by L. E. Horn
As dairy farmers, I doubted they had much time to sit, in the evenings or otherwise. Barb and Todd Thorston had bought the operation a few years ago and had thrown themselves into it with gusto. They were still in the process of improving the farm with new paddocks and pastures. Our clinic conducted artificial inseminations, pregnancy checks, and helped with calving or health problems that might arise.
Personally, I thought it would have been wiser to buy a few goats to eat the undergrowth, or maybe use a couple of cows. But while the cows were the bread and butter of the farm, Buster’s only value was that he was much loved by Barb, and Todd no doubt viewed the horse as a bit of a freeloader.
Buster usually lived on a large, lush pasture with the cows, not a bad life for a retired show horse, although I didn’t know if horses and cows spoke the same language. We approached his temporary new home—a woodlot where most of the trees were huge old maples, with a profusion of bush at their base. Todd had placed a single strand of electric wire on portable posts around the bush to keep the horse confined to his task.
Todd’s expectations that the horse prove himself useful and behave like a goat had landed Buster in a mudhole of trouble. The old guy’s front end was tied to the bucket of their tractor, but his back half was buried in a pit of awful, sucking mud.
I instantly realized what had happened. These established farms often had multiple home sites, with ancient cellars that disappeared beneath layers of dirt and vegetation. New to this land, neither Todd nor Barb had known about the abandoned site buried in the bush, the walls long since vanished. The floor covered a concrete cellar that never drained, filling over time with thick mud. Poor Buster had stepped on the rotten floor and broken through. The recent storm only added to the problem, turning everything into a slippery mess.
Buster’s ears and head drooped with exhaustion. They’d managed to pull his front end free, but his sunken hindquarters were surrounded by the broken floorboards. I hoped he hadn’t been impaled. Everywhere were signs of the struggle to extricate him: there were planks to give his rescuers solid footing, two tow ropes were fastened to his barrel behind his front legs, and another rope trailed into the mud near his hind end.
Barb kneeled at the horse’s head, her body bent around him in a posture of protection and grief I had witnessed all too often. She glanced up as I approached. Her face was streaked with mud and tears, and my heart hurt for her. “We’ve been trying to get him out for hours.” She gulped. “We can’t do it. I think he’s suffered enough.”
So they’d called me to put him out of his misery. No longer tasked with not causing damage, the tractor could just haul the body out.
I crouched beside the old horse’s head and petted him, then took his pulse. The large dark eye rolled toward me. My hand stilled on the mud-streaked neck, and our gazes met. Exhausted he may be, but I detected a subtle gleam—the desire to live, to try.
I stood back to study the situation. The big trees meant they couldn’t position the tractor to achieve adequate leverage. The powerful machine could only manage a straight pull, which kept shoving Buster’s hind legs up against the cellar wall where it blocked progress. Every yank threatened to further injure the horse.
I walked around to his back end. His hindquarters needed to be lifted while the tractor pulled. A second tractor could have done it, but there was no way to get another through the stand of dense trunks. I looked up. The trees were old, with big, heavy branches overhead. Manitoba maple wood tended to be soft and inclined to break. But one tree, right over the horse, was an ancient oak.
“Do you mind if we try again?”
Barb’s face lit with hope, but Todd frowned.
“He’s suffered enough,” he said. “We’ve been trying for hours.”
They were both as tired as the horse and coated in cold wet mud, so I didn’t really have the right to insist. But Barb raised her chin. “I think we should try a little longer.”
Todd sighed, but when she shot him a look, he relented and nodded.
“Barb, stay at his head and talk to him,” I said. “Todd, can we get that rope up over that oak branch?”
He surveyed the tree with doubt. “Even if we could, how are we going to lift him?”
“He may not need much lifting. I may be enough.”
His eyebrows did a skeptical little dance, but he glanced at his wife, and his expression softened. He nodded and went to unfasten the rope from the tractor.
The line needed to be threaded in front of the horse’s hind legs, enabling me to put upward pressure on him while they pulled. They had set planks over the mud in their earlier efforts to get a rope behind his butt. Judging by how high the goo sat on the horse, it had to be four feet deep. Buster moved his head to watch me as I eased my way onto the planks, slippery with muck and inclined to dip and sway.
Bracing myself on the broad, shivering rump, I kneeled on the plank and searched for the rope that disappeared behind him. A good yank, and it snaked free from under his encrusted tail. With my chest leaning on Buster, I slid the end down the hind leg and into the muck. I pushed it beneath his belly before mincing my way on the planks around to the other side. Even with my face resting against his barrel just above the quagmire, I couldn’t quite reach under him, to where the rope waited.
Dammit. This has to work. I closed my eyes and concentrated, visualizing my fingers stretching to their utmost and adding claws to the mix for extra length. Long, long claws, to hook into the rope and pull it through.
A tremor ran through Buster, and he snorted as he sensed the wulf. I figured that any adrenaline at this point would be a good thing. My claws touched rope and by wiggling, I pulled it up in front of his hindquarters. The big muscles tightened beneath me.
“Talk to him, Barb. He wants to try, but he has to wait.”
She murmured to the horse, and after many years of trusting her, of knowing she always found a way through, he listened. The muscles didn’t relax, but they didn’t push, either.
Before I pulled the rope, I had to get my fingers back to normal, important if I didn’t want to scare the crap out of everyone. No, really, my hand has always had three-inch claws. By the time I tossed the rope to Todd, I was vet Liam, not wulf Liam.
I extricated myself carefully from the pit and pushed through scrub to join Todd under the trees. A few tosses and yanks later, we positioned the line over the big branch, a little ahead of Buster’s butt. Buster weighed about twelve hundred pounds, and at least half of that would be a dead lift, out of sucking mud. Not to mention the branch had to do its bit—and without a pulley, I would be yanking the rope over rough bark. Todd looked at me as I took up the slack, his expression riddled with doubt. I had to admit, it didn’t look promising.
But he couldn’t know I had extra help. I shoved my way through bushes until I positioned myself behind and to one side of the cellar, where the ground was higher, out of the mud.
“Go slow,” I said to Todd. To Barb, I added, “Back away, but keep your focus on him. Stay on the side opposite me, so he keeps straight if his hindquarter swings my way. He might thrash and accidentally nail you, and we don’t want his front end back in the mud. Use a light pressure on the lead rope to keep him straight, focus on his head, and keep talking.” She complied with renewed hope in her expression, her eyes fixed on the horse as she stepped to his other side, away from me.
Todd headed to his tractor. The bush beneath the big trees would disguise what I was about to do. I reached within myself and closed my eyes. Growing the claws had been easy, but I was about to try something much more difficult. Chris had warned me about the dangers—wulfleng that messed with partial modifications risked losing themselves, not able to return to human or go onward to wulf. But Buster needed me, and I couldn’t exactly do a full change to help him with the strength of my wulfy alter ego. And be damned if I would give up without trying. So I called upon my anger and visualized the muscles and tendons of my arms thickening and strengthening. Those of m
y wrists and fingers writhed beneath the skin, but Barb and Todd were too preoccupied to notice. My pectoral and shoulder muscles expanded, stretching the coveralls tight, my abdominals and laterals bulged, linking to my pelvis. I concentrated, altering the soft tissues down my thighs, knees, calves, and feet. Beneath my clothes, I sensed strength flow from my fingers and arms, through the core to my toes, forming a continuous line of reinforced muscle, bone, and sinew.
The tractor throttled up and moved.
I snarled at Buster, the sound disguised by the tractor’s roar, but the horse responded to the presence of a predator and surged forward with trembling muscles in one last, great effort, the forelegs scrabbling for purchase on the slippery ground as the ropes around his front end tightened.
Bracing myself, I heaved for all I was worth. I sensed the tremendous weight of him through the rope and dug my heels deep. My entire body took the strain, and I opened the floodgates on my anger, feeling my teeth break through my gums with a gush of fresh blood.
Something gave—for a moment, I thought it was the rope—but with a horrible sucking sound, Buster’s hindquarters lifted from the mud, and the tractor lurched ahead, pulling the old horse forward and out of the pit. I let the line go and dropped to a crouch, fighting the wulf, forcing it back before anyone saw the beast.
Todd backed the tractor to put slack in the ropes and jumped down, turning to me as I straightened. “God, Liam, that was amazing. Are you okay? You have blood on your lips.”
I wiped it away and smiled. “I’m fine. Bit my tongue.”
Buster lay on his side, but when I stepped close, his large nostrils flared wide. He snorted and with a wild scramble of his old legs, he stood. Barb, her tears flowing, stroked his face, no doubt believing he trembled with exhaustion, but I recognized his fear. He danced away as I ran my hands over him. Bruised and covered in small cuts, but he would live.
I shook as I walked to the SUV to get a bottle of antiseptic wash. I patted Keen, who sniffed me and sneezed. I scrubbed my hands and arms, patted the antiseptic on my face, and even sprinkled some on my coveralls, before I grabbed supplies and went to tend to Buster. The horse snorted at me, but he no longer smelled wulf through all the antiseptic, so he let me wash the wounds and treat them. For what he’d been through, he was in good shape. I finished by administering an anti-inflammatory and antibiotics. The immersion in the rank, stagnant mud would require them to hose the cuts daily.
“Truth be told,” Todd said, shaking his head in amazement, “I didn’t think that would work.”
“We got lucky,” I said.
He walked me to my SUV, where Keen hung out the open window, her tongue lolling. Todd looked at her and back to me. “Do you want another dog?”
I smiled. “One’s enough, thank you. Why?”
He shook his head. “Barb picked one up off the highway. He’s just a pup but has no sense around the cows. He’s going to get himself killed, and I don’t have the time to put into him, to be honest. If you know of a good home for him, I’d be grateful.”
Todd didn’t realize he had me at “picked him up off the highway.” I also knew far too well what happened to dogs on farms if they weren’t well behaved around the livestock. Working farm dogs were difficult to find. Some breeds that had once filled that niche had become too specialized by sports such as agility and fly ball. The high drive necessary to compete became a liability when a canine needed to accompany its owner during the daily chores and help only when asked. Most livestock farmers searched for herding-breed crosses because with minimal training, the animals relied on ingrained instinct and brains to figure out how to be useful and stay safe.
Todd led me to the back of the house where I was confronted by an enormous dog bouncing four feet in the air on the end of a chain. I admired the huge paws dangling from bones at least twice the diameter of Keen’s, his massive head with a big nose and small pendulous ears, and his long neck and body—some kind of hound in it, something giant, like wolfhound or Dane. I petted the speckled hide pressed to my thigh and agreed with Todd—not the likeliest of farm materials.
“He’s already big,” Todd drawled. “Kids are afraid of him, although he hasn’t a mean bone in him. Just too damned large for them.”
I estimated the dog to be only six months old, despite the fact he had inches on Keen’s height. He’d run well with wolves, I thought, right before I realized I was taking him home.
Keen was unimpressed with the arrangement as I attempted to tie the ginormous, wiggling animal down in the back seat. She finally barked at him, and he stopped leaping to wag his tail at her, the two-foot length slapping between the bench and the backside of the front seat. I appreciated her effort. I didn’t have the energy to pull out the wulf again and wished to avoid the puddle on the cushions that would result if I did.
In fact, my entire body ached as though it had been pulled apart at the joints—which it almost had—and I could barely keep my eyes open. Covered in mud and reeking of antiseptic, the hair I’d shed while reverting to human prickled within my coveralls, driving me to distraction.
I checked my watch and called the clinic to book off the rest of the day, then disconnected with relief and hit another button on the phone. A smooth, quiet voice picked up.
“Josh? You sound tired.”
“Was asleep. Must not have slept well last night.”
Considering what had happened with Peter, no surprise there. “Hey, at least you got sleep. I’m running on empty. Anyway, you up for company in about an hour?”
“That’ll give me time to get dressed.” He sounded more alert. “What’s up?”
“I have a present for you.”
“Will I like it?” Suspicion carried over the airwaves.
“I think so. If not, no biggie, I’ll cope.” I winced as the puppy, still in the backseat, whipped his tail between the front seats and clobbered me across the face—an impressive feat.
“Chris is coming home.” I heard the grin in Josh’s voice.
“Yeah, I know. The present is for him too.”
“Okay. Now I’m really worried.” His voice had switched to cheerful but resigned. “I’ll see you soon.”
I dug into my glove compartment for my emergency stash—I often ended up missing lunch or dinner when out on calls. I found three granola bars, grabbed one, wolfed it down, and reached for the other two. Peeling the wrapper with my teeth, I glanced back to the whimpering puppy. He strained against his ties and licked his lips. Mine peeled back and I growled.
The pup lowered his head and backed as far away as possible. Beside me, Keen eyed me uncertainly. What the hell was that?
“Sorry, guys. Never come between a wulf and his granola.” I looked again at my watch. First, home for a shower and to pick up Peter. Then to Josh and Chris’s place, with giant puppy in tow. If I took Peter with me, we’d run tonight on the provincial land behind their property.
I only hoped it would go better this time.
* * *
By the time I pulled up to the house, I wondered at genetic variability and how the mix of characteristics can spit out truly remarkable things. Case in point—the tail of a certain crossbreed I had tied in my back seat. Recent events had given me a new and painful perspective on such things. As the living bullwhip made another attempt at my face, I shielded myself. If there was an evolutionary advantage to a two-foot tail on a dog, I had yet to find it.
It’s like being trapped in a vehicle with a battering ram.
Every living thing we’d passed on the road had precipitated a rear-seat inferno of excitement that began with barking and whirling in circles and ended with the tail cracking me either in the back of the head or across the face. The pup eventually became so entangled in the leash I had fastened—in an attempt to keep him out of my lap—that he couldn’t do the whirling, but the barking and the wagging continued until we stopped the vehicle.
Keen gave me a long-suffering look.
“I’m counting on
you to solve this,” I told her as I unfastened her from her safety harness.
Untangling the puppy took more effort as he insisted on washing all the antiseptic off my skin while I wrestled with the leash wrapped around his body and legs. By the time he bounced out of the SUV, I was sure I resembled a chew toy.
As I watched the big animal bounce up to Keen, tripping over his own feet, I noticed the ATV and trailer weren’t parked in their usual spot beneath the lean-to off the barn. Peter often took it into the bush to gather wood. We didn’t rely on it, since we had a combination electric furnace, but he preferred wood heat and spent the summer gathering deadfall, which I chopped up to add to our pile.
Because it had been raining off and on all day, and the spring melt had left many of the trails too boggy for the loaded trailer, I was surprised that Peter would head off on that task today. It also interfered with my plans for the rest of the afternoon. I pulled my phone out of my pocket to call him, hoping he had Chloe’s old unit with him. Eyes on the tiny screen, I walked toward the back of the house.
The pup gamboled between Keen and me. As Keen passed the corner, she took off, her relatively small tail rotating in circles as she greeted someone. I followed her and froze. Peter wasn’t out with the ATV; he was walking across the lawn. Naked.
He’d been running as a wulf in daylight? Even in this remote area, that was risky.
He stopped when the behemoth of a puppy bounded up to him. Keen bounced at Peter’s feet, and the pup took his cue from her. He launched himself toward Peter’s face, tongue prepped for a skin slathering.
I heard the growl from where I stood.
Keen dropped to lie on the ground and the pup melted into a quivering puddle.
“He’s a farm reject,” I said, walking up to them. “He might be good for Josh and Chris.”
Peter looked at me and my heart froze. The look in his eyes—unfocused—almost as though he didn’t know me. He blinked a few times before glancing down at himself. “I . . . must have gone for a run.”