Daddy’s Little Occult Supernatural Monster
Inhaling cold air feels different when inhaled horizontally, from the crouching position.
I spend a lot of time in the crouching position. Usually waiting, but often watching while waiting. Also sniffing. Sometimes I even reach forward and scratch behind my right ear.
Mostly just waiting, though.
A crow is mouthing off to another crow not far from here. I sink further into the grass, until soon I’m flat as a pancake. I pad the ground with my front feet so the muscles in my shoulders do that really sexy rippling thing.
I sigh. I’m no big cat. No lion or leopard or—gasp!—tiger. Tigers get all the sexy of the large predators.
Then comes the twang of a spring, followed by a snap and a squeal. The crows get all tangled up in themselves and evacuate, cawing something that is probably obscene.
A rabbit hangs by one foot in the iridescent silhouette of the moon, its struggling, furry body outlined in white gold. Rearing up on my back haunches I seize the rabbit, and unintentionally spear the poor beast with five sharp, black claws.
Part of me hears a song when the rabbit cries out, and the other part withers miserably.
“Get it over with,” I tell myself. My voice cracks under pathetic canine vocal chords and emerges little more than a terse growl.
I tear the rabbit free from my rope snare. Then I puncture the neck with two practiced claws.
Eating is messy business. Now, get me any other morning of the week and I’ll gladly sop up wet egg yolk with Daddy’s biscuits, or devour more than my fair share of hash browns fried in bacon grease.
But not rabbit. A few months back my Auntie Fern made some sort of rabbit stew out of something her husband and boy shot hunting elk. Thanks to my extracurricular experiences with raw rabbit, I couldn’t stomach even the smell of it cooking.
Auntie Fern’s never thought I was particularly bright anyway. Which, by all accounts, is probably how I got into this mess in the first place.
Not this eating-raw-rabbits mess, I mean, but the whole werewolf mess. Everything that is currently wrong with my life (besides Otto Miller, that oblivious dorkbag) boils down to one stupid, stupid thing I did.
And now I’ll pay for it forever.
I excise my claws of blood with one spatula-sized tongue and turn it to my blood-slicked fur. Through this necessary but evil ritual I have obtained a deep understanding of hairballs, and my parents’ cat and I are on much better terms now.
When the smell of death no longer pervades my skin but is simply a stench lingering in the air, I clean up my rope snare and call it a night.