Werewolf Tells All

I’m writing this to dispel the many ugly stereotypes about so-called werewolves. Mercenary hacks promote salacious rumors without regard for who gets their tail stepped on. Anyone desiring the truth, please read on.

I wish to clarify that what is popularly known as the werewolf actually exists. I prefer the French term Loups-Garous which has a lyrical sound to it, more in keeping with my sense of self.

Yes, we exist. And  no, this isn’t a shaggy dog story. The negative popular image from over-wrought novels and movies is exaggerated beyond any connection to reality.

Okay, I admit to what might be called excessive body hair. Is that a crime? My girlfriend, Lupe, faithfully takes me to the groomer every twenty-eight days. We sing the old favorite, ‘Wooly Bully’ en route.

Let me be clear. I am not prone to bouts of lycanthropy. I have no illusions of turning into an animal. Though I admit, some mornings when looking into the mirror, I wish it were so. Luckily I am not a shedder.

When she picks me up from the groomer, her favorite term for me is ‘cute’. You think those are the sentiments of a woman paralyzed with fear? Those shrieks you hear are joyful, not of terror. To be honest, she says I’m the ‘cutest doggie in the world’. And she usually sings it.

You may think I’m talking about those yeti. Not at all. Sasquatch is such a poser. I am the real deal. I have the pedigree.

So many school-boy memories are seared into my brain of some bully crying ‘wolf’. You all know what happened to that miscreant. I wish it could have ended differently.

I understand why the concept of a werewolf captures the popular imagination. It would explain so much. Blaming a minority is so convenient. But why must we take the blame for the lapses of the human race? 

The foundations of classic horror tales draw on the loss of identity and the search for love. Look at Frankenstein’s monster. How horrible to be human in every aspect yet rejected by those from whom you seek only to love. Oh, sorry. I guess I should have given you a spoiler alert.

Anyway, the doctor was the true monster. Humans can never leave well enough alone.

King Kong may be the perfect example. King of his domain, he was kidnapped into an alien world to become mocked in a carnival side show. And again, Kong died rejected by the very ones he sought to love and protect.

I cry every time I see that. People can be so cold.

And so, we have the werewolf. The hero struggles with a split in his personality. He must suppress his raging animal instincts while his higher aspirations slip away. These pot-boilers promote our bloodthirsty nature. They claim we are shape-shifting beasts who cannot control our lust for killing.

How would you like to be described that way?

But these scribblers with over-active imaginations get it backwards. The dog is the embodiment of the higher aspiration. Humans are the savages. Heaven protect anyone stuck in a pub rooting for the losing team on Super-bowl Sunday.

That brings me to my main point. We loups-garous are not wolves but dogs. Think of a large Shi-Tzu.

I may be easily distracted, but wolves have earned the reputation of being kind of predatory. Is Little Red Riding hood in the house?

Nothing against wolves though. Some of my best friends are wolves. But one thing Lupe will tell you is how loyal I am. At risk of getting mushy, I’ve lost count of the times I told her I would gladly be her team leader on the Iditarod.

(She only calls me ‘Wolfy’ because she knows it gets my hackles up. She loves petting them down again.)

Dogs are smarter than wolves too. I mean, how smart does one have to be to chase down prey? In the supportive company of a pack no less? But keeping a human happy takes some nuance. Being perky all the time can be so exhausting. Admit it. Humans can be so moody.

Arf!

That’s a joke. Oh never mind. You repeat that to a dog and he’d laugh is tail off. Try it. But you have to tell it right. Some humans have no timing.

Few people know dogs introduced humans to meditation. We didn’t exactly invent Zen. But pretty close. Dogs sit and stare into space for hours. Among ourselves, we call it ‘sleeping with our eyes open’. But it’s the same.

Lupe might like me best when I’m in my dog phase. It depends. Sometimes, when I get frisky we drive my car, the Silver Bullet, to the bark (I mean park) or to the beach. We play fetch (I mean catch). She has a terrible arm so I end up having to run all over to retrieve the damned ball or Frisbee. But boy is that fun.

We might stop later at my favorite hydrant to catch up on the latest gossip.

A further slander is the idea we run around at night devouring animals, people or corpses. Really? I’ve been known to eat my own poop on an off day, but corpses? Yechh!

Lupe always loves my aggressive consumption of her wonderful cooking. She’ll serve me and I prance to the table. What a treat! There is nothing quite like a plateful of her gourmet concoctions.

And no, I don’t wolf my food. I do sing its praises though. I talk to it, growl at it, wag my tail and howl. Eating is one of the greatest of pleasures.

Don’t get me wrong. I’m not some lap dog who merely eats, sleeps and demands to go out at all hours of the night.

I earn my keep. You may have read some of my work. I’m a syndicated writer appearing in several news outlets. Yes, I’m a journalist. You’ll find me doggedly sniffing out the latest scoop of the fashion poodles, social Salukis, or on the tail of high jinx at the dog track. I put time in covering the Afghan war too but I got too long in the tooth. My editor says, whatever the assignment, I’m his bull dog.

But I promise you, my bark is worse than my bite.