Back in the Groove

Just got home. Started tonight at a pack meeting. Went to a bar afterward. Wound up scouting some areas for neos and werewolves. 

Patrolling and scouting is fun when inebriated. I don't recommend it. I am home now and cannot shift to dog until I drink enough water. Dog physiology does not do well with alcohol. Blessing and a curse.

I have not seen Jack or Shelly smile or give off good vibes or happy scent since the day I got back. They are more miserable than when I left. Not sure what I expected. Jack is still unemployed. Sherry still hates her job, hates getting up in the morning. They talk only when exchanging I-hate-you's. 

There are still werewolves of the old school around, hungry for human blood, wanting to settle some score with us weredogs.

I was told at the meeting tonight that I need to go to the lab where the neo bodies we took at the puppy mill were taken. Maybe next week. Warin will go with me.

Warin told me that he has to tell me something. I told him if he needs to come out of some closet, tell me he is gay, I don't really give a shit. "We all lick our own balls," I said. He said that's not it. 

Earlier this week I followed both Jack and Sherry out. I did not talk with them. Just followed them. Watched. Listened. Sniffed. Ate and drank some. Just a bit. 

Last weekend all of us, minus cats, went to the ranch. Jack's family has a ranch down near Beaumont, Kansas. It used to be his grandad's. They got some horses there, lease the fields and pastures out to nearby ranchers. We all slept in a 10-man tent. Except for me. I always sleep outside. I hate tents, and like to stay out in the open where I can see and smell the area without any nylon obstruction. 

3 coyotes approached the camp. They didn't see or smell me until 1 nearly stepped on me. they were headed for the cooler and the bacon and eggs inside, for breakfast. Jack always makes bacon and eggs, over an open fire, for breakfast at the ranch. I stood - was over a foot taller than all of them, and had the largest outweighed by 40 lbs. 2 of them bolted. 1 stood his ground.

I was amazed, and said, "You're not afraid?"

"You're a weredog," she said.

"A female?"

"Yes."

"What do you know of weredogs?" I said.

"Just what the werewolves told me."

She said there were 3 werewolves living on a nearby ranch. I asked her to take me there. 

More on that later. I got to get some sleep. Right after I try some of Jack's new whiskey. 

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.

Origins of Werewolves

This Wordpress blog does a nice job of summarizing common werewolf lore and sensationalized werewolf myth:  http://chasness.wordpress.com/2008/10/07/whered-he-come-from-the-wolf-man/

But the truth is much more Darwinian.  It involves fact and logic.  And our genesis, that of weredogs, is lashed to that of werewolves like the mast to the sail.  

Werewolves say they don't like the attention. But, that is not true. They thrive on it.  Fear is their beer.  They drink of it to get drunk.  They do not need to kill to survive.  Any werewolf could pull into any Gates Bar-B-Q (as do both werewolves and weredogs, often) to eat and live.  (Of course, that Gates would have to close up for the day at that point.  They'd be out of meat.)  They kill for the pleasure, to see their victims eyes, to hear their screams and pleas, just before and as they are killing them.

Our mutual history has to do with an animal now referred to as "Aelurodon," which scientists think has been extinct for thousands of years.  Think again.

Just watched one of my favorite movies, A Boy And His Dog.  Not exactly a feel good movie.  But, a classic.  

Wait.  Someone is moving around upstairs.  Damn.  I have to shift, change back to dog form.  That is fine.  I sleep better as a dog.  Human physiology is not meant for sleep, not really.  But, I have so much e-mail to catch-up on, investments to make decisions about, irish setters to visit.  

Warin left a voicemail for me saying we need to talk.  Not tonight.  Have to be tomorrow, or Saturday.  

I drank 2 of Jack's beers. Hope he doesn't notice.  

Fresh meat.

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. 

Missing Little Girl

No post in a week. I have been to busy. My pack is still busy patrolling for wolves. Things are bad at home. I have been going out night tracking Sherry and Jack, seeing what, if any, trouble they are seeking. 

A new emergency arose recently. Five days ago an emergency pack meeting was called. We assembled late at a local bar. Most of the lights stayed off. The last dog arrived at about 0240. Rex was not happy. A couple of newer members messing around at the soda guns did not make him happier.

Taffy told us that a little girl was missing. Taffy said it was a girl who lived on her street. The girl's mother put her to bed and the next morning she was gone. Pandemonium had broken out. Parents are going beserk. The cops  are pulling out all the stops. "I read about this," said Buck.

Taffy said that she got into the house, with her woman, in dog form. "I smelled wolf scent," she said. "It was faint. But it was there."

It was quickly decided that we look into the missing girl. And not just because the possibility of wolf involvement. Weredogs are not allowed much interference in human affairs, in the crimes of man. The exception is children. When children go missing, or are subjected to violence in any form, weredogs are not restricted. Muzzles are off. We are free to do whatever we must. 

Special teams were assigned to focus on the missing girl. Rex and I were chosen to head-up teams. We will support the wolf patrols as need be.

No wolf signs have been detected lately. No suspicious attacks reported in newspapers. I have not caught Jack or Sherry doing deeds to be regretted. At least not anything that makes my olfactory bells go off.

I will post more often. There is much to tell.

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.