Wolf

That year, snow had come but twice, and Wolf vacillated between hunt and hibernation. The warm season was weeks, if not months, away and it made more sense to dwell on things other than how cold he always seemed.

That morning, his mood continued in light hibernation some three hours later than was his custom, even after sleep had vanished. And the light of day, such as it was, finally penetrated his puffy wolfen-eyes, somewhere between dreams and the indeterminate wandering beneath overcast skies, searching for something.

Something he could not quite discern.

It was only when he leered or grinned, that the sharpness of canine teeth was evident, most often which were concealed in a smug and amusedly non-descript set of mouth and jawline that might imply good-naturedness when, inside, he remained pure wolf, beholden to no one.

He had a morning routine, a path, a habit that had served well all those years, but rarely considered alternative trails. If climate could change, so too might an old Wolf.

Wolf was a good one for learning new things: besides being a quick study, when he was emotionally motivated, another term for his obsessive addiction when certain conditions of moon and physiology were met. And he was adept at picking up, or forgetting, new skills even late is his career of being a Wolf.

Of all things early, especially on rising, Wolf craved solitude, a place and a time to ponder while a still-dreaming mind and instinct slowly came to in the dark predawn interegnum.

With muzzle facing the breeze, he could imagine Spring was somewhere to be found in its atmosphere and took in another chest-deep breath: the suspicion of green nubs here and there beneath the lichen-encrusted fence where he pawed a moment to pull back crumbled and beaten-down straw, gave small hope.

It was not hope that he needed just then: he could manage otherwise.

Nevertheless, it would not snow. It would not rain. The ice toppings of hay thawed, but slick earth of the meadows revealed more ice just beneath the mud. To outward appearances, the footing seemed safer than it was, especially on paths running uphill.

An old wolf is more careful where he places paws than the young one on the prowl.

Snow was absent in the same breeze he had hoped would bring spring.

The January thaw had passed as had the annual brief scent of winter-blooming honeysuckle, but without conviction: it should have been bitterly cold, but remained a tenuous, false Spring.

Wolf trotted back toward his lair, and imagined the conversation he might hold with his friend, Cat.

* * *

The Cat said, “Yes, I do ‘read’ you as you said, but it’s not what you think…”

“Not what I think?” replied Wolf. He wasn’t sure what he had implied that Cat was inferring.

The issue was whether a Cat could ever assume what a Wolf thought or might be thinking. Nevertheless, when she said things like that, it gave Wolf a moment of pause.

“You do realize,” Wolf replied, “That although we do share commonalities of outlook and behavior, we are different species…”

Cat began to see something she had not anticipated there.

It was unimportant to her, but for the sake of conversation she came up with something to say.

“Such as…?” Cat asked reflexively.

‘Well,” said Wolf tentatively. “We are both predators and a zoologist could examine the dental layout of both our jaws and conclude, these were both hunters, unfit to graze like herbivores or run in herds.”

Cat had not thought of it that way.

“Yes,” continued Wolf as if the grayness of his fur conveyed a certain wiliness that accrued to survivors. “By nature, herbivores run in crowds, the more eyes to see the approach of predators…”

Cat knew this but it was often not something she thought about.

“And predators, those of our ilk,” she prompted. “We won’t be owned, will we? Nor will we be restrained or made domestic like our canid relatives…”

“I don’t wag my tail or beg from anyone,” the Wolf affirmed. “But it is a hard life, one that keeps us lean…”

“And, herd differs from a pack,” Wolf ventured.

Cat pondered a moment and did not speak.

As a zoologically inclined apex predator, Wolf might have explained that while Cat and he were kindred, he was still a Wolf and she, a Cat. Wolves and Cats do not interbreed: there was no danger or prospect of that sort of hidden agenda.

Cats with Cats; Wolves with Wolves; and Swans with Swans, or so it went.

It was Cats’ nature to preen and keep themselves in perfect grooming. Wolves were always seeking advantage and had less inclination toward perfection of pelt and sleekness of posture.

“Perhaps,” Wolf finally spoke, “Lone Wolf is not so far from the truth…”

“Just as you say,” replied Cat.

“Are you ever lonely?” asked Cat.

“Solitary of habit,” he answered. “It is wolfish nature to wander far and wide to see what might be gained. Cats may stray now and then, but their nature is a warm berth near the fire…”

“It would be different if you were a Wolf,” he said softly.

“Or you, a Cat,” she added.

“Don’t worry,” Wolf said with a slight warming of reassurance. “Nothing will happen. It might have been years back before I knew I was a Wolf, but not now.”

Perhaps Cat never believed the obvious, that as a Wolf, there were limits to what he could do. They could sit, the rare times they had, and just watch the passing of days, the crowds passing with laughter neither envied.

She would always be Cat and he, Wolf. They would forever know the common bond among predators that drove them together, and the interspecific barriers that held them at bay. She would never become a Wolf, nor he a Cat, but that would never lessen his amusement at having Cat as friend, and fellow traveler.

Besides, she was easy to look at, and that fact inspired him almost as much as if she were a Wolf, or he a Cat…

* * *

© 2026 Pete Verdot
548 Market Street PMB 72296, San Francisco, CA 94104
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