Pet Pharma

Another issue that is being hotly debated and worries many weredogs is this increasing trend of people drugging their dogs. It is done more and more with all pets. But dogs are the main recipients.

More and more weredogs are showing up at pack meetings loopier than a cooped up kitten. At first we did not know what was going on. We thought some were somehow getting into drugs. Well they were. Through their families, the people they trust.

I have been involved in 2 dog interventions. These are more difficult than those with people, for the simple fact that it is next to impossible to get the people on board.

The main reason people are more drugging their dogs is the desire to have their dogs act more like people, not like their natural temperament directs them.

This is another of those unfortunate and troubling outcomes of domestication and civilization.

An again, people are also doing the same thing to themselves.

Dog Diets and Domestication

I shifted and got into the fridge this morn. Gave Flecka some leftover beef. She needed it. And some milk. Just a bit. She is old and frail and getting weaker and needs more than the doggy chow we get.

One of my ancillary duties has always been, as a dog in modern society, to provide supplemental diet to dogs, and sometimes cats. Dogs and cats at one time were the top predators in most parts of this planet. One would not know that by how we are fed.

I have often heard dogs, and weredogs, bemoan the waste of roadkill. "If only I could get my teeth into some of that," I have heard so many times driving by a deer down by side of the road. It's already tenderized. Who gives a shit about a bit of road gravel?

Don't get me wrong. I love Kibbles and Bits. And Science Diet is, I admit, put together in a very nutritious way. But eating dry dog food day after day would be like a person eating only oatmeal boiled in beef broth day after day. Gets old.

Me, I get out now and then. But most dogs do not, unless they live with a person with a more crazy and non-mainstream attitude toward feeding his or her dog buds.

In spite of this, many dogs, and cats and even horses, have learned to become obese. These are other fruits of domestication. And I cannot believe the things that people eat, things with scent that I do not want even to be in the same room with.

There is a couple that lives two streets over who are avid runners. They are thin, too thin. But their dog and cat are obese, way obese. Both have guts that drag the floor. The people eat vicariously through their pets. What the hell's up with that?

This is all affecting people too, obesity and bad diet, or obsessively good diet. It ties in with lack of or no activity or diet.

We are predators, dogs, cats and humans. We were meant to stalk and hunt and move and shred and tear and eat. Our bodies are responding to domestication and civilization in ways not anticipated.

Bo and the Coyotes

The 2 coyotes led me to Bo. She was laying amongst some brush in a nearby field. She did get up as I approached. One of the coyotes who led me there made the introductions. He explained that Bo is the leader of their pack, a local and rather large pack, and elder leader for a large area, which included several other packs.

"So, this is what a weredog looks like in dog form," she said. I just snarled an acknowledgement. "Can I see you shift into a weredog?" she said. I said no, that was not possible just then.

"What do you want?" I said.

"We need to work with you," she said.

"About what?" I said.

"Neo's," she said. "And some other issues that are even more dangerous, to us as well as you."

We arranged a meeting. I will take several weredogs, and werewolves, with me. I do not entirely trust coyotes. They are they most devious of all canines.

"By the way," I said, "attacking the dachsund was just a ruse, right?"

"He was supposed to be my breakfast," said one of the 2 coyotes, disappointment heavy through his teeth. "If not for the girl I would now have a full belly."

I snarled. "Pay attention. If any harm comes to any of my house pack, cats, dogs, any species, I will take it very personal, and make it my personal vendetta to find him or her who is responsible. It would not bide well for our working together. I hope I make myself clear."

Bo snarled. "Fine," she said. "We know where you live, who you are, who are in that house." I nodded, then turned to go. "We do not like to be threatened," said Bo.

I turned back, said, "Good," then trotted off.

Coyotes, gotta admire their moxy. But don't dare turn your backs on them.

Varans

I mentioned that I was visited by Varans. Not a cozy prospect. Few survive a Varans visit.

Varans originated in the 10th Century A.D. as Varangians. They were Russian Vikings turned imperial guards to Byzantium emperors. They were the elite warriors in war and the last policemen you wanted to see during peace. Legend is that as many as half of the Varangians were weredogs.

Their job is that of order. But what about the waerwulfas? you might ask. True.

The Varans have a simmering feud with the waerwulfas of which no one outside those two groups knows the history.

They are neither dog nor wolf. More refined and more terrifying than either, much larger and more powerful, more intelligent and driven.

They found me in Des Moines. I was up there to see some weredogs about a neo operation they had uncovered. We stopped it, with about a dozen weredogs and 4 werewolves. But we did not detect the salmonela eggs disaster. That was neos also. But that was much less than their primary plan.

The Varans told me they had first been told to come kill me, that I had been ignoring instructions to stop certain activities, one of which is this blog. Then they told me that just before they found me their mission changed and they were told to deliver a message.

Waerwulfas, Rae and Roland

I am in a truck stop in Alliance, Nebraska, using a trucker's laptop. He did not agree when I first asked him if I could use his computer. But, when I said I need to check my porn site, he gave a knowing sneer and agreed. It is hard getting computer access when  you are a dog on the road.

I just spent the last nearly 3 weeks in the badlands of South Dakota and in the hills just to the northwest of Ft. Robinson and Crawford, Nebraska, with 2 different werods. A "werod" is a troop or pack or werefolk which has some sort of mission or purpose.

Been sleeping outside a lot lately. Been chilly. I was amongst wolves and dogs, werefolk and non. How I got here is a bit of a long story. I'll try to be brief.

I said goodbye to Dionna. It gets harder each time. We had several real good days together. 

At a rest stop outside of Byers, Colorado, off I-70. I stopped to drain the crank. I was on my way back home, to KC. Had I known I was being tracked by waelwulfas I might have chosen a different route. 

I heard the door open of the restroom, and sensed the group of them come in, one after another, the file of them. The door was a long spell open. I was in human form. I had rented a car. My hackles went up. 

They came in and surrounded me.

"Who are you?" I said. "What do you want?"

They all snarled with their mouths closed, that snarl from the back of the throat that few dogs and men can do. "We have been sent for you," said the largest.

Waerwulfas. Shit. I'm screwed, I thought. 

I woke up in a trunk. It was black, no light. I was sore from the fight. I hoped I at least got some licks in of my own.

It was not that long after that the vehicle stopped and I heard fighting outside, weapons fire, snarling, howls, claw and tooth slashing through air and skin. Yes, my hearing is acute enough to hear claws through wind. 

There was an enormous blast. Then it was quiet. Then the trunk came open and a female weredog was telling me, "Come on! Hurry!"

They were Rae, a dog, and Roland, a wolf. I rode with them in a '98 beat-up Bronco all the way to Cheyene. They played a lot of Warren Zevon and Johnny Cash. They let me drive, but would not tell me where we were going. "Just drive," Roland told me. Rae could only sleep if she changed to her dog form. She slept on her back, in the backseat, wrapped up in jackets and wool blankets.  

In  Cheyenne I was passed off to Willa and Gart. We continued east.

"Will you tell me when we get there?" I asked Roland when we were somewhere between Cheyenne and Casper. He smiled. "Sure."

I was taken to the Badlands, in the southwest corner of South Dakota, to a werod of werewolves or weredogs readying for war. I spent my time there talking and discussing, everything.

"You need to find your hildelayoth," one weredog told me one morning. I asked him what that is. He only said that having your hildelayoth is the only way to stave off the morgancollon, the morning terror.

I left the Badlands and was led to the werod northwest of Ft. Robinson. More talks, discussions, questions.  

I may never get home, back to Jack, Sherry, and the boys. To think that I passed right through KC 3 weeks ago, less than fifteen miles away from home.

But, right now I am on my way home. No telling if I will get there. 

Did I mention that it is hard staying connected as a dog on the road?  I have not even seen this blog since Denver.

Our Vacation

Week before last we got back from our vacation. I went along. Don't ask how I wrangled that. Long story, many details. Suffice it to say, I am a wily dog. 

We drove the first day all the way across Kansas to Denver. We were in Jack's Explorer, not a small vehicle. Still, vehicles are not designed for dogs. I made it clear when we needed to stop. We stayed the night in Denver with Sherry's cousin, Jan, who is a research sexologist. Interesting woman. She kept asking Sherry if he could measure her breasts and did Sherry know the exact distance between her clitoris and urethra. I didn't even want to know where that was going.

It was good to see Gemma, Jan's dog. I have been trying to recruit Gemma for years. She still says no, she doesn't want to be even part human. She says she carries enough pain already. 

I slipped out of the house, late, to recon the neighborhood, check for were-sign. Three blocks from Jan's house I heard eating. On the side of a brown stucco ranch one-story I found two coyotes, both males, with their heads in a tipped over rubber trash can. One was saying, "I swear, I cannot believe how they throw all this stuff out." I cleared my throat.

 They started to bolt. I said, "Wait." They stopped, to my surrise. 

"What?" the smaller one said. 

I told them I meant no harm, that I was from out of town, and I simply wanted information. "On what?" said the larger one. I said on the general area, if it was safe for Jan and Gemma, and if there were any werewolves in the area.

The smaller coyote scratched his jaw with a hind paw, then said, "Werewolves. Hmm. Nope. Not since I was a pup and Crusher drove them all out of Denver and to the south." 

"Who was Crusher?" I said. They proceeded to tell me the story. Old story. It has happened too many times to count over the centuries. Denver was overrun with werewolves. People and pets were disappearing like hamburgers at a dog picnic. The people police were stumped, as they always are in were-matters, even with the truth staring them in the face. So, a weredog, Crusher (originally, his name was Sprinkles) rose up, rallied all the weredogs, and a fair number of dogs, and drove off all the werewolves. It was a brutal battle, and took months. Everyone fought, and many fell with opened throat. 

"Except for the coyotes," said the smaller coyote. "We just sat back and watched, and laughed." "And cleaned up the scraps," said the other.

They asked where I was laying. I told them.

"Oh yeah," said the larger one. "That's the house where that big black cat came from last month. Damn, that cat was gooood eatin'."

"You ate Jan's cat?" I said, familiar with the news. Jan had been devastated. I tried to chastise them, but knowing that they had not done wrong, had simply killed to survive.

The next day we drove to and through Estes Park, the Rocky Mountain National Park, and then to Grand Lake, a beautiful mountain town sitting alongside a mountain lake. Jack got a large room overlooking the lake.  I loved it. There was a big, cushy sofa under the large window that faced the lake. I planned to spend all night laying on that sofa, wrapped in the smells of the lake coming in through the window. Things didn't work out that way.

They came back from dinner tense. They brought me too much leftovers, which means they had no appetites, which is a bad sign for my family. Jack and the boys are big eaters. About an hour after the lights were out, and all but Jack were breathing easy, Jack got up, got dressed in the dark, and left. I, of course, followed. Even in dog form I can more quietly open and close doors than any of them.

Outside in the shadows I changed into human form. I lost sight of Jack. But his scent was easy to find. I found him in a bar on the main street that runs through Grand Lake. He was sitting by himself at the bar. I slid into a booth. It was about eleven. I watched as several women approached him. One took a seat on the stool to his left. She kept touching his arm. I growled. 

A blond slipped into the other side of my booth. She had shoulder-length honey-blond hair, a great figure with lots of curves, a kind of face that makes a dog want to howl, and eyes that bore into me. Her beauty clouded my senses for a few moments, made it take a few sniffs longer that it should have to realize that she was wolf. Then, all at once, the realization hit me that the entire town was wolf. The scent of werewolf was everywhere, hanging over the town like a toxic cloud. My concern and focus on my family, and the mountain air, and other smells, had distracted me enough to miss it. Not sensing it was like not seeing the trees.

"What do you want?" she said. She was smiling without her eyes. Her voice was not friendly.

"Vacation," I said, still a little rattled by her beauty. "With my family."

She cocked her head to one side and studied me from some seconds. Then she said, "As daddy or dog?"

"Dog." She shook her head. "What?" I said.

"I will never understand you dogs," she said. "How you can play obedient little puppy to some of these pathetic people."

"They're not all pathetic," I said. I nodded toward Jack, at the bar. "He's mine."

Her eyes raised. "Really? Interesting. If not for the lack of scent, I would say he could be a wolf. Or dog. Whatever. Anyway, Sheila," she shot a glance at the feral-looking woman next to him, "has her sights on him."

My lips went up into a snarl. This happens even in human form. It can be very awkward. "If she . . ."

"Relax," she said. "She's just interested in some late-night gymnastics."

"He's taken," I said.

"They're all taken," she said.

"I mean it," I said. "His woman is back asleep in our room."

She almost laughed. "Then what is he doing here?" she said. Before I could construct an answer she waved a hand. "Never mind. He's just being a man. I know. They're not like us. You and I would never go out in a strange town or woods just to 'stretch our legs'."

"I might," I said.

She laughed, then said, "So, what is your role in this family of yours?"

"Sometimes, companion. Right now, guardian."

She rolled her eyes. "That's what's wrong with you dogs. You are so drunk on the whole 'guardian' kick. We protect the humans. We protect the sheep. We protect this. We protect that. Don't you ever get sick of it?"

"It's what we do. It's our duty."

"Your duty is your bondage. Don't you ever just want to say 'To hell with it' and be free?"

"It's not bondage, or even duty, for that matter. This is my family. I love them, and do not want them harmed."

"Oh, lower your hackles. They as safe here as in Denver."

"So," I said, "You don't feed outside your flock of people you have here in town? Just keep it close?"

"We don't harm our people," she said. "We don't need to. There's too many good restaurants in this little town, and large herds of elk up in the park when the need for that arises. The only people who get harmed around here are those who need harming. Like last month. There was a pack of bikers who rode into town. I was glad to see them. Wolves and bikers generally have a natural affinity. But, these guys were bad. I smelled it right away, but discounted it."

"That night one of them went with one of our she-wolves back to her cabin. She had no plans other than some fun. But, his kind of fun was not fun. Some of his friends followed. They meant to hurt her, probably kill her. She made the howl. We all heard it, and we all recognized it immediately. I have rarely heard a howl wrapped in such pain and fear. Every werewolf in this town converged on that cabin within minutes. It was also over in minutes."

"No trace of them was ever found?"

She shook her head. "Nothing. Except for their leathers. A few of the jackets and chaps are still on racks down in one of the stores on Grand Avenue, the main drag."

"One of our cardinal rules is never to harm humans," I said.

"We know," she said. "But, it still happens, sometimes," she said. "Doesn't it?"

I shifted in my seat. I had to keep in mind that this beautiful, charming, and dangerous creature across from me was a werewolf. It was hard to remember that. "Rarely," I said. "Serial killers, anyone preying on children," I said, "Anyone who . . . " I stopped. She smiled and finished the sentence for me. "Anyone who needs harming."

Jack pulled his wallet. He was paying his tab. I could tell he was getting ready to move. I started to slide out of the booth. "Were you serious?" she said.  I stopped. "About what?" I said. Her mouth curled into a deliciously devilish smile. "That you might stretch you legs with me in the woods?"

We froze. Our pupils dilated. Even thought we both were in human form, our hackles and ears were up. Pheromones were coming off us like rain in a hurricane. We faced each other, taking all this in. I don't how long we were there like that. Then, without my brain being aware my mouth and tongue were moving, I said, "I've never been drawn to a werewolf before."

"Me too," she said. "A weredog, I mean."

"I have to go," I said.

Her shoulders slumped, and she gave what sounded between a whimper and a sigh, and said, "I figured you would say that." I stood there a few moments longer, taking in her scent as much as I could, going beyond, deeper than the mere wolf-scent, to the essence of her. My heart convulsed, like someone had reached into my chest and was biting my heart, forcing every bit of blood out.

A thought then hit me like a bullet.  "What's your name?" I said. 

"Dionna," she said. "You?"

"Chester."

The bar closed. Jack left alone. Sheila whispered something to him. He smiled at her, leaned over and kissed her on the forehead, told her no, he could not do that. I never wanted to lick him more than right then. I followed him back to the room. He stumbled only a little on the three block walk. H moved like a sailor on the deck of a ship during stormy seas. But, he amde it back to the room, and did not even notice when I slipped through the motel room door right after him, hopped up on the couch behind him. He turned and patted me on the head, almost fell on m, on the couch. He caught himself and said, "Good boy. Keeping an eye on things." I sure am, I wanted to say.

The next day we drove to Vail. Vail is a nice town. Although, town is not the right word. It is a resort town, a European mountain simulacra. It is a very dog friendly, people playground. It is to European mountain villages what Disney World is to European castles. And the rich people of Vail do love their dogs. Oh yes. The dogs have serious attitudes. Even the weredogs have attitudes. I got into an argument with one because she made a remark about my collar and didn't think I heard. She did not even recognize me as a weredog, was not paying attention, did not pick up my scent. She apologized.

We went rafting near Royal Gorge, down toward Canon City. Well, they did. I stayed back at the raft ranch. A young woman parked next to us was looking at me strangely when I got out, after the rafts pulled out for the river. "Where's the doggie?" she said. "What doggie?" I said. 

Staying behind was great. It gave me a chance to check voicemail and email, Jack's too. It was unseasonably cold. Everyone wore, or wished they had, coats. I went into the bar and had a beer and burger. It was very greasy. Great for my coat. When the family got back I was sleeping in the vehicle, in the back, burrowed in coats, blankets and poncho liners. Cold outside, toasty warm inside. 

In Manitou Springs Ricky and I came across a guy in a restroom with a black plastic bag pulled over his head. Another guy asked us for change. I snarled. Ricky called 911. I smelled werewolf. It was faint. But it was there. The cops showed, an ambulance right after that. They got the bag off him and strapped him onto the gurney. Sherry, Sven and Jack finally showed up, said, "Where have you been? We've been looking everywhere for you!" just as I was getting into a very nice conversation with a female police dog named Lulu. She had the most gorgeous eyes and coat. I thought of Dionna.

The drive back to KC took all the next day. Sven and Rick took turns using me as a pillow. I don't mind. I like it. Hard to explain. Besides, I wanted to sleep. I kept having dreams of mountains and lakes and cabins and trees. And Dionna. And I kept wanting to go back to those dreams. 

Werewar

I think I need to provide some clarity about the history of weredogs. It is interwoven with that of werewolves.

We trace our genesis back to about 5000 B.C., well after the domestication of dogs. Dogs had been living in a beneficial partnership with man for more than several centuries.

Why? We were needed. And Nature has a way for filling needs. A new race of beings that were half man and half wolf started fighting and pushing men to the brink. It started with isolated raids, then escalated to full-scale war. Some of the old gods had grown angry at man, feared man, decided to remove man. All men. Man was no match for werewolf, their ferocity, their intelligence, their cunning. 

Werewolves are not the pathetic figures you see in movies. Oh no. They are capable, controlled. But, so is man. As such, some of the old gods decided that man must survive. Some still say it was never about man or wolves, that both were pawns in a war between the old gods, and that the gods of man decided that man needed an ally to stand against the werewolves. Thus, werewolves were born. 

It took less time than a tall tree to grow and fall for weredogs and werewolves to fight to a standstill. With man on our side, werewolves had no choice but to go to ground, lick their wounds, bide their time, learn patience.

Weredogs and werewolves have been locked in a fight to the death ever since. Ever so often, we push them nearly to the point of total defeat...extinction. That is our absolute mission and goal. Eradication of the wolf. 

Little Dog

Rex and I go out together a lot. Some in the pack resent of object. But, for the most part they leave us be. Everyone knows how close we are. And when necessary, we do partner or travel with whomever necessary. 

Last night Rex and I were coming home from a LRRP patrol. We were almost home when we saw a small, white dog wandering the sidewalk. She looked very forlorn. We stopped, picked her up. She had no tags. Damn, you people piss me off sometimes, like when you don't put tags on us. 

Rex was driving, so I changed, to be able to ask her were she lives. When she saw me change she turned to dog stone. Then, as a dog, I hopped in the backseat. I tried to talk to her. But she just starred at m. Then, with a twitch of a tiny whisker, she flipped. She went crazy, started bouncing off every inch of the back of the car, barking and yelling like a mad dog. She was saying, "You're weredogs! Oh my Dog! I've never met a weredog before! Oh my Dog!"

"Well. Now you have," I told her. 

To get her talking I asked her where she was going. She said she didn't know. She said she just got thru the gate and went with it. She feels the need to roam, to get outside the gate and run. So, when the gate is left open she goes. She has no idea where s going. She just goes. "Do you know what I mean?" she said. I said that all weredogs do.

She then started going even more ballistic. I was yelling, "Hey! Hey! Calm down! Chill!" when we got pulled over by a cop. 

"Shut her up," said Rex, easing it over onto the shoulder.

The cop said Rex had a break-light out. Rex said thanks. The cop said, "A little late to be taking the doggies out for a drive, ain't it?"

He let us go. Five minutes later we stopped in front of the little dog's house. "Do you guys smell that? Huh? Do you?" I put her in the backyard and closed the gate. It's not that cold. She'll be OK.

Back in the Mustang Rex said, "Do you smell it?" I said I did. Wolf. The cop. "How did we miss it when he was standing there?" said Rex.

"All her barking." He nodded. "But, poor excuse. So, what do you think?" 

I nodded. "Maybe. We'll keep an eye on her."

I'm outa here. Got lots of e-mails to catch-up on. In all night tonight. Others doing patrol. And I want to read about all today's games. There was some good basketball played today. I love March Madness. 

Chester

Flecka Is A Shit Eater

Fleck is a shit easter. She is not the only dog I have known who does this. But, most dogs don't. It is not all that common. As a result, Flecka has bad breath, even for a dog. To say she has bad breath is like saying werewolves have mild grooming issues. 

Flecka is only a friend, my best dog friend. She tells me everything. But, we are not romantically involved. There are several dogs and women in this area that I have been romantically and carnally entangled with. But, she is not one.

Jack likes to tell people to "Eat shit," or "Eat shit and die." He can be very creative with his language, especially with me and the boys. Sometimes it takes a lot for me not to laugh, even as a dog. Yes, dogs laugh. If that is news to you, then you are not paying attention.

But, Jack also eats shit. He eats a lot of shit at work. He gets it from his boss, from his company in general. He says no one can survive in his company, a large telecom corporation, without muchos eating of shit and brown nosing.

Brown nosing has very different meanings for humans and dogs. For humans it is a bad thing. For dogs it is merely a way of greeting friends, or new acquaintances. It saves having to ask the question, "So, what did you have for dinner last night?"  

Even in human form I do not understand this thing you humans have with shit. It's just shit. You eat food in, shit it out, bag it up, move on to the next meal.  What's the big deal?

My Family

Let me tell you about my family. Not my pack. I'll save that for another night. 

Jack and Sherry are the husband and wife. Sherry is 44 and a hotty, curly blond hair and a killer body. She walks like a dancer. Were I the wrong kind of dog I might be prone to humping her leg at times. Only problem with that plan is that Jack would kick my ass. Literally. She works as a nurse. She tells me I am handsome. She has good taste. 

Jack is 46, over six foot, and over two hundred pounds. He lifts weights, pounds a heavy bag. He carries kitchen knives like he is heading into a fight, along his forearm, concealed. He is a former Army Ranger. Knows what he is doing. He might even last half a minute with a werewolf. That's a long time for a human. He is also the kind of guy that goes out of his way to save baby bunnies. Long story.

Sven and Rick are their sons, my boys. They are both 12, almost 13, sixth grade. Both are tall. Sven is slender and fast. Rick is thick and powerful. Sven plays basketball. Rick plays football. Both are smart, Honor Roll.  But, they watch too much TV, cartoons, and play too much SPS. They should take me for more walks. It's hard to stay in shape to fight werewolves when your boys won't take you for walks but once or twice a week. I lay down each night in Rick's room. Flecka sleeps in Sven's room.

Braden is nineteen and in Iraq. I should be there with him. I worry about him. He is a tall, athletic and smart. But he is still a kid. I have no idea if he has a good squad leader or platoon sergeant. But, Jack taught him to shoot and hunt, and to track, to scan up and down, all around, not just down at the ground in front of your feet. They used to take me with them to watch Braden play baseball. He was a damn good shortstop. But, never basketball. No dogs in gyms. He is in the 82nd. At least there is that. The more elite a unit is the less casualties they tend to sustain. And who knows, maybe all those combat video games actually help him over there. Wish I was there to watch his back.

 

Flecka is my girlfriend. Well, not really. She is my buddy. I would do anything for her. She is a 10 year old black lab, about eighty pounds. She is not all together there, mentally, due to something that happened when she was a small pup. She has two bad wheels, he left front and right rear legs. She moves with a limp. So, she is a little slow. She has the biggest heart of any dog, human, or weredog I know. I would do anything for her. Woe to the werewolf that messes with my Flecka.

Bella is our alpha. Kinda. She is the oldest dog, at 12 years, and she is a little neurotic. She is a black lab mix, 45 pounds, white chest, high-strung. I let her be boss because it is just not worth it to do otherwise. And to be honest, I would rather face a pack of werewolves than face off with a pissed off Bella. She's crazy when she gets crazy, which is much of the time.

Hailey is the cat. Our cat. Wait. I know what you are thinking. That all cats are evil, spawns of satan. But, it's not like that with Hailey. Really. She is  small, back cat, about 15 pounds.  She and Bella struggle for dominance. She and I touch noses sometimes. I like her. She does not fear easily. 

I am tired. Up all night last night, searching for wolf scent, and no chance to nap today. I need to sleep. Flecka is looking very warm. I think I will change and snuggle up next to her.

Night Activities

Seemed like it took forever for everyone to go down for the night tonight. They are not late nighters, luckily for me. I need my nights. Some nights I am up al night. That makes for a tired dog. But, that is OK. Moat days I have much opportunity for sleep.

I change form at night, to man, so I can do those things only a human can do, things that require fingers, and English. I get on one of the computers, watch TV and DVDs, make calls. VoIP is a God-send or me, let me tell you. Sometimes I take the care out. And it is at night when we have our pack meetings. 

I never eat any food from the fridge. Rarely do I eat food from anywhere in the house. My humans would notice. They never notice an fifty extra miles on the odometer. But a missing yogurt cup and they are ready to call Area 51 and demand its return. They know exactly what is in the fridge at all times. I need to learn how to set back an odometer, and keep forgetting to look into that. 

I like all the CSI shows on TV, even though I am not exactly certain how many there are now. And there is never anything bad on Animal Planet. AP rocks. Don't laugh. Got to figure out how to orchestrate how to get Jack to take us to Africa. I dream of running across the Serengehtti. Literally. Really. I mean it. I dream about it several times a week. They are great, until Sven wakes e up from these dreams, which he does whenever he sees my legs twitching. Damn kid. I'd bite him if I didn't love him. 

Bella, the oldest (12) and smallest (40 lbs.) dog, just jumped up on the couch, ready to watch TV. She watches TV with me most nights while I check e-mail and investments. Flecka is on the floor, at my feet. I reach down and stroke her coat occasionally as I tickle the keys here on Jack's laptop. My nightly transformations still unsettle Bella. She always gives a little growl ad whine. But, after the first night she saw it, Flecka has ever given it any mind at all. 

Better end this. Got a message from Rex about a strange murder near here recently. A young woman was murdered and mutilated. Part of our duty is to look into all strange and especially brutal murders, to see if they are werewolf related. So, I will borrow the car tonight, go sniff around about this murder, see what scents I pick up.

This Blog Will Probably Mean My Death

But the truth compels me to do it. And, I need to be able to keep all my weredog friends up to date on my life, and a blog seems the best way. For now. I and all, well, most, of my memories are in agreement that if any people read this, then it is time for humans to know. We have waited centuries. It is likely we will wait more centuries, as many weredogs claim that people are quickly forgetting how to read.

Some clarity: My name is Chester. I am a weredog. Actually, that is a label designed for human benefit. The name we call ourselves, our kind, is something so alien to your vocal chords that you cannot hear or pronounce it. Believe me. I have tried it on a few of my humans. 

I live, for now, with a family in a suburb that is part of the greater metropolitan area of Kansas City. I have two boys (score), a woman, a man, two other dogs, and a cat. Yes. A cat. More on that later.

By day I am a yellow dog, a German Shepherd mix. By night, most nights, I change. Nights I take the form of a man. That is when I take care of my accounts, banks and investments, check on things, pay bills. Sometimes I take one of the cars out. I eat, but never from the fridge, or anything in the house. Why? Stayed tuned. 

Most nights I watch TV. I like all the CSI shows. Occasionally, my pack meets. I am part of a pack of weredogs. That's right. I am not the only one. And ours is not the only pack in the Kansas City. There are others. I don't even know how many there are. I am not sure anyone does. 

That's it for tonight. Things to do. If I am still alive tomorrow or the next day, maybe I will publish another blog post. There is a hell of a lot to tell, a couple hundred years worth, or a couple thousand, depending on your point of view.