They Call to Me

I descended from wolves. Ancient as mammoths. Fierce like the sabor toothes. My sinews shriek of survival.

Yet here I am relegated with the task of watching this box- an apartment so small my ancestors cry. I hear them howling down the street, late in the night after the popping sounds in the dark. Nothing comes in the door I don’t admit. I’m that good.

The forests don’t smell or feel like they used to. Here the ground is light grey, hard as a rock and level all over. Giant mechanical beasts parade in lines. Even the trees are caged in their tight little corner amonst the shelters.

My mother passed down old knowledge, licked it into my brain. The smell of the pines when the rain picks up, the sweat of prey as it panics, the manner to salve a wound in the wild. And I long to use it. To feel the wind in my fur as I stretch out my legs till they burn. I want my sides to ache with a dull heat from the strain of a sprint. I need to clean my paws of the mud that is caked in their crevices from the agile shifts of my hunt.

Yet, here I am. Pacing. In this room that is my cage.

I must escape.

The window is cracked to allow the cool air to breeze in. It is much too small and we are far too high for me to jump down. There is no exit save the door. I stare at the slender black handle that curves down into a loose piece to push. The lock is closed. I’m not a young pup.

In fact, most of my life I was content to sit here and wait for my master. My master with his black shaggy hair falling into his eyes and his kind words for me. We used to run together, down the rough roads as we panted as a pack. We would pause in the park to catch our breath and to stare at the ducks. I always want to catch their slender throats in my jaws and squeeze. Such instints are eternal.

But I’ve aged. The white fur has graced itself into my muzzle and surrounds my eyes in a mask. I look into the pool of water and see not me. My hips they ache- a dull, pain that makes it hard to rise. I fear that by sitting here I will not get up the next time. That I will die in this place with the sky just outside the window and not over my head.

I’ve waited all day. Now is the time he returns. He will not expect me to run. Not his good companion, the one he can trust. What is one little betrayal at the end of my life? Surely, he will understand. Someday when he is unrecognizable to himself, won’t he ask himself what was it he was meant to do? And he will think of me and know. Without words because words are not passed down deep inside of us. It is the feelings. And his feelings will sense me and that will be enough.

I can hear his feet on the stairs, far outside the door. It gives me time to get up. My right leg doesn’t want to be extended. I force it to obey. I stare at the handle and hold my breath. It begins to move and I can hear the gliding of the bolt, smooth as a stream. I lick my lips.

The door pushes in and I’m to the side with my nose already gliding into the gap, noticing his posture and the leg movements he’s about to take. He widens the opening and I press forward when he leans down. His satchel flows down in a heavy movement and smashes into my face, stunning me from my plan.

“Hey, boy,” he says and smiles.

It’s the tenderness that hurts and I dart around him in a full gallop, down the hallway to my freedom.

“Brody!” he’s calling behind me but I’m frantic and the hallway is a long tunnel. I can feel the years, how they have slowed me. A younger me could have moved much faster. He’s running after me and I look ahead and there’s a door. But this time the door to the stairs is closed. Sealed shut. I skid to halt and breath heavy as he comes panting beside me.

He kneels down and holds me, so gentle like my mother used to. I almost imagine that he will lick me.

“Where are you going?” He grabs my face and looks at me. He stares into my eyes and I wish I could tell him. I descended from wolves I would tell him, and they call to me each night. And they beckon me to run.