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
