littermates frolicked and did things Happy was not yet old enough to do. When he tried to play they snapped: don’t bother me . In time, he played with their cubs. Their cubs grew up. Sonia got old. Then Sonia died, and with Sonia gone, craggy Timbo began stalking him, licking his chops.
Now Happy was old enough to do all those things he had been too young to do before, and Timbo?
Timbo had to die. Happy had reached the age of kill or be killed. Wolves know that when you are grown, you have to kill your father. Kill him before he kills you.
He thought he could take Timbo in a fight and so he scent-marked a tree, making clear his intentions. The wolf’s challenge!
He bunched himself as Timbo circled, snarling. Imagine his surprise. The gouge in his flank goes all the way from here down to here . Now, a wolf can lick all the hurt places, but Happy wasn’t built to reach the places wolves can reach without trying. Pain drove him sobbing out of the woods.
When you have been raised by wolves, you know what to expect.
Foolish to expect better of people.
Nursing the fresh gash in his flank, he watched the building, men walking back in front of lighted windows. He heard a sound like a forgotten lullaby: human voices. He limped out of the woods, whimpering, “Oh, oh, oh.” Then, when he least expected it, a word came to him. He pointed his nose at the sky. “Oh, help!”
He expected helping hands, kind words, but big men clattered out shouting, “Stop where you are!” They were nothing like he expected. Happy froze.
Somebody yelled, “What is that?”
Somebody else yelled, “Some kind of animal .”
They were so angry! This is nothing like I thought.
Happy did what wolves do when they are in trouble. He howled. Ah-whoooo . One by one his brothers responded but the howls were scattered, the howlers far away. Wolves know never to come out of the woods, no matter who is calling. Ah-whooooooooo!
The men pulled shields over their faces and raised their guns. Guns: a word Happy didn’t quite know. In the struggle, the chain around his neck parted and the only scrap of his old life fell into their hands. Why did he imagine it made him special?
He limped back into the woods. The other wolves—his brothers!—smelledmen on him. He was ruined for life in the woods and there was as well … what? The curiosity. When the men fell on Happy, he felt his flesh smacking into human flesh and there was no difference between them. Even clothed, his attackers were more like Happy than Happy was like the wolves. Like the missing limb that hurts at night, he felt the ghost family. Wolves run in packs or they prowl alone; they kill and are killed and that’s the end of it. Men have families.
Night after night Happy doubled back on the clearing. He was drawn by half-remembered smells—hot food, the scent of bulky, not-wolf bodies—and sounds: music and forks clattering, the buddabuddabudda of low, not-wolf voices. Circling, Happy yearned for something he missed terribly. As for what … He was not certain.
Alone, Happy howled to the heavens. He wanted to bring out Timbo, even though he knew Timbo would kill him. Ah-whooooo . If they fought to the death, one way or the other it would end his confusion. Happy’s howling filled the woods but not one wolf howled in reply. Ah-whooooooo!
The loneliness was intense.
This is why Happy did what wolves never do. For the second time, he left the woods. For a long time, he circled the police station. Then he dropped to his haunches on the front walk and howled to heaven. He howled for all he was worth. Unless he was howling for everything he was losing.
Now look.
The needle Brent used to get him out of the airport left Happy inert, but aware. They are riding along, he and Brent and this Susan, he can smell her. The car is much smaller than the van that took him to the hospital after the fight at the police station. They sewed him up and Brent came. Happy did not know him, but he knew
Now Happy was old enough to do all those things he had been too young to do before, and Timbo?
Timbo had to die. Happy had reached the age of kill or be killed. Wolves know that when you are grown, you have to kill your father. Kill him before he kills you.
He thought he could take Timbo in a fight and so he scent-marked a tree, making clear his intentions. The wolf’s challenge!
He bunched himself as Timbo circled, snarling. Imagine his surprise. The gouge in his flank goes all the way from here down to here . Now, a wolf can lick all the hurt places, but Happy wasn’t built to reach the places wolves can reach without trying. Pain drove him sobbing out of the woods.
When you have been raised by wolves, you know what to expect.
Foolish to expect better of people.
Nursing the fresh gash in his flank, he watched the building, men walking back in front of lighted windows. He heard a sound like a forgotten lullaby: human voices. He limped out of the woods, whimpering, “Oh, oh, oh.” Then, when he least expected it, a word came to him. He pointed his nose at the sky. “Oh, help!”
He expected helping hands, kind words, but big men clattered out shouting, “Stop where you are!” They were nothing like he expected. Happy froze.
Somebody yelled, “What is that?”
Somebody else yelled, “Some kind of animal .”
They were so angry! This is nothing like I thought.
Happy did what wolves do when they are in trouble. He howled. Ah-whoooo . One by one his brothers responded but the howls were scattered, the howlers far away. Wolves know never to come out of the woods, no matter who is calling. Ah-whooooooooo!
The men pulled shields over their faces and raised their guns. Guns: a word Happy didn’t quite know. In the struggle, the chain around his neck parted and the only scrap of his old life fell into their hands. Why did he imagine it made him special?
He limped back into the woods. The other wolves—his brothers!—smelledmen on him. He was ruined for life in the woods and there was as well … what? The curiosity. When the men fell on Happy, he felt his flesh smacking into human flesh and there was no difference between them. Even clothed, his attackers were more like Happy than Happy was like the wolves. Like the missing limb that hurts at night, he felt the ghost family. Wolves run in packs or they prowl alone; they kill and are killed and that’s the end of it. Men have families.
Night after night Happy doubled back on the clearing. He was drawn by half-remembered smells—hot food, the scent of bulky, not-wolf bodies—and sounds: music and forks clattering, the buddabuddabudda of low, not-wolf voices. Circling, Happy yearned for something he missed terribly. As for what … He was not certain.
Alone, Happy howled to the heavens. He wanted to bring out Timbo, even though he knew Timbo would kill him. Ah-whooooo . If they fought to the death, one way or the other it would end his confusion. Happy’s howling filled the woods but not one wolf howled in reply. Ah-whooooooo!
The loneliness was intense.
This is why Happy did what wolves never do. For the second time, he left the woods. For a long time, he circled the police station. Then he dropped to his haunches on the front walk and howled to heaven. He howled for all he was worth. Unless he was howling for everything he was losing.
Now look.
The needle Brent used to get him out of the airport left Happy inert, but aware. They are riding along, he and Brent and this Susan, he can smell her. The car is much smaller than the van that took him to the hospital after the fight at the police station. They sewed him up and Brent came. Happy did not know him, but he knew
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