Some people know better, though. Some people look at you, and frown a little, and say, “Looks like a wolf to me. Is she part wolf?”
“Could be,” Jonathan always says with a shrug, his tone as breezy as ever. And he spins a little story about how his sister adopted you from the pound because you were the runt of the litter and no one else wanted you, and now look at you! No one would ever take you for a runt now! And the strangers smile and look encouraged and pat you on the head, because they like stories about dogs being rescued from the pound.
You sit and down and stay during these conversations; you do whatever Jonathan says. You wag your tail and cock your head and act charming. You let people scratch you behind the ears. You’re a good dog. The other dogs in the park, who know more about their own species than most people do, aren’t fooled by any of this; you make them nervous, and they tend to avoid you, or to act supremely submissive if avoidance isn’t possible. They grovel on their bellies, on their backs; they crawl away backwards, whining.
Jonathan loves this. Jonathan loves it that you’re the alpha with the other dogs—and, of course, he loves it that he’s your alpha. Because that’s another thing people don’t understand about your condition: they think you’re vicious, a ravening beast, a fanged monster from hell. In fact, you’re no more bloodthirsty than any dog not trained to mayhem. You haven’t been trained to mayhem: you’ve been trained to chase balls. You’re a pack animal, an animal who craves hierarchy, and you, Jessie, are a one-man dog. Your man’s Jonathan. You adore him. You’d do anything for him, even let strangers who wouldn’t know a wolf from a wolfhound scratch you behind the ears.
The only fight you and Jonathan have, that first year in the States, is about the collar. Jonathan insists that Jessie wear a collar. “Otherwise,” he says, “I could be fined.” There are policemen in the park. Jessie needs a collar and an ID tag and rabies shots.
“Jessie,” you say on two feet, “needs no such thing.” You, Stella, are bristling as you say this, even though you don’t have fur at the moment. “Jonathan,” you tell him, “ID tags are for dogs who wander. Jessie will never leave your side, unless you throw a ball for her. And I’m not going to get rabies. All I eat is Alpo, not dead raccoons: How am I going to get rabies?”
“It’s the law,” he says gently. “It’s not worth the risk, Stella.”
And then he comes and rubs your head and shoulders that way, the way you’ve never been able to resist, and soon the two of you are in bed having a lovely sportfuck, and somehow by the end of the evening, Jonathan’s won. Well, of course he has: he’s the alpha.
So the next time you’re on four feet, Jonathan puts a strong chain choke collar and an ID tag around your neck, and then you go to the vet and get your shots. You don’t like the vet’s office much, because it smells of too much fear and pain, but the people there pat you and give you milk bones and tell you how beautiful you are, and the vet’s hands are gentle and kind.
The vet likes dogs. She also knows wolves from wolfhounds. She looks at you, hard, and then looks at Jonathan. “A gray wolf?” she asks.
“I don’t know,” says Jonathan. “She could be a hybrid.”
“She doesn’t look like a hybrid to me.” So Jonathan launches into his breezy story about how you were the runt of the litter at the pound: you wag your tail and lick the vet’s hand and act utterly adoring.
The vet’s not having any of it. She strokes your head; her hands are kind, but she smells disgusted. “Mr. Argent, gray wolves are endangered.”
“At least one of her parents was a dog,” Jonathan says. He’s starting to sweat.
“Now, she doesn’t look endangered, does she?”
“There are laws about keeping exotics as pets,” the vet says. She’s still stroking your head; you’re still wagging your tail, but now you start to whine, because the vet smells angry and Jonathan smells afraid. “Especially endangered exotics.”
“She’s a dog,” Jonathan says.
“If she’s a dog,” the vet says, “may I ask why you haven’t had her spayed?”
Jonathan splutters. “Excuse me?”
“You got her from the pound. Do you know how animals wind up at the pound, Mr. Argent? They land there because people breed them and then don’t want to take care of all those puppies or kittens. They land there—”
“We’re here for a rabies shot,” Jonathan says. “Can we get our rabies shot, please?”
“Mr. Argent, there are regulations about breeding endangered species—”
“I understand that,” Jonathan says. “There are also regulations about rabies shots. If you don’t give my dog her rabies shot—”
The vet shakes her head, but she gives you the rabies shot, and then Jonathan gets you out of there, fast. “Bitch,” he says on the way home. He’s shaking. “Animal-rights fascist bitch! Who the hell does she think she is?”
She thinks she’s a vet. She thinks she’s somebody who’s supposed to take care of animals. You can’t say any of this, because you’re on four legs. You lie in the back seat of the car, on the special sheepskin cover Jonathan bought to protect the upholstery from your fur, and whine. You’re scared. You liked the vet, but you’re afraid of what she might do. She doesn’t understand your condition; how cou
ld she?
The following week, after you’re fully changed back, there’s a knock at the door while Jonathan’s at work. You put down your copy of Elle and pad, barefooted, over to the door. You open it to find a woman in uniform; a white truck with “Animal Control” written on it is parked in the driveway.
“Good morning,” the officer says. “We’ve received a report that there may be an exotic animal on this property. May I come in, please?”
“Of course,” you tell her. You let her in. You offer her coffee, which she doesn’t want, and you tell her that there aren’t any exotic animals here. You invite her to look around and see for herself.
Of course there’s no sign of a dog, but she’s not satisfied. “According to our records, Jonathan Argent of this address had a dog vaccinated last Saturday.