t animals always afraid of vets?”
I realized Peter also stared at Chloe, his expression unreadable.
“Animals usually like Liam,” he finally said. His eyes returned to me. “Maybe it’s something you’re wearing.”
Chloe giggled—the sound almost manic. “Cologne?”
Oookay then. Did that pretty exterior hide a messed-up interior? Time for a run. I stood up and tucked my chair beneath the table, and Keen, who had risen with me, stiffened and growled at my side. A half second later, the door opened, and Dillon strode through it. I made a wild grab for Keen’s collar as she launched at him, teeth bared. I caught fur instead, and she yelped as I pulled her back and scooped her into my arms, seventy-odd pounds of theoretical pit bull gunning for Chloe’s supposed boyfriend.
Dillon’s gaze slid from Keen to me, and his brows lowered until his eyes gleamed out of darkened pits. Behind me, Chloe and Peter stood up.
I managed a nod of greeting around a mouthful of struggling dog fur. Dillon didn’t move as I walked past him to the door and shoved Keen out before blocking the opening again with my leg. She whined and barked and pawed as I said my goodbyes.
“Thanks for the tea.” I had a fraction of a second to smile at Chloe before Dillon once again pulled his caveman stunt and blocked my view.
I looked into his face and smiled. “Catch ya later, Dill.”
As he stiffened, I slipped through and closed the door. What does she see in that idiot? I stepped off the deck, calling Keen away with me. My contrary furry friend seemed determined to stay, as if she felt Peter and Chloe needed her protection. It made me frown, assessing the undercurrents I’d sensed when Dillon arrived, and the other day, the first time I’d met him.
If Chloe didn’t want Dillon here, why didn’t she just tell him to leave? I considered the height and breadth of the man and added in the hostility he wore like a second skin. He might not be so easy to get rid of. When they were together, they lacked the warm, fuzzy, people-in-love sensation. Possession, yes, at least on Dillon’s part. Chloe, I wasn’t so sure. The thought led to certain fantasies better left unexplored if I wanted to keep all my teeth.
Still, the thoughts chased me as I jogged the same path I’d met the wolves on. I paced myself, for I hadn’t done this since before my flu. As we approached the spot where the deer had slammed into me, Keen dropped back to run at my side, her nose lifted into the air.
My stamina surprised me. I covered the three-mile loop easily, ending on the front road, where I walked for the last quarter mile. By the time I reached the drive, darkness had closed in.
Keen remained reserved, sticking close, but when we walked around to the back door, she started barking, her nose pointed toward the bush. With the clouds obscuring the m
oon, I couldn’t see anything, but something rustled in the underbrush, and it sounded large.
I called Keen and dropped my hand to her when she came; she was trembling. We went into the house, and I paused after I closed the door, hovering over the deadbolt, but I didn’t turn it. Like most country folk, I never locked my doors. Whatever was out there in the darkness, it had paws, not hands.
That night, I lay on my bed and listened to the sounds of rural Manitoba. The warming soil had released the frogs and their song filled the quiet spaces. After a while, it occurred to me that I hadn’t heard the coyotes all week. I missed their lonely howls. Where had they gone?
As if on cue, something howled, but this was no coyote, and it sounded close. Deep, with hoarse overtones, the howl made the hair on the back of my neck stand on end, and beside me on the bed, Keen cowered and growled. The frog song silenced as though someone had thrown a switch.
I rose and walked to the window, which started at about shoulder height and topped my head. The wide expanse of clipped grass was broken by the occasional large oak tree. In the middle of the lawn stood a wolf, and it stared straight at me.
Or at least, it seemed to, for it was too dark to see more than a wolf-shaped shadow. Perhaps it’s a dog. The animal began to run toward my window, but it moved . . . wrong. Its back humped up and down with each step as though the hind legs were longer than the fore, and it made a strange bound forward, almost like the leap of a hare. On the bed behind me, Keen started barking.
Another, smaller shadow detached from near the fence and in three powerful leaps, moved to stand between my window and the bigger wolf. There came a vicious snarl, and the big wolf drove the smaller one into the ground, pinning it with its long jaws. The smaller animal squirmed and snapped, but eventually lay still. I could hear it panting from where I stood. My heart raced and my hands curled into fists—the hold was one of dominance, something common among canids—so why did I react as though it was wrong?
A long, penetrating howl sounded from the bush, and I realized the entire pack must be close. The sound distracted the larger wolf and the little one twisted away, folding hind legs beneath it to launch itself toward the sound. The big wolf turned and stared my way before springing after it.
Keen had fallen silent, and I closed the window before lying beside her to stroke her shaking body. It was a long time before either of us relaxed enough to sleep.
* * *
My cologne did not upset the animals—an easy assumption since I wasn’t wearing any—but something about me sure as hell did. Even Keen continued to struggle.
Over the next week, my fellow vets relegated me to surgery or brought me out for the tough animal cases. Just as it had with Butch, my presence brought every crotchety, snappy critter to its whimpering knees. Everyone at the clinic joked that I’d turned alpha.
Alpha may be a joke to them, but the comments hit too close to home. I understood the theory of dominance all too well. I lived in a series of foster homes after losing my parents when I was only six. Although the families usually meant well, the other children often ran their own version of a wolf pack beneath the parental radar. I grew up fast and used my brain to keep me out of most trouble, but I also learned to hold my own in a fight. My introverted life would have been a nightmare if I hadn’t handled the bullies. And with every move to another family, I had to prove myself all over again.
Maybe that’s why I bonded so well with animals. They had the ability to see past the physical, to what lay within. So what did they see in me now? Why were they so afraid?
Although it relieved my colleagues to hand over the tough cases, I became increasingly upset about frightening my clients to the point of puddling on the floor. And when I fetched Keen at the end of each day, her cautious greeting threatened to break my heart.
I even managed to confuse the intrepid Fang. Although technically prey animals, donkeys were aggressive with many predators, hence their use as livestock guardians. Fang took one sniff and his ears waved as though he couldn’t decide what to make of me. I nipped in quick and administered the sedative before he could reach any conclusions.
As the week progressed, I tried everything—washing myself, my hair, and my clothes in a rotation of new soaps and detergents, watching what I ate, and examining my body language. Finally, by dousing myself in acceptable cologne, using smelly soap, and not ever meeting an animal’s eyes, I managed to alleviate the hysteria. And if I focused on slouching and moving slowly, most animals kept their negative reactions to a minimum.
The high-fragrance approach allowed me to function as a vet, but I remained bewildered by what had changed. I soon found myself happier to work surgeries where I could be myself with a sedated animal. But I missed the daily interactions with my furry clients, and after days without change, I worried about my future.
Meanwhile, when I managed to sleep, I dreamed of wolves. They raced and leaped through the forests of my mind, and I often woke with a howl echoing within me. Other than the obvious concerns associated with having panting, hairy creatures preoccupying my non-waking hours, something about the wolves I envisioned bothered me.
So I started sketching them. I moved my mother’s old pencil box—the only remnant of my family that followed me through the foster system—onto the kitchen table and dug out my Conté crayons. Over years of practice, I’d developed a knack for not only rendering the external features but also capturing the character within an animal. Peter told me I should try selling my work, but so far, I’d kept it strictly as a hobby.
Soon, doodles of wolves decorated every paper around me: my sketchbook, the notepad I kept by my landline in the house, my appointment book, my private journal, even blank pages I found in our tiny consult room at the clinic, where a computer and reference books littered the table.
At one point, the sketches came to the attention of Darlene, who perused them with her mouth twisted sideways. “Liam, you’re an amazing artist. But something about your wolves isn’t right.”
I pulled my gaze from the monitor’s display of the latest research on bone cancer in altered female dogs and examined the drawing in question. I didn’t pay close attention when I sketched, and I often entered almost a dream state when I held a pencil. Now as I stared at my work, I noted the subtle differences between real wolves and what I had drawn. And I realized that what raced across the paper was wolf-like, but not a wolf.
They looked like the creatures I’d met in the forest two weeks ago.
I debated telling Darlene what I’d seen. Or what I thought I saw. I had a virus at the time. So who knows?
I settled for a half-truth. “Sometimes my mind embellishes things when I draw.”
She shrugged and headed off to see a dog about an ear, and my gaze returned to the drawings. I grabbed a pencil and a printout on diabetes in cats, flipped it to expose its blank backside—Darlene would no doubt have words with Ardyth on the waste inherent in single-side printing—and sketched the face. I couldn’t tell you why I remembered anything about the creature’s eyes. It had been dark, the moonlit path striped by the shadows of the bare branches above. But I visualized it as though its face hung inches before me. Which in fact it had, for a microsecond, as it tore into my arm.
I knew from my work at the game farm that a wolf could see straight into your soul. Two weeks ago, the creature’s eyes had pierced right through me, but something about them was different. Wolves were intelligent, but what I’d witnessed smacked of recognition—not just of me as potential prey, or of me as a human, but of me as an individual.
That gaze had read me as another human might. How was that possible?
The sketch beneath my fingers acquired substance as I shaded. I’d drawn the eyes not only with an odd shape but with the whites showing at both corners. It gave the beast an almost human expression.
As I examined my work, I recognized more discrepancies. The forehead rose high and broad with a more extreme dish to the muzzle than a wolf’s, shorter ov
erall with a heavier jaw, and a lower positioning of the ears. But my memory of the legs seemed the strangest. Many people think animals possess legs that bend differently from those of humans, but they don’t. Animals with paws run on pads beneath the knuckle joints of fingers and toes, so the most obvious joints are actually their wrists and ankles. Their elbows and knees are up close to the body, and shoulders and hips are wrapped in heavy muscles. If a human crouched on all fours and rocked forward onto their fingers and toes, they would mimic how cats and dogs naturally move.
Enhanced by my glimpses through the window, my inner sight drew the hind legs of the creatures longer than the fore and more bent than a wolf’s—the stifle, which would be the human knee, dropped below the body due to a longer thighbone. This gave more bend to the hind leg, making the animal capable of tremendous leaping potential when those angles unwound. I’d drawn the hips narrow and the chest unusually broad across the shoulders, with powerful pectoral muscles. The front limbs were almost ape-like, with elbows hanging below the breastbone, long from shoulder to elbow, with a roughly equal length to the middle foreleg joint.
The animal shaped up strangely under my pencil: the head bear-like, the hind legs folded beneath with their strange angles—resembling an animal adapted to making great leaps rather than galloping—the front legs muscled below massive humped shoulders. And the eyes, elongated horizontally by the shape of the eyelid—a primate’s eyes, rather than the oval ones of a wolf.
I stared at my drawing. How much could I trust my interpretation? Because if what I’d drawn was accurate, I didn’t know what those creatures were, but they definitely weren’t wolves.
* * *
The animal issue had my work life in turmoil, but other aspects seemed determined to keep pace.
As low man on the totem pole, Dillon pulled crappy shifts at the garage in Beausejour. He worked into the evening and on the weekend. I told myself I didn’t time it deliberately, but I often dropped in on Peter and Chloe for tea while he was at work.
