Red’s plan was to surprise Gran with lunch, spend the afternoon, score mitzvah points, and go home.  Red was surprised herself by this odd-for-her impulse to kindness, as well as by much else in the world.  The large dog, for instance.

     “Nice doggie,” she said. 

     Red didn’t know her grandmother had a dog, but then Red didn’t know Gran all that well to begin with.  There was a photo at home, on Red’s nightstand, of Gran holding Red as an infant, a little white jelly belly with dabs of strawberry on top, in the arms of a blue-jeaned, sweat-shirted rascal, grinning over something, the delightful, promising baby, Red hoped.  Gran was ever busy, even in retirement.  Not much time for the grandkids, although she managed to email now and then, updates on her political activities and polite questions about school, parents, life.  Red admired this non-smothering way of Gran’s and so had made the trip from the city by bus and on foot, and now here she was with her gift basket of gourmet meats and cheeses, no Gran at home, and the dog, salivating.  

     The dog was dressed in a flannel nightgown.  This didn’t seem Gran’s style, anthropomorphizing, infantalizing, disrespecting animals.  Red recognized the garment.  It had been a Mother’s Day gift from her mother to Gran.  Gran hadn’t liked it; Red could tell from the expression on her face.  And the fact that she’d told Mom that she slept in a t-shirt, one or another that she’d gotten at various rock concerts back in the day.  “But what about in the winter?” Mom had said.  “Blankets,” said Gran.  “And a quilt.”

     “Here, boy,” said Red.  Since Gran wasn’t home and Dog was obviously interested, she offered up the contents of the basket.  She was dissuaded from joining in on the feast herself by the putrid smell of unwashed carnivore, one who had apparently never heard of, let alone indulged in, visits to a grooming salon.  Instead of barking his approval, Dog howled.

     Dog was obviously Wolf. 

     The night before, Wolf had wandered into the house, hungry, sniffing, curious, searching for the source of odd flesh odor, because Gran, as it turned out, had gotten a chill and worn the flannel garment after all.  Wolf’s snout went through the neckhole and Wolf was stuck.  Wolf was not “wearing” the nightie; it dragged behind, hindered movement, wasn’t edible, and, at the point when Red entered the house, was torn but not torn off.

     Wolf ate the meat and cheese then started in on the wicker.  Finding that it offered too much resistance, he moved on to Red.  There were little, twiggy, salty-boney-juicy spindles attached to the wicker handle, which was attached to a bigger, smoother, tastier bit, attached to another container of some sort, one with cloth and fur and more smooth, fleshy parts, just about his size if he stood on his hinds.  Or maybe it was a fruit tree with a sign, and he had hold of a limb, which he’d punctured but couldn’t break loose.  And it was screaming at him, for Christ’s sake. 

Red was not expecting to be Wolf’s meal.  She was a naturally-curled auburn, hair-wise, and accustomed to more deference on that account.  Back home, she didn’t even get slapped around much, let alone bit on the arm.  Now, despite her enormous pain, Red’s thoughts broke neatly in three directions: 1) reclaim wrist currently being consumed by Wolf; 2) learn important life lesson re good intentions, bad outcomes; and 3) worry that she might finally win the lottery and be prevented from collecting on account of being converted to the main course following a basket appetizer.  Wouldn’t that be fucking great?

     Wolf couldn’t shake her dead.  Should she be dragged back to the lair, anyway?  Maybe she would get worn out along the way.  Maybe she was partly dead already, and the long journey would finish her off.  His thoughts diverged, too:  1) mutton; 2) moon; 3) urinate.

     Red was a patient girl, and not the violent type.  She had no gun, no knife, no mace.  She could shout NO.  That was about it.

     And where was Gran?  Gran was out in the forest, far away, up a tree of her own, protesting the loggers who’d sure as hell never rescue a member of her family now.  Not even a branch of the family tree as luscious and lithesome as Red.

     Sex, sex, sex.  Red, who had just turned sixteen, rubbed Wolf behind the ear with her left, unbitten hand.  She peered under his belly, searching for results, her romantic teenage spur-of-the-moment plan having something to do with jerking him off, sex trumping pain, winning him over and gaining his life-long allegiance and protection from all evil.  But wait, she thought, seeing nothing; shouldn’t that have been Wolf’s idea?  Where was his initiative?  Why wasn’t he humping her like Rover Champion Cloudbiscuit back home?  Sweet doggie who never bit, never told?  Didn’t Wolf like her?

     But Wolf wasn’t a boy at all.  Of course!  This was a She-wolf!  “Make me one of you!” cried Red.  “Let us form a savage-breasted alliance, run wild through the night, sisters to the moon, my powerful matriarch of the shadows!”  And changing tactics, Red sang out, toes a-tapping, hitting the upper registers, a full-throated chanteuse, confidant of Wolf’s compliance, seducing with charm and harmony instead of repetitive physical gestures.  She’d never had a lesbian encounter before, but was happy to start now.  If only Wolf would let go of her goddamn arm.

     Wolf bit down harder in frustration.  Her mistake had been in going for Red’s wrist instead of the throat.  What had she been thinking?  The only solution now was to get an ACME Paralyzer.  That way, Wolf could let go of Red’s wrist, and when Red turned to escape, the Paralyzer would stop her in her tracks.  Although then Wolf would be facing the back of Red, the whole of her, neck included, cloaked in dark wool with no sheep attached.  Which would necessitate the procurement of an ACME Girl-Turner, in addition to the Paralyzer.  But how would Wolf fill out the order form and get to the post office while dragging Red along?  The situation was hopeless.

     Red felt the same way.  As a result of the declining public school system, she did not know a wolf from a coyote from a dog from a cartoon.   

     Delirious from pain and loss of blood, Red drifted elsewhere, out to the field beyond, on the mound, desperate for an out.  Who was on first?  No, not Who, the She-wolf.  What?  That’s right, chew off your arm and run, lope around the bases, leap over the fence, trot through the village slapping your tail against back doors, howling the blues.  Aaa-oooooooooo…. 

Choppers fully engaged, Wolf nonetheless bayed along as best she could, mainly out of habit, communal longing, collective unconscious made conscious.  But she also had commitment issues, a family at home, sensed night approaching, and her jaw ached.  Too much trouble, she said.  I mean, I never would’ve started if I’d known….  People are crazy.  And so she skipped out.

But not before Red grabbed her by the tail, swung her overhead, and let her fly into the wall.  Wolf saw stars.

     What had she done?  Hate, scorn, fury, all so close to that other thing. 

     “I don’t love you,” said Wolf.

     “Bad dog,” said Red.

     Do animals project animal qualities onto others unlike themselves, to make their world more understandable?  We don’t really know.  We take for granted that whatever we think about animals is correct, but we could be completely wrong.  Or partly wrong.  To their detriment, and maybe ours as well.  Poor animals.  Poor us.  And all that over-development of housing tracts and businesses—did we really think there wouldn’t be consequences?

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