I dream I’m a wolf sometimes, and when I wake up, I’m panting and my fur’s on alert and I’m feeling Yeah, the world could hurt me, but I could hurt the world right back even harder. Like there’s a dangerous, hard part of me chained inside, struggling to go free and just, I dunno, get even.

Then I go see what’s for breakfast.

kimu

There’s a gray wolf at the park who makes me a little jittery.

Jittery, as in I sometimes worry he might like to eat me.

His name is Kimu, and we struck up a conversation when a mutual acquaintance of ours, a mockingbird called Mitch, introduced us one day.

Like Nutwit, Mitch likes to taunt me because I’m domesticated. Gives me a lot of grief about how free he is, soaring stringless over the whole town.

“I’m not the only one who’s pampered,” I said one day. “I mean, look at Kimu. He’s not exactly running wild.”

As soon as the words were out of my mouth, I regretted them. And when I looked at Kimu’s I could kill you with one quick bite expression, I really regretted them.

“In any case,” I said, moving the subject along, “I’ve lived wild. It ain’t a picnic for a dog.”

“What was it like?” Kimu asked. He moved closer to the edge of his domain. He had a strange odor, intense and scary and a little bit intoxicating.

“Well, I was just a pup,” I said. “Abandoned by the side of the highway.”

Kimu was listening intently. “Must have been tough.”

“All I could think of was food, water.” I didn’t like the catch in my voice. “Owl got me.”

“Those guys are fierce,” Kimu said. “Can’t hear them coming.”

“I know, right?” I relaxed a little.

“I hate owls,” said Mitch. “Hate them with a passion. They eat birds, you know.”

“So do wolves,” said Kimu, giving Mitch a meaningful look.

“So you were . . . wild once?” I asked Kimu.

“Never. Born and raised in captivity. Suzu, over there? She was. She’s told us stories that would curl your fur.”

“Honestly, it’s nice to have a roof over my head. It’s tough out there, man. Really tough.”

“I suppose,” said Kimu.

I looked at him and, for the first time, wondered if I really did have any wolf in me. He was a majestic animal, with teeth that could shred a tree trunk.

I am also majestic. But more portable. With teeth that could mangle a pencil with enough time and effort.

“Hey, Bob,” Mitch said, “do dogs howl the way wolves do?”

“Of course we do.”

“So let’s hear something. A duet maybe.” He fluttered his wings, revealing startling patches of white. “Do you know ‘Talk to the Animals’? They play that on the carousel.”