The Lycanthrope Society

The Lycanthrope Society

I thought I wanted to be a pediatrician until a rabid wolf scratched my dog. Brownie was a curious, loving pup. He was a mixture of Shepherd and gold in color, like a Lab, with a big head like a whiskey barrel-carrying Saint Bernard. The attack nearly killed my best friend here at work. I’ve followed him throughout every stage of maturation. Four thousand dollars for two surgeries and countless days, nights, and hours of worrying made me curious about why animals do the things they do for years. I studied the habits of wolves because the vet determined that a wolf had infected him. Further studies revealed that the domesticated dogs we cherish as family members are direct descendants of the wolf.

After the wolf tormented us last year, I missed too many days to continue in the pre-med program. Luckily, all those days were spent with Brownie, the other dogs at the Fair Treatment Den-Center City shelter, and his vet, Dr. Robin D. Click. She understood my predicament and offered a solution: to become my preceptor, count the time as an internship, and sponsor me for a veterinary scholarship. Dr. Click said she could see how much I loved animals during the time I volunteered when I was in high school and “I should not be penalized for a technical issue, like a day too many absences.” High school was a decade ago, and I still work with dogs in training to become service dogs. That is how Brownie and I met. He was the runt of a litter, went through our obedience course, was paired with a unit, and survived combat twice, but his handler retired after getting injured stateside. Trained to be in the Army, retraining as a civilian guide dog wasn’t an option. He loved his handler, but his injuries made him aware of the brutal truth about never working again. Although people tried to reassure him that Brownie would be a great help to get back on his feet, he gave up on life and killed himself the day he was released from the hospital. Brownie was in the room when he shot himself, and that caused PTSD symptoms. Now, a car backfiring makes him cringe.

Brownie is too old to be retrained, rehomed, or kept alive according to the rules, but we have had him from day one. He was born in kennel 13, the 13^th puppy born to Sparkle on my birthday ten years ago. We run a no-kill shelter here, and when possible, we ask for our placed dogs to be returned instead of destroyed. I am glad because he’s a gentle giant. He has a helpful demeanor and a strong bond with and loves letting the puppies climb up on his back. I often find myself in the middle of a dozen puppies, and their “Uncle B” rounds them up for their weekly worm medicine, and I have never given a double dose to anyone under Brownie’s watch.

For over a year, I have noticed a change in Brownie’s actions near dark on cloudy days. I thought it was a fear of thunder or lightning. I would put his comfort vest on him before going home at eight. Most mornings after, I would find the vest near his favorite sleeping spot; he is the only dog not crated at night, maybe because of his services in the Army or his Houdini-like escapism. Brownie has learned to let himself out of every crate or locked room we use as holding spaces as though he has working thumbs.

I would lose my head if it weren’t affixed to my shoulders. Like I often had to do, I stopped by the job around 10, looking for my phone. There was a full moon, and every dog was howling, or so I thought. Listening to the howling, I nicked my ankle on something sharp; I groped for the light switch. Oh, shit… Dr. C, you scared me! Is everything okay? I bent to rub my leg and saw a gash and fresh blood. I went to the restroom, cleaned the cut, and washed my hands. As I left, I grabbed my phone and shouted goodbye to Dr. C but didn’t wait for an answer.

The next day, I tried to figure out what I had cut my ankle on but saw nothing out of place. Dr. C was already in the kennel area when I opened the gate. She said that she had been spreading a bale of hay in the new puppy pen and left the pitchfork lying on the ground to go to the bathroom yesterday, not expecting anyone. I scared her, as much as I was frightened too. The Fair Treatment Den-Center City shelter staff are “lifers as close as family.” Dr. Click took over when her father retired; he had been the only vet within a 75-mile radius for 40 years, and the rest of us are kin to someone his family employed or a referral by a family friend. Everyone is so close that we go out to celebrate every birthday, hang out on Friday nights, and attend the same church. When something happens to one of us, we all want to know how we are doing.

Three days after the cut, it looked puffy and itched constantly. I noticed the puppies wanted to lick my ankle whenever I got near them. Dr. C has been acting strangely, too. Although friendly, she’s usually not chatty or inclusive. The staff’s favorite bar is the Lycanthrope Society. It wasn’t until I researched wolf activity that I realized everything in this town is named for wolves. I live on Lobo Lane, which intersects with Wolf Street. They worship the werewolf; the mascot of every school from kindergarten to high school is some stage of wolf, werewolf, or wolfman.

It was the day of reckoning, my ninety-day evaluation. The board visitors, as they are referred to, assembled in the conference room and summoned me. They had a display and a projector with a movie ready for viewing. Thinking the worst, I anticipated my faults being pointed out and fired. Instead, it was a movie about werewolves. It was not the usual transformation, attacking, and waking up in a strange place story, but what they explained was the truth, a condition called Porphryia.

Full moons, everyone knows what is going to happen. Neighbors, neighborhoods bey at the moon. Raw liver is the dinner of choice. I was the only one not inducted into their way of life until three days ago. So far, I look like I haven’t shaved in a few years. Dr. C and Kelly, the receptionist, drew the short straw; they had to babysit me the whole night to ensure I didn’t commit murder. They can’t risk yesteryear clichés. This order of Lycanthrope has existed in this town for more than 300 years since Dr. Robyn Click III developed the serum that treats violent tendencies. Disguised as a flu shot two months after the attack, I was given the serum.