Tatts and Pack Drama

Weredogs do not get tatts, tattoos. I should say "most." But, it is looked down upon by weredogs.

Werewolves, on the other hand (of course) love them, get them all the damn time. Some werewolves are covered in them. This is one of those things never covered in movies and novels.

When a were shifts, his or her tatt, of course, stays with him or her. Tatts are acquired in human form. So, when a were with a tatt shifts, the tatts warps and changes, often taking on strange and bizarre appearance.

Note: Sometimes weres do get tatts in dog form. But, they are always numbers, for purposes of identification, like a detention camp of some kind.

So. When a tattoo of his first wife, or of a green beret in front of airborne wings with a dagger up through the center, or a gator wearing a cowboy hat and drinking a Heineken beer, shifts with him back to dog form, the tatt can be hard to recognize. But, dogs are covered in hair, so no problem.

Don't anyone haul your dog down to the pet groomer to get your pooch shaved to see if he has a tatt. Chances are he doesn't. And there are easier ways.

This brings me to our recent pack drama. Orson was well liked in out pack. I have actually known him for most of this century. We were in France together.

Orson was a bichon-mastif mix. Big guy. Loved to eat. Lovable guy, but could tear you a new rectum if the situation required such.

Anyway, two weeks ago he got in trouble. He and his family, he is in dog phase, were in the front yard on a nice fall day. A guy walked by with an enormous pit in the leash. The pit all of a sudden bolted for one of the girls. one of Orson's girls. Her name is Lauren. She is 9 years old and a pretty as little girls come. No dog was every bonded to his kids than Orson.

So, when this pit went for Lauren Orson was there, was just able to cut him off. That pit's teeth were inches from Lauren. so, around and around they go. Where they will stop, nobody knows. Orson was trying to get the pit to back off, to tell him this was a big mistake. the pit was beyond being reasonable.

So, Orson had to put him down. He had no choice. He was getting tired. Not dead down. No. The pit was alive, but major messed up. And his owner, of course, went ballistic.

The sheriff had deputies out to pick up Orson that afternoon. This was Tuesday.

We held an emergency pack meeting that night. (Buck, I still need those minutes.) We went back and forth all night about whether to rescue Orson or not.

The traditional attitude is not to interfere, not to risk any chance of giving ourselves away to mankind. Oh, the irony. It was decided that 2 of the pack would go rescue Orson on Sunday. But he was put down, euthanized, killed, on Wednesday.

How the hell, and why the hell, could that happen? you might ask. Good question. It happens because we, weredogs, are conditioned to stay under the radar, to not risk tipping our paws.

Anyway, Orson had a few tattoos. The vet happened to find them when she was putting Orson down. Curiosity arose.

Other dogs tell how Orson went bravely. He could have shifted and busted out. But he did not.

I will miss him. He was a damn good were. Our pack howled for three straight hours last night.