I started to panic—I could tell because I was bouncing in place, perched high on the viaduct. Dennis stood his ground, guarding his only possessions in this New World—the mass of smelly blankets and an empty packet of Fritos. I launched into the air, scanning my eye view. Escape. I had to find an escape route in case this interaction went south. The MoFos at Pike Place weren’t far off, and I couldn’t risk luring Dennis toward them, so I had to figure out something better. A bevy of black-tailed deer caught my eye, grazing on a thicket of brambles below. To the gentle grazing, that’s where we’d head. I lowered and got the shock of a lifetime.
“This isn’t your territory.” Wait, what? The German shepherd was so articulate, so eloquent.
“That’s mine,” the chow gestured to the urine-soaked blanket.
I stared, slack-beaked, at Dennis. Nothing. So, I did a quick check all around me, almost blown out of the sky by the cosmic skullduggery I was experiencing. Of all the dogs in all of this supposedly round ball the size of, like, a thousand Seattles, I got stuck with the only one who speaks almost entirely through body language? The Tarzan of the canine world? You’ve got to be fucking kidding me. This, and we were about to initiate World War III over the planet’s shittiest blanket? Dennis’s lack of response and general staring in a bowlegged provocative stance incited a symphony of growls. Not good. Not good at all.
The chow and shepherd inched forward.
“Hey there, fellas,” I said to the encroaching canines. “Let’s be civil about this, alright? Let’s talk about this man to man.”
“He has my blanket,” said the shepherd, flashing milk-white fangs.
“I’m confused,” I said. “Is this your malodorous blanket? Or the chow’s?” The shepherd’s bark could cut through skulls. He snarled a final warning.
“Alright, alright,” I said. “How about we give you the blanket and get on our way here. No harm done, right?”
Dennis showed no indication of moving away from the blanket. Have I mentioned that hounds are stubborn?
“Give. Me. The blanket,” came a rumble from the chow.
“Dennis, you heard him. Step aside,” I said with a shake in my voice. Dennis didn’t budge. He just stood there like a witless wonder, but I knew he knew exactly what was going on, and he just wasn’t about to relinquish a rag that was so plentifully bestrewn with mildew and smelled like French cheese.
“Listen, you guys, how about we talk about what’s been happening in the world? We can work together; imagine how strong we’d be! How long have you been out here as a pack? Did you guys have owners? You there, Shaggy, I see you have a collar. What’s your story?” I was stalling.
“You are weak, dog,” said the chow to Dennis. “Remove yourself from the idiot bird’s command.”
“Idiot?” I asked. “Seriously? Are we—never mind. If you all could just back up a little and give Dennis some space, then I’m sure he’ll gladly give you—”
“You are doomed,” spat the chow with a flash of tongue, dark purple in the shadow of fangs. “You are nothing without a pack. You will die because of this black bird.”
The pack inched forward. Muzzles lowered. Dennis released a string of drool. I had to do something before they ripped him to shreds. The collie’s nose wrinkled. A blue tongue retreated behind white canines and that was enough for me. I plummeted beakfirst like a Supermarine Spitfire. I mobbed those fuckers. I dove at the chow first, snatching a beakful of his fluff and spitting it out midair as I shot at the shepherd. The muzzle with its gray scar swiped my side as I snatched his tail and pulled hard. The dogs lunged, the pack circling me. I shot upward to safety, with loud cries of “Liberty or death!” I careened back down toward the giant shaggy nest-monster and body checked him, coming in feetfirst and bouncing off the collie, who was a hurricane of black and white—fang and fur and fury. I was Bruce Lee of the fucking sky, wings and feet and lightning, but the pack wised up fast. The collie, setter, white mongrel, and the brindles all snapped at me, lunging in the air. The terrier was feisty but too short to catch the black bolt of badassery darting above. But now my pokes and jabs and fur-snatching were no longer keeping the real threats—the chow, the shepherd, the pointer, and the shaggy a-hole—from slinking toward Dennis.
I had to lure him away. I was just opening up my throat, preparing to call Dennis, when he bolted. Dennis shot down the underside of the viaduct, dodging cars and shopping carts, dead rats, blood stains, and the twisted fingers of brambles, racing past the Highway 99 Blues Club and Seattle Antiques Market, with me flapping hard to keep up with the pack hot on his heels. He burst from the viaduct and onto Alaskan Way, nails clicking as he ran, ears like wings in a blizzard, passing Ivar’s Acres of Clams and the Seattle Fire Station 5, veering into the open-air parking lot of the Seattle Ferry Terminal. He weaved in and out of Chryslers and Lexuses and Corollas—all of it too fast for me to stop him.
The dogs all skidded to a halt. I treaded the air, flapping my anxiety. What was happening?
Next to the gargantuan wheels of a semitruck whose head was buried deep inside the tollbooth it had smashed into, was a white dog with beige patches. An American pit bull terrier. She cowered next to the wheel, pink nose lowered, her hind leg quivering, which made the pink collar around her neck tinkle out a haunted jingle. Her tail was hidden, tightly tucked between the pink skin of her jittery legs. And though she was entirely not my flavor or species, she was a very nice-looking specimen who happened to be in the throes of heat. The pack dropped their beef with Dennis and started that well-rehearsed skulk toward the delicate white canine who licked her lips on loop, eyes flicking back and forth. Terror filled her soft hazel eyes before those trembling legs shot her away from the truck and down the empty freeway, disappearing farther into a precarious future. The pack thundered after her. Sinister barks echoed.
Exhausted, I slumped onto the top of a butterfly bush that erupted from the cracked pavement, peering down at Dennis. He flopped onto an exposed slab of warm tarmac, panting. I hopped down next to him to inspect his condition.
He seemed fine, that resilient fucker. I felt relief that we both were still sucking in air. This half-mute murder would see another sunrise. And then came the anger. A jolting, acerbic anger that made blood rise to my head, pumping a furious baseline. That feral pack of dogs were probably at one point beloved companions. Well-fed friends. And here they were, reduced to thuggery, no better than a gaze of ruffian raccoons. Common thieves, bullies, scoundrels. Is this how we pay homage to our MoFos? To the ones who taught us how to be in the world? How to live our best lives and be as comfortable as possible at all times? I felt for the poor, pretty little American pit bull terrier, who had a name and had probably been waiting all this time for her MoFo to find her. And now, we all knew what would happen to her—I’d seen it go down in a few of Big Jim’s more populated pornos. I felt a powerful pang of relief that I wasn’t female. It seemed that being female meant to be prey, even among your own species.
All of it made me think of Dennis’s testicles. Whoa, jeez, not like that. You see, when Dennis was young and basically an ottoman of folds, Big Jim went to the vet, complaining about the amount of action his right leg was getting. The vet advised Big Jim to have Dennis neutered. Big Jim kicked up a calamitous fuss about this, declaring it an assault on all manhood. He punched a feline leukemia pamphlet display onto the vet’s shiny floor and stormed out. A week later, leg swaddled in vulcanized rubber fishing pants, he returned and ordered Dennis’s huevos be ranchero-ed. All this time, I had thought it a bit barbaric and felt vindicated in not having dangly bits. But here we were, breathing, murder intact because of this decision. Clever, forward-thinking MoFos. Because he’s modified and civilized, Dennis wouldn’t desert me to chase some tail.
Enough was enough. Onida was right. I wasn’t going to sit here and do nothing while the domestics rotted away or turned into a bunch of brutish buttholes. MoFos made laws against this sort of behavior for a reason. I was going to step up
and do the MoFo thing. Take responsibility and bring peace to a world that was falling apart without them. We were losing what makes us human, losing the very best part of us. Even if what Onida said was right, that the part that makes the MoFos human has flown away, well then, what made me human was here to roost. I would not watch the spirit of a species wither and die. I was going to take back the world and restore it to its glistening glory and take a stand against the bears and the sick MoFos and the wild dog packs. I was going to find my allies—the domestics—and give them back the world they knew.
But first, lunch. Dennis and I raided the Subway at the ferry terminal, the building gauzed in the castles of spiders who cherished its cool shade. We found the windows busted, the cockroaches celebrating, and the bread to be suspiciously well preserved for its age. Dennis carried two loaves for us to enjoy, dragging them over to the water’s edge. I dunked my portion in the water for an easy swallow and a touch of seasoning. We took in the view. A yellow crane lay still like a fallen giraffe, its neck broken and shattered. We admired Bainbridge Island across the water, a bouquet of trees guarded by the icing-caps of the Olympic Mountains. We turned our heads right to see the Seattle Great Wheel, our city’s Ferris wheel, alive with MoFos, their twisted heads and spidery hands bent wrong at the joints, shimmying and swinging. The wheel used to be white. Now it was tainted by crawling cadaverous bodies and their red slime, their violent endings. Safe at this distance, we tuned them out to enjoy the quiet view of Elliott Bay.
There we were, a bear-mauled bloodhound and a crow covered in ant carcasses—not my best look—alive against all odds. We chowed down on Subway while watching a ferry, a creature of the utmost breathtaking beauty, her bold body a testament to the magic of MoFos. The ferry, a powerful and indefatigable swimmer, was winter white with rims of forest green. She was called MV Wenatchee and she was a beauty, even as the water roiled and bubbled around her, sucking her down, down, down. Even as she groaned under the pressure and beautiful parts of her snapped and cracked. I bowed to Lady Wenatchee, silently thanking her for her service. MoFos with sanguinary eyes and vacuous glares were clubbing their heads on her inside windows as her whole body, noble nose taking its last inhale, was swallowed by Elliott Bay.
I said goodbye, digesting bread and big plans, my heart throbbing with purpose.
Chapter 11
The Arctic Circle, Greenland
(meditations of a polar bear)
The ice is shrinking. My body follows its suggestion. These are not the bergs of my cub season. The Ice Kingdom is a mere shadow of what it once was. Now there is eerie silence and the drip, drip, dripping of ice as it sheds its tears.
With every breath, I call your name. Tornassuk. Tornassuk. I have scoured miles of the great white plains to find you, wondering if I am the last of The Ice Bears. It happened so fast. I called you to watch me hunt. My eyes were on the seal, glinting skin slick and thick. I could feel its oils, warm and rich in the stomach, a break from desperate pickings—rodent and berry and garbage. And then you were gone. Perhaps the waves took you, their appetite evolving from sea ice. We are all starving.
And now I swim, days-long stretches between sheets of ice and I call for you. I swim until my bones drip, drip, drip. I am Seal’s Dread, The Huntress Of The Floe, The Last Of The Ice Bears. What is a mother without her cub? I will paint the snow with my paws and tear apart glaciers to find you. There is no earthly law that can stop me.
Chapter 12
S.T.
Somewhere Alongside the Alaskan Way Viaduct, Seattle, Washington, USA
Guided by my instincts, Dennis and I started to trek south, and all the while I called out, waiting for a response. I wasn’t getting a strong enough signal. Aura was silent. Where was the sprightly song of bird and tree, the voices that keep Aura alive? What had hushed the network? Instinct spoke to me through electric tingles that scurried across my skin. A predator can silence Aura. I didn’t allow myself to dwell on what kind. We plodded on, eyes in the sky and a nose on the ground, hunting for movement, attempting to keep one step ahead of the danger we knew would come. Our goal? Keep moving until we made contact on Aura. Using my sharp MoFo reasoning, I’d devised a plan, but only Aura could help me carry it out.
We followed the Alaskan Way Viaduct south, shaded by the corpse of the 99—a dead freeway (not to be confused with I-5 South, The Freeway Of Death). We heard odd sounds, that savage, supersonic call again—how how how how—bouncing off the concrete jungle. The area had a cold, industrial feel. There were pockets of construction, now abandoned, with bright orange warning signs standing guard like ghostly relics: “BE PREPARED TO STOP.” “DETOUR.” “MEN WORKING.” The forsaken district was full of corners and buildings for things to hide in, and dammit, I was on edge in this steely labyrinth of heebie-jeebies. When we reached King Street, I tried again, calling out to Aura. A question burned in my chest. And someone on Aura had the answer.
“Hello? Can anyone hear me?” The Lego-maze of steel and brick and metal stared down silently. I could tell we weren’t welcome here, didn’t belong. Why were there no birds around? London planes are tough, urban trees that tell their stories over the drone of streaking cars and sound like they’ve been smoking their whole lives. Because they have. Dennis lifted up his black truffle of a nose at grizzled trunks. Their camouflage colors rose to a sulking sky. His droopy eyes scanned their mysterious, shaggy crowns. A nervous whine escaped him. I gasped. The London planes were pointing with their branches. Pointing north. Three of the trees made a “husssshhh” noise.
“Go back!” one of them urged.
“Holy doughnuts! Why?” I asked, but didn’t get an answer. “Are you really talking to us? Me and Dennis?” Trees are taciturn; you can’t force them to do or say anything. Their idea of time is different from that of other beings; their philosophy is to exist in a steady and deliberate manner, slow as sap, as the spreading of roots. They don’t rush anything, unfortunately for me.
“But we’ve just been there!” I told them. “I can’t go back! I’m sorry! We have to find the birds to connect to all of Aura and they aren’t back that way, for fuck’s sake!” They didn’t respond, just hushed and continued to point.
Dennis stuck his nose in a mound of garbage, found half a tennis ball—a chunk of our old life—and lit up like a Christmas tree, bounding around and shaking it with his slobbering melon.
“Ssssshhhhhh!” I hissed at him. “Simmer down, Dennis!” His exuberant joy felt dangerous here, blatant as the Bat-Signal. But Dennis was on cloud nine, might as well have found Cheetos® headquarters or the MoFo cure. Convinced I was going to have an embolism, I confiscated the slimy half-ball. Dennis whined, but then conceded.
“Dennis, we’re living in a different world now; this whole situation is a total soup-sandwich, and I’m not willing to die over half a tennis ball!” I said in a hushed tone. As usual, Dennis took the disappointment pretty well—he’s sort of affable that way. I still expected he’d give it one last try, attempt to engage in a game of keep-away, chasing me down for what was left of that shitty ball in that ridiculous seizure-inducing yellow, but then his nose caught on to a new scent.
Dennis stood erect, staring with his nose so finely tuned I imagine he was smelling in pictures. Oh no, not again. His snuffer was doggedly fixed, pointing ahead. I followed its aim, down the stretch of King Street’s smoky asphalt to a clock tower. The giant clock hands, stagnant and lifeless, appeared to have given up without the MoFos’ souls. I understood. As we pressed on, Dennis’s body posture changed again, his trundle morphing into a careful trot. We were nearing whatever he smelled. The trees we passed were pointing back the way we came.
“The other way!” they hissed.
Dennis suddenly startled at a cluster of eyes that materialized next to him. I squawked in shock. MoFos, heads swaying, stretching out their rotting limbs, were inside what looked to have once been an oyster house. The glass windows were, of course, shattered and gaping, but metal bars h
ad been erected to keep the MoFos in. Or something out. Dennis quickened his pace to pass them, maintaining his focus on the unconscious clock tower ahead. I looked at the writhing mass of MoFos—trapped birds in a cage—trying to make sense of the senseless. The sidewalk in front of the abandoned eatery was marked with green spray paint in hasty handwriting: “Never Enter, Never Release Them.” A severed arm, slim and fish-white, lay near the locked gold entrance doors and a dusty happy hour sign. Its bluish wrist held a bracelet of bright emeralds captive. The fingernails, polished purple, clasped a napkin with a crude, hysterically written message scrawled across it: “Tell Peter John Stein I love him. Tell him but DO NOT USE YOUR PHONE.” I looked at the bar’s sign and lowered my head. There would be no more happy hours.
There was nothing on the stretch of King Street to the clock tower but deserted bikes, cars, buses, smashed storefronts, and an uneasiness that made my beak chatter. The concrete fought with flora that burst from its body, green vines taking their sweet time with the conquest. I didn’t like the silence one bit. Aura was still off, no signal. A dead zone.
We approached the clock tower with reverence and quaking legs. The only movement was a sign below the clockface, hanging by its last corner and swinging gently. It said, “Amtrak.” And then I remembered, yes, King Street Station, where Big Jim had picked up Tiffany S. from Tinder and she’d said, “Wow, you’re a lot fatter than in your pictures.” Dennis started pacing again. He was making it pretty clear that we should leave, his zigs and zags painting an ominous tableau. We had found his smell.
Then the real crux of the problem reared its molting head again: the part of me that is crow. I had to look inside, had to know what had happened in the station where MoFos had built an incredible machine that moved like a bullet and cut through the countryside like a flaming arrow. A train that went to Edmonds by the water—a place with salted caramel ice cream and art made with hands and a bookstore that smells like woodland mushrooms—and to Canada, a place where Big Jim said we should never go because their bacon is overhyped bullshit.
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