On Werewolves

While talking on the phone with my dad last night I heard a funny kind of howl. It was like the coyote song I've been enjoying every night since I moved to The Farm, but this time it was different - closer and more pained. One would call from deep within the woods and another would answer from just outside the old observatory 60 feet from my bedroom window. I walked outside, squinting into the darkness and wondering how close I could get without-

And it howled again, an agonized plea to a full moon too busy pushing a ring of clouds out of its wake to notice. I imagined the shallow pet cemetery in front of the observatory that had been dug up just a few nights previous, revealing the mangled carcass of a long-dead golden retriever. The new caretakers picked up the pieces and reburied what they could, but maybe, maybe those gasping, yelping howls were from that poor old dog just trying to claw its way back to the surface.

What about werewolves? I thought, staring up at the full moon. A werewolf would make the most sense...

And then I realized I hadn't slept in quite some time. So, I backtracked to my porch, found my bed and curled up in a nest of thick sheets. Soon I was elsewhere making my way through world after dreamy world as a great dark wolf with matted hair and yellowed eyes. And everywhere I went, I pleaded in whimpered yelps with the peasants I met along the way that I was not in fact the monster they saw before them but just an old retriever looking for a warm place to sleep.

When I awoke this morning, I remembered I hadn't written anything in quite some time and that it's good to let the crazy out every now and then if only to keep from bursting.

Sleep Tight.