Mooned



  What they say about Norm's full length books

  "I loved this book, fangs and all." ~~ Best selling author James Rollins on Fang Face

  "... an amusing teen vampire tale..." ~~ Five starred review - Harriet Klausner, Amazon's #1 book reviewer on Fang Face

  “… humorous fantasy at its best…” ~~ Armchair Interviews (Amazon Top reviewer), on The Adventures of Guy

  “No topic is safe from Cowie’s incredible wit and entertaining turn-of-phrase.” On The Adventures of Guy - ~~ Pop Syndicate (rated one of Pop Syndicate's Top Ten Books of 2007)

  The Next Adventures of Guy voted Winner of Preditors and Editors Readers Choice award for best Sci-Fi Fantasy

  Mooned

  By

  Norm Cowie

  (also available in print. See additional titles by this author at end of book or at his website)

  All rights Reserved.

  Copyright 2011 by Norm Cowie

  This is a work of fiction.

  (That means it’s not based on real stuff)

  Mooned

  By Norm Cowie

  “Sit, roll over, beg.”

  Things you probably shouldn't say to a werewolf.

 

  Montrail Melees are trail shoes, a bit expensive perhaps, but excellent for running dirt paths. A pair of these particular shoes slapped onto the earthen ground with controlled precision as Ben Hurdt ran the wooded trail under silvery moonlight. As he approached a small rise between clumps of river birches, he attacked the incline and cleared its summit with ease. He rode gravity down the other side of the meandering path, lengthening his stride to eat yards up at a time.

  These midnight runs down a well known path in the forest next to his property were the perfect antidote to a high stress work day, and today had been more stressful than ever.

  Herdt took a deep breath of clean air perfumed with the heady aroma of wood, loam, fern, wildlife and ... something else.

  He was trying to figure out what the something else was when it landed on him, slamming him to the dirt.

  a couple months later

  Fetch was lying on the floor, shedding nervously.

  Something horrible was happening and the huge shaggy dog didn’t have the mental acuity to figure it out. He didn’t even know what mental acuity was, which didn't bother him because he had other more useful talents, like the ability to sniff out dropped hotdogs, soak sunlight on his belly and manufacture copious quantities of slobber.

  The room was dark, lit mostly by a fire in the fireplace and a silver moonbeam slicing into the room through the window. In the shadows of a bookcase, glittering eyes marked where Cat looked on with feline interest as if having been forewarned of some impending event. The inky black cat’s legs were neatly folded under her in a way that belied her ability to erupt into movement.

  Fetch ignored the cat, his eyes glued on Alpha, who had been acting and smelling kind of … different… lately. When the smells became the most … interesting… Alpha would lock him in the garage. Fetch never understood, but always forgave Alpha. But Fetch hadn't been locked up tonight.

  They had been spending the evening on the couch sharing French fries and watching TV. Well, Alpha was on the couch watching TV. Fetch was on the floor expertly catching tossed fries. And Fetch didn’t much appreciate the television, as it smelled hot, plastic and inedible. Not even worth chewing on. As he chomped fries, he hoped Alpha wouldn’t finish the whole hamburger. He also kept a wary eye on Cat because, well, she was a competing predator.

  Then Alpha stiffened, crying out in pain and anguish.

  Fetch surged to his feet, alert and ready to protect. His senses swept the air for whatever was disturbing his pack-mate.

  Then Alpha screamed, arching his back in pain. His dinner clattered to the floor.

  Normally when food hit the ground, Fetch would gobble it up. Any food that hit the floor was his by pack rules. But pack-ship overrode the instinct for food and Fetch stayed alert, and sniffed at Alpha, trying to figure out what was wrong.

  As Fetch inspected his pack-mate, Alpha did something he’d never done before. Ever.

  He struck Fetch.

  More stunned than hurt, Fetch retreated to the corner of the room behind the rocking chair. He wouldn’t abandon Alpha, but instinctively he understood he should back away.

  Meanwhile, Alpha threw himself around the room. Tables were knocked over, books spilled from bookcases. He crashed backward against a wall and a tortured sound tore from his throat. Strange shapes rolled under his skin, bones and muscles bunching and pulsating, pushing the skin beyond tolerance. He screamed, screamed again and collapsed to the floor.

  Fetch jumped to his feet, nose twitching and ears swiveled forward. He stood, quivering with indecision.

  Alpha tried to gain his feet, stumbled and fell over an end table, his skin heaving as if something was trying to escape. Fetch whined, licked his lips nervously and vibrated in confusion.

  He slunk forward, whimpering as he got closer to Alpha, who was rocking in agitation. There was a sudden convulsion and Alpha fell backwards, slamming again into the bookcase, scattering Cat, who leaped onto the sofa with silent agility.

  Giving a last painful gasp, Alpha collapsed to the floor.

  Fetch took a hesitant step forward, and heard a low voiced growl.

  He froze.

  There was a moment of tense quiet, and then Alpha rolled to his feet and stood.

  Only it wasn’t Alpha. It was another canine. Not a dog exactly. A wilder smell, full of pent up fury and something else. As a dog, Fetch could smell emotions, and these were disquieting and disturbing. But through it, his sensitive smell could pick up traces of Alpha.

  Where was Alpha?

  He crept forward, straining to catch the elusive scent. The other canine stretched, letting the transformation settle bones and muscles, so Fetch came closer. He could almost pick up critical scents. Almost. He ducked his head so he could sniff the other canine’s butt. The smells under an animal’s tail are like Braille for dogs.

  Ah, Alpha. He could smell Alpha.

  Body language is important to canines, and if Fetch hadn’t been so intent on his mission to read butt language, he wouldn’t have missed the other animal’s sudden disapproval of his actions.

  Suddenly the other canine spun and lashed at Fetch, who yelped as a hot flash of pain erupted in his back leg. Snarling in fear and pain, he tore away and whirled to meet the threat.

  They faced each other, heads down, low growls vibrating their chests and lips curving to bare fangs.

  The other animal feinted, and struck again, sharp teeth tearing into Fetch’s chest. He tried to pull away, but the teeth were like a vice.

  Then a yowling snarl split the air and something landed on the other animal’s head, needle-like claws clamping on the intruder.

  Cat.

  The beast reeled and bit at Cat. She hung on with feline strength and tore at the animal’s ears. It roared and reached up to rip Cat from his scalp. She spit cat obscenities before being flung against the chair. The monster leaped and huge jaws snapped on the place suddenly vacant of cat.

  Spitting out blood and fur … he’d gotten a bit of Cat … the creature snarled and thundered to the window, and with a savage leap blasted through the glass into the yard, leaving Fetch frozen in indecision behind it. He was trying to understand what his senses were trying to tell him. He could hear the creature crashing away through the underbrush in the forest. He could still pick up the scent of Alpha, the freshest coming from the path the creature had taken out the window.

  Cat was under the table, licking a bleeding tail.

  If it was simply a case of following Alpha, Fetch would probably have left right then to f
ollow. But he was still confused by the scent issues.

  And he was hungry.

  But Alpha. The creature that wasn't Alpha. Should he pursue?

  But he was hungry.

  He knew he shouldn't go outside without permission. But who was there to give it to him?

  And he was hungry.

  Then he remembered. There was food on the floor that had to be dealt with. And he could think better once his belly was full. Then he could figure out what to do about Alpha. Crisis averted, he turned and searched for the hamburger.

  Before he could find it, rippling pain shot through his body. Then again. He thumped to the floor, and tried to get back to his feet. Another wave of stabbing hurt rode across his body as if he were encased in an Iron Maiden.

  He couldn’t understand, and whined for Alpha to come help him.

  Alpha didn’t come, and Fetch staggered around the room, his head clouded.

  If he could have seen himself, he would have seen his body convulsing and muscles contracting and growing and … hurting. It hurt.

  He whimpered again.

  For a few seconds, or minutes … what’s time to a dog … Fetch opened his eyes.

  He was lying on his side. The floor felt cold, hard and unfamiliar. With a groan, he tried to roll to his feet. But his body felt awkward and strange, and the roll failed miserably.

  “Push up onto your elbow,” a voice said, startling him.

  He looked around for the source of the voice and vivid impressions exploded into his face. He cried out in a voice he had never heard before.

  “It’s called ‘color,” the voice said. “They actually see in more color spectrums than I do.” The voice sounded mildly surprised.

  As Fetch craned his neck to see who was speaking to him, a spasm of pain tore into his head.

  “You’re feeling your brain expanding,” the voice said helpfully through waves of agony. “It will probably take you longer than it took me.”

  Fetch dimly registered surprise he could understand, not just the words, the language, but also the concept behind the words, though he still wasn’t sure what the unknown speaker was alluding to.

  He closed his eyes and put his paws … no, not paws … something else … around his head. His head, another strange thing. It was round. The nose practically non-existent. For that matter, smells were largely non-existent too, but his head was too flooded with pain for this to register.

  After a few centuries, years, moments, the pain started receding. His eyes slid open slowly, waiting for another burst of agony. When no pain manifested, he opened his eyes the rest of the way, a riot of color intruding as soon as his eyelids granted it permission.

  “Wow!” he breathed.

  “Pretty, huh?” the voice said.

  “Yeah. What did you call it?”

  “Color. Dogs don’t see color.”

  Now Fetch looked up into huge yellow green eyes. The eyes belonged to a human girl perched primly on the counter, legs neatly folded. Her skin was ebony, some impossible exotic blend of African, Indian and the other kind of Indian. Her features were thin and precise, her silky straight black hair shone with the healthy gloss people would spend hundreds to achieve at a salon. She was not wearing … ‘clothes,’ his mind helpfully supplied the word. That fact held no import to him other than that … ‘humans’, his mind again supplying a word … generally wore garb to protect their furless bodies.

  That was about all Fetch could tell about her. If he could get close enough to sniff her butt, maybe he’d be able to figure other stuff out.

  “What happened to me?” he said after a moment.

  The girl leaped down with silent grace from the counter. “Here, let me help you up,” she said, holding out a hand.

  Fetch looked at his leg, no, not leg. ‘Arm’ his brain helpfully supplied the information. And his brain, where was all of that thought coming from? And memories. Memories were more of a fog before, but now they seemed so clear. He could remember minutes ago. And words that never meant anything to him before suddenly meant something. More than just 'here boy,' 'come,' 'sit,' and his favorite, 'good boy.' He had been surrounded by words for years, never understanding, never comprehending. But now, knowledge flooded in.

  He held out his arm, and the girl took his hand, pulling him to his feet.

  There was a dizzying moment, when his head passed his normal altitude, and then he was standing on his hind legs. No, his only legs. He only had two now.

  The girl let go, and he immediately started wobbling back and forth. She grabbed him just before he plummeted to the floor.

  He grabbed onto the counter, clutching it like a life raft. His legs felt wobbly and strange, differently jointed.

  “Ah, I can’t do it.”

  He dropped to the floor until he was on his hands and feet. He was face down, staring at the vibrantly colored floor. At least it appeared vibrant to his newly enhanced vision. He tried to look up at the girl, but this position hurt his neck. He pulled his very, very long legs under him and heavily fell onto his butt, carefully moving his tail aside as he did so.

  Tail?

  What tail?

  He looked back at his butt.

  Where’s his tail?!

  “You don’t have one,” the girl said.

  From this position he could look at her with relative comfort.

  “What?”

  “A tail. I don’t either. Pity. I love my tail.” Then she nonchalantly licked her arm. An expression of distaste crossed her face. “Augh, horrible. And this tongue is way too slick.”

  Now Fetch knew who the girl was.

  “Cat?”

  The werewolf thrashed through the woods, hot on the deer’s trail. He could see the deer bounding over and through bushes and shrubs, careening right and left, eyes wide with panic.

  Whenever possible, the werewolf tried to navigate a direct route, using combined human animal intelligence to outwit the fleet deer. When forced to shift direction, his long bushy tail compensated on the turns.

  He was having the time of his life.

  Ignoring the branches whipping at his face, the werewolf drew nearer, and a wolfish grin split his face. His tongue lolled, and he felt a rush from the chase. A surge of adrenaline and blood-lust. He imagined ripping into the deer’s white belly, the deer’s warm life exploding into his mouth like a ripe fruit, his canine fangs ripping and rending into dark, sinewy meat.

  His eyes fell shut as he imagined the scene.

  Hot blood. The deer’s eyes glassy in death. Ripping at meat, tearing it from the bones, which would later yield their own delicious marrow.

  Wolves in the wild lack imagination. No one knows why that is. It just is. You won’t see a wolf daydreaming or contemplating his future. Perhaps there’s a reason for this. Like how important it is that they keep their focus while chasing a deer through the forest in the middle of the night.

  Unfortunately, a werewolf retains many of his human qualities.

  And it was because of these same human qualities he closed his eyes to daydream. Not for very long. Just for a second. But as a result, he missed the deer’s quick burst to the left.

  Next thing he knew, he was hurtling through space.

  The elongated prehensile nose of an elephant is an incredibly versatile instrument. Sensitive, yet capable of great strength, it can pick up a dime or break a tree trunk with equal ease. The trunk contains no skeletal mass, yet with its many muscles it can virtually move in any direction, curling inward or outward. It’s even slightly telescopic, allowing the elephant to reach for objects just slightly out of reach. It can equally be used for communication or as a hose. It’s truly one of the most magnificent tools on the planet.

  Yet, when a baby elephant is born, the baby has to learn to use its trunk. And until it does, its trunk just flops around uselessly. The baby must rely on its mother to help it eat and learn to use its trunk.


  Fetch knew nothing of this, and had it been brought to his attention, he would perhaps share some understanding with the baby elephant. He knew how to work a tail, but the body he was in had no tail. It did have thumbs, though, which was a new concept for Fetch.

  Perhaps if all dogs had thumbs, they might have had to adapt to them with greater sized brains. Now Fetch had the brain, and he had the thumbs. But using them was another matter entirely.

  Cat was padding softly around the living room, exploring everything from a new perspective.

  “What are you doing?” Fetch asked.

  She paused, and gave him the intense look cats use under all circumstances except those rare occasions when catnip rattles their brains.

  “Exploring,” she answered, after a moment where she might have been deciding if she wanted to answer.

  “How come I can understand you?” Fetch asked. There was another question that he couldn’t quite formulate in his mind. Something about how pleasing ... and something ... Cat looked in her new form. Especially now that they were wearing much the same forms now for the first time ever.

  She paused again. It was weird how she retained much of a cat’s grace in a new body. “Our brains adapted to our new bodies. Obviously, the transition from beast to human brought with it the abilities and mental abilities of our new physiological shapes.”

  “Huh?”

  “In your case, it was an increase in mental prowess. In mine, a decrease. I feel severely limited in both shape and intellect.”

  Fetch felt he ought to be offended, but dogs don’t offend easily. “What? You couldn’t speak before.”

  Even in this form, her eyes were large and intense. “Couldn’t? Perhaps the more operative word is ‘wouldn’t.”

  “Huh?”

  She finally blinked, and then went back to exploring the place where Alpha broke through the window. She carefully stepped around the broken glass, and then her gaze went to the wooded area in the back yard.

  Fetch remembered he was hungry.

  He hooked an arm on a dining room chair and pulled himself back onto shaky feet. He stood, swaying slightly, his body’s internal gyros compensating for the dizzying distance from his face to the ground. Then gravity pushed him from his unsteady alliance with balance, and he started leaning to the left. He tried to compensate the other direction, but once gravity grabbed hold, the joker wouldn’t let go. He ran sideways a couple steps before crashing into a counter. He grabbed the top and tried to hang on.

  Cat tried to cock an ear at him, but when it didn’t swivel the way it should have, she turned and watched him stumble around the kitchen, a Mona Lisa smile on her face.

  Fetch saw her amusement, and it gave him resolve to conquer this two legged thing. He refused to drop to all four again. Grimly, he pushed away from the counter and tried to dig his toe nails into the floor. But the flat things on top of his toes proved inadequate to the task and he went down again.

  Cat was mumbling to herself. "They can't see. They can't smell. They can't hear. How did they ever get to the top of the food chain?"

  Meanwhile, Fetch made it to his knees, remembered hunger, and crawled over to the refrigerator.

  Cat watched his efforts with great amusement.

  "What?" he asked.

  "Oh, nothing. Just confirming a thought."

  "What thought?"

  She leveled a gaze at him. "As different species, I grudgingly have to admit there were never any conclusive proofs of the superiority of either of our respective species. But now, with both of us limited in this new form, the degree in which we adapted to this crisis proves what I knew all along."

  "Huh?"

  "Precisely my point," she sniffed.

  "Fine, whatever," he sniffed, turning his attention to the big metal food box - refrigerator, his mind furnished the word to him. He stared at it.

  Cat was digging at the kitchen window screen with quick movements.

  Fetch stared at the refrigerator.

  With a quick snatch, Cat captured whatever it was that had been trapped by the screen. A moth. She popped it into her mouth.

  Fetch stared at the refrigerator.

  "Blech," Cat said, spitting the still wriggling moth into the sink. "That was nasty. Weird, I usually like those." She turned and noticed Fetch's patient refrigerator vigilance. "What are you doing?"

  "Waiting for food," he said, not willing to take his eyes from the source of food in case it appeared and he missed it.

  "How's that working for you?"

  "Not so well, but you just have to be patient."

  "You have opposable thumbs," she noted.

  Fetch tore his gaze from the source of pork chops. "Huh?"

  Cat wiggled her thumbs. "These things. They allow you to grasp objects."

  Fetch looked down at his paws ... hands ... and remembered he'd noticed them just a few moments ago. "Oh, yeah. I forgot about them."

  Mimicking actions he’d seen Alpha make many times before, Fetch grabbed the handle of the refrigerator.

  “It’s working,” he said delightedly as he grasped the handle.

  “Now pull,” Cat said, circling around the living room, looking for warmth. A cool breeze was blowing through the broken window, bringing out goose pimples on her furless flesh. She eyed the television where she had spent countless afternoons sprawled on top drowsily soaking in electronic warmth. She picked up the remote and studied it, shivering.

  Behind her, Fetch pulled the handle and the door swung open.

  Tah-dah. Doggy Nivana.

  “Whoa!” he breathed, the refrigerator light bathing him in a halo of goodness He felt a phantom tail wagging.

  Cheeses, meats, spaghetti, tomatoes (he liked tomatoes).

  He drew in a deep breath before plunging into the wonders of...

  Wait. There was nothing. No scent at all. All his twitching nose picked up was the feeling of coolness. There was no food smell at all.

  It was so unfair. His non-existent tail stopped wagging.

  And now the cold from the fridge combined with the chilliness circulating the room from the broken window started him shivering.

  “Here,” Cat said, draping a small blanket around him. He recognized it as the one from his doggy bed. The smell was familiar and comforting, though so faint he could barely pick it up. Why had he ever wanted to be a human? They can’t smell anything, and without smells, the world was ... well... smell-less.

  Phantom tail drooping, he closed the door, and headed over to the cabinet where he knew the good stuff was kept. Using his newfound powers of grasp-dom, he opened the cabinet door and beheld the sight of doggy treats in what he could see now was a brightly colored container.

  “All right,” he exulted. He grabbed the bag, rummaged it open, and shoved his face inside, trying in vain to reach the tantalizing nuggets just outside the reach of his flat face.

  “Grrrr...”

  He shoved his face deeper into the bag.

  A pair of hands reached past him and pulled the bag away.

  “What ...?” he started to say.

  “Here, silly,” she said, reaching a slim graceful hand into the bag. When she pulled it out, her hand was filled with crunchy goodness.

  He lowered his head to gobble them up, but stopped when she poked him in the nose with her index finger.

  “We’re human now. I think. You should try and eat like a human.”

  “You mean with a spoon or fork,” he asked, dismayed. He couldn’t imagine shoving metal into his mouth.

  “No, just take a piece like this,” she delicately grabbed a piece between forefinger and thumb. “Then just put it in your mouth.” She had no desire to try his food, so she held it out before his face.

  Remembering his training with Alpha, Fetch knew better than to snatch at it. Slowly and carefully he brought his face up to her hand and gently took the piece into his mouth and swallowed it.

  “Ow, that hurt,” he said, grabb
ing his throat. Then the taste registered.

  “Aack”.

  He tried spitting it out, but the food had already begun its meandering trip through his intestines.

  “What’s wrong,” Cat asked, a wry smile playing across her face.

  “That was horrible. I think there’s something wrong with it. Maybe it went bad.”

  But wait. He liked food that went bad. Some of his favorite meals ever came from congealed slop scavenged from trash cans.

  While he was thinking, Cat opened the refrigerator. She took out the milk carton and poured some into a shallow dish. Frowning, she studied the dish, deciding whether to just lick the milk from the container. Deciding not, she dipped her hand into the milk, capturing some in her palm. She raised her hand to her mouth and sucked up the milk.

  “Not very efficient,” she murmured, fastidiously wiping off the milk mustache.

  ...

  The werewolf plummeting through space suddenly met something that wasn’t space. It cried out as it crashed onto rocks and tumbled down the steep ravine.

 

  ...

 

  Fetch’s head whipped around, spraying food around. “What was that?”

  Cat had taken some food out of the refrigerator and had put it in the microwave, a device she had taken to lying on at night after the human had gone to sleep. She had seen him heat food in it, and after some trial and error, she had successfully cooked a bag of sliced ham. That is, after a few minutes, the bag exploded, which she assumed meant it was ready. Ignoring the burnt odor, she’d put the melted plastic and steaming meat on the counter. Fetch had been going to town on it, gobbling it down, whimpering whenever he burnt himself.

  Cat had heard the sound outside, too. It had been a cry of pain.

  "Alpha," Fetch breathed.

  Cat frowned. "It just sounded like a dog or something."

  Fetch dropped the ham, hesitated, picked it up again and ran to the broken window. "It was Alpha. I know it was."

  Cat joined him at the window. Fetch gave her a quick glance. Why did she look so good? Sleek, graceful with angular beauty. And why hadn't he ever noticed? Then another noise outside and his attention went back to the moonlit night. "We have to help him. He's in trouble!"

  "I don't know," Cat said slowly. As long as she was fed and the litter was cleaned, she wasn't as attached to the human. Speaking of litter...

  Meanwhile, Fetch was dancing around the window, carefully avoiding broken glass, some of which had found its way to the floor when the werewolf had jumped out. Most of the glass was undoubtedly outside. Fetch was mildly surprised he had reasoned that out.

  He bounced over to Cat who was studying her litter box with a frown.

  "We have to go! We have to go! We have to go!"

  She looked up. "We?"

  "Yes, we. He's Alpha! We have to protect Alpha!"

  She shook her head slowly. "He's not my Alpha."

  Fetch stopped bouncing. "Okay, maybe not for you. But it's important to me. If you won't come, I'll do it myself." He turned back to the window, ready to hurl himself through where the werewolf had disappeared.

  Cat sighed, "Fine, I'll go with you."

  "Really!? Yay! Let's go."

  She looked down at her hands and shook her head. "No, not yet. I'm not going anywhere without claws."

 

  ...

 

  The werewolf bounced and tumbled down the ravine, crying out at each jolting blow. Then his head slammed against a boulder and consciousness flew away.

 

  ...

 

  Fetch watched carefully as Cat taped a serrated steak knife to her forefinger, wrapping the tape around the handle of the knife and her newfound dexterous finger. When she was done, she critically examined the result and waggled the fingers. Knives were taped to each of the fingers and thumb of her right hand. "This isn't very comfortable," she muttered.

  "Do you want me to do the other hand?" Fetch asked.

  She sighed. "I don't know. I might just make do with this."

  "Then can we go?" Fetch said.

  Cat sighed. "We might as well."

  "All right!"

  Fetch ran for the back door and skidded to a stop. He stared at the door.

  "Thumbs," Cat reminded him.

  Fetch jerked. "Oh, that's right, I forgot."

  He grabbed the latch and pulled it open the way he'd known Alpha to do. The door obediently slid open.

  Now what?

  Usually when Alpha opened the door, Fetch would rush into the back yard, nose on overdrive, ready to hassle any cat or wildlife that had dared venture onto his domain.

  But the gloom and darkness seemed pregnant with danger. He sniffed deeply, his senses letting him down. There was no rich banquet of scents riding the air molecules. Instead, woefully inadequate filtered, mixed and muted smells barely registered on his senses. And his newfound human sight, though improved in clarity and color, were barely useful in the moon-dappled shadows.

  "I can't see very well," Cat said, sliding next to him.

  Fetch woofed in surprise. He hadn't heard her approach.

  "I can't smell anything," he said.

  "I can't see very well," she complained.

  "And my hearing..."

  "...sucks, right?" she completed.

  He nodded.

  Cat sighed. "Like I said, and they think they're the second top species in the world?"

  Fetch shot her a glance, "Second? Second to what?"

  "Cats, of course."

  "I dunno about that," he said slowly. "Why wouldn't dogs be up there?"

  Amusement glinted in her eyes. "Seriously?"

  He glared down at her." Yes, seriously. Wolf packs have ruled the plains and forests forever."

  "Oh?"

  "Yeah, where do you think that phrase ‘top dog’ came from? We're the top, baby."

  "And would you consider the wolf your top dog?'

  He put hands on his hips. "Yes."

  "So if we took your 'top dog,'" she mimed finger quotes, "...a wolf, against the top cat, what do you think would happen?"

  "Um, the wolf would..."

  "Run for his life," she interrupted.

  "No way!"

  "Yes way. Come here." She took his arm, and dragged him over to a bookcase, where several years of National Geographic magazines were stacked. Studying the magazines for a moment, she pulled one out and flipped through the pages, careful not to shred its pages with the knives strapped to her fingers. When she found what she wanted, she grinned, and handed him the magazine.

  "That's our top cat."

  Fetch gasped. It was a picture of an orange striped cat mauling an antelope. The deer was dwarfed by the enormous tiger, which was biting its neck and raking huge claws down the antelope's side. The deer's mouth was open in silent agony and terror.

  "And this," Cat said, plopping another magazine into his hands.

  A pride of lions bringing down a bellowing Cape Buffalo.

  "We're killers," Cat said matter-of-factly. "It's what we do. I kill anything that I can. Bugs, spiders, mice, rabbits. It doesn't matter if I'm hungry or not. I kill it. I might play with it first, but then I'll kill it."

  Fetch's mouth dropped open.

  Cat noticed his look of horror and shrugged. "You dogs aren't that way. You kill when you're hungry or defending something. We kill because we're killers."

  "But, but..."

  "You're just lucky you're too big to be my prey," she said, crossing back to the open door.

  Fetch could have sworn he saw a quick smile.

  As Fetch followed Cat to the door, he reflected that there was another disadvantage to being human. As a dog, his thoughts rarely expanded beyond food, comfort, companionship and play. But as a human, he found himself wondering about things, hurting his brain rather than learning the truth by simply sniffing something's butt.

  He looked at Cat's swaying nud
e rear end exposed under her blanket as she strode towards the door. Conflicting emotions roiled inside him.

  She looked over her shoulder and caught him looking. "You aren't going to sniff my butt... or anything else of mine."

  "I wasn't..."

  "Yes, you were. You were thinking about sniffing my butt."

  "Well, okay, maybe. But why not? I mean, don't you sniff butts?"

  She grimaced."Cats don't sniff butts."

  "What? You don't want to sniff my butt?"

  Her nose crinkled, "No thanks, I can smell it from here."

  "No you can't!"

  "You're right. I can't. But it doesn't mean I want to."

  "Then how else can you learn the truth about stuff? You can learn about something's health, sex, mood, intentions, just by smelling."

  "I don't need any of that. Like I said, I just kill everything. Then I go lay in a sunbeam until it's time to eat."

  "Yeah, I like sunbeams," Fetch agreed. "And eating."

  He caught up with Cat as she stood in the doorway, staring into the darkness and flexing her clawed hand. "You weren't serious about killing me, were you?"

  She just smiled.

  After an awkward moment of staring into the woods surrounding the house, he said, "We have to go after Alpha."

  He was feeling strange. While his still tremendous sense of loyalty made him want to run and search for Alpha, something else made him hesitate, a feeling that all was not right with Alpha, and that there was something going on that he would be better off not knowing. He'd never felt anything that countered his sense of pack loyalty, and he didn’t like the feeling.

  But in the end, loyalty won out. Loyalties always win out with a dog. That's why a dog will sit for days next to its dead owner. It's why a dog will travel hundreds of miles to find its way home. It's why a dog will defend its family or pack, against any intruder, no matter the odds.

  He took a deep breath, and stepped into the cold dark, drawing his blanket around him as the chill hit him. He felt rather than heard as Cat followed him into the dark.

  The werewolf shook his head groggily. He was laying on a smattering of loose rocks and boulders at the bottom of a ravine next to a small brook. He ignored the pleasant sound of water whooshing into swirling eddies and small pools, eroding rock with mindless, endless patience He snarled softly, protesting the pain in his head, and shook himself to his feet.

  He stood by the stream, swaying slightly as his body sought to regain its physical equilibrium. Mentally, less adjustment was necessary. In werewolf form, his thoughts were almost overwhelmed with red-colored rage and hunger. Real cognitive thought was fleeting and elusive. No memories to speak of. Just the need to outrace pain and hunger, ripping, tearing, rending anything unfortunate enough to cross his path. It was why they could consider humans as prey. Werewolves were no longer human. Nor were they true wolves with a rich complexity of pack family. They were something else. If they ran into another werewolf, chances were even that they would rip each other to shreds or join together in a one night only pack. Hungry or not, they would kill anything they saw. Mindless attacks that didn't kill would often create a new werewolf. Some who survived a werewolf attack believed that the fortunate people were the ones who didn't survive. Others reveled in the change.

  Fetch searched through the grass, keeping a wary distance from broken glass. He puffed out an exasperated snort. "I can't pick up a scent."

  Cat ignored him, studying the dirt at the edge of the lawn. "It went through here."

  Fetch looked up. "How do you know that?"

  She pointed, "You can see the tracks from its passage."

  Fetch's eyebrows went up. "You can?" He trotted over and looked down.

  Cat took a few more steps and pointed into the woods. "See, it ran up here, and went that way."

  "Weird. It's like a smell track, but visual instead. I didn't think anything like that was possible. Maybe humans aren't as sensory-deprived as I thought." He frowned. Sensory-deprived? Where had that thought come from? Boy, humans were smart.

  Cat was oblivious to his ruminations, and was tracking where the werewolf had entered the woods, following prints illuminated by sunlight bounced off the moon's surface.

 

  ...

 

  The werewolf was back in motion. It had scrabbled up the ravine and was now racing through the woods. Where was that deer that had eluded him? Where was anything else? Must kill. Must chase.

  A raccoon saw it coming and frantically scampered up a tree. The werewolf barely spared it a glance, its hunting senses telling it the raccoon would be too difficult to catch once it gained the branches. So the werewolf headed back the way it had come, searching for easier prey.

  "Now what?" Fetch asked.

  The tracks ended abruptly at a small, slow moving river.

  "I think it swam through here." Cat looked up and down the bank, hoping to see the tracks taking a wiser course. But it seemed pretty clear that the werewolf had gone into the river. She sighed.

  "Okay, we swim," Fetch said. "I like swimming."

  "I hate swimming," Cat groused.

  "Too bad," Fetch said. While following the werewolf tracks he had warmed and now that the dark didn't seem so intimidating, he was getting into the spirit of the chase. Dogs hunted in this manner, and it felt good to be following his lifetime instincts. Even better that Cat had joined the hunt.

  He looped the blanket around his neck, and stepped into the water."Whoa, it feels weird on my bare skin. And cold."

  Cat looked unhappy.

  When Fetch hit deeper water, he launched forward, dog-paddling furiously. His new form seemed more adaptable to the water, his hands efficiently pulling him through the water, while his legs kicked less effectively. In just minutes, he was across. Shivering, he climbed onto the far bank. He wrapped the blanket tightly around himself, and looked back at Cat. She was chewing her lip, staring into the black water.

  "You can do it," Fetch urged.

  She ignored him with cat aplomb.

  Fetch grinned. "Here kitty, kitty, kitty."

  Cat's head whipped up and she snarled.

  Fetch's grin widened. "Oh, wait. Sorry, it’s not smart to pick on a killer, right?"

  At that, Cat slipped into the water, and started swimming awkwardly across. It was the first time ever he had seen her anything other than graceful.

  As she got closer to the bank, he snorted happily. "Hey, what are you doing?"

  "Swimming," she said, doing her best to keep her face just above the water, knives slicing ineffectively through the liquid.

  "Hah, no, you're not. You're dog-paddling!"

  "I most certainly am not," she growled, feet searching for the bottom.

  "Oh, yeah, then what do you call it?"

  "Cat-paddling," she said, no hint of humor on her face as she reached the shallows, wrapping the blanket around her as she climbed the bank.

  Suddenly, a howl came from the woods at the top of the bluff. Cat stiffened. If she had still had her tail, it would have been poofed.

  Fetch frowned, "Weird. I don't understand that dialect."

  There was another howl, punctuated by a crashing through underbrush.

  "It's getting closer," Fetch said. Something bubbled up in his throat. "Hey! Hey! Hey!"

  Cat frowned at him. "What are you doing?"

  "I'm barking."

  "That's not barking."

  "Sure it is. Hey! Hey!"

  He paused. "Hmmm, you're right.”

  The noise from the woods was closer. Something was storming towards them with berserker speed.

  "We need to go," Cat staid nervously. She started towards the trees, her intent to climb as fast and as high as she could. She'd worry about getting down later.

  Before they could gain safety, something black and monstrous erupted from the trees, glaring at them with maddened eyes.

  "A-A-Alpha?" Fetch stammered.

  The werew
olf snarled, tongue licking fangs.

  "Come on,” Cat cried, grabbing Fetch's arm, running down the riverbank.

  Fetch resisted for a moment, but then the werewolf burst into chase, and Fetch started running.

  The werewolf exulted in the chase, bloodlust driving rational thought from its brain.

  The boy and girl sprinted as fast as they could, stumbling over the uneven ground.

  Fetch looked back and gasped, "Why are we running? It's Alpha."

  "No, it's not," Cat said, yanking him forward. She eyed the water, but didn't know if their pursuer was an even more efficient swimmer than them. She would save the river for a last resort.

  But the werewolf was silently gaining yards on them every few seconds, its bounding leaps gobbling up the distance separating them. It gained ground much more quickly than Cat realized, and then it pounced.

  Huge paws slammed them to the ground.

  They crumpled in agony as bones began to yield.