by Lee Hayton
RED RIDING HOOD’S
NOT-SO-BAD BIG WOLF
LEE HAYTON
Copyright © 2017 Lee Hayton
All Rights Reserved
No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, recording or otherwise, without the prior written permission of the author.
Dedication
With eternal thanks to Kat Lind, the SIL Creative team, the Ds, and our fellow boot-campers at Phoenix Prime.
Rise up from the ashes, people.
Phoenix Prime is a Ph.D. level workshop that spans approximately four months. It uses applied industrial psychology to address components of writing, marketing, branding, business, contract issues, and productivity that combine Creative Writing and Business perspectives.
The participants will create a portfolio to showcase their work alongside students in doctoral programs in several major universities. The objective, in addition to expanding the professional growth of all the participants, is to study the impact of the independent author-publisher on the commercial fiction industry.
Table of Contents
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Thank you for reading!
Chapter One
"Before we begin, can I express how sorry I am it's come to this. I've always worked hard. I pride myself on being diligent in everything that I do. My arrest, this trial, all of it was an awful shock right out of the blue."
That was my opening statement. I thought I'd carried it off. My fur rustled a little, maybe got a bit puffed up around my shoulders. But I kept my mouth closed as tight as I could, while still being able to get my words out. No nasty fangs twinkling in menace at the jury. I made nice steady eye-contact, instead.
Before beginning, I even bowed in supplication to the judge. Ugh. That had my skin crawling more than the fleas that infest my so-called jail cell. Would it really kill you humans to give me something better than a wooden box in the basement? If you're stupid enough to put me on trial as a "quasi-human"—your words, not mine—then at least spring for a normal room upstairs.
Duplicitous bastards. You lot do love your double standards. Why do you think we leave it to our retarded cousins to curl up at your heels? I've seen dogs that looked at me with expressions pleading to die the way you treat them. Then what goes on the cover of every gentlemen’s magazine ever? Man's Best Friend.
Oh, no. Goodness! What are you people thinking? I meant like, sports magazines, hunting rags. Ugh. When you drag your mind out of the gutter, perhaps I can continue.
There yet? It's hard to judge with that glazed cast you have in your eyes. Tell you what, I'll just keep talking. If you want me to stop, get down on your knees and beg.
Alrighty then. The trial. And for what? Some little girl whose mother obviously wanted her dead. And she's not. Everything worked out okay for everybody as far as I can see. Then they drag me in here on some trumped-up charge and ahh-wooooooo.
Hmmm. Sorry. Do accept my apologies. Sometimes I just need to have a good old howl to let it all out.
You know, that day really was no different from any other. Until the arrest, I mean. I was out foraging, as I usually do. The sun was warming the fur along my back. At one point, it was so hot I had to dive into the stream and have a paddle. When I got out, I shook myself off, trying to flick those drops up into the highest leaves in the canopy! Oh, it was good, I tell you. Quite a few startled birdies went squawking about up there.
Anyway, I'd been to the usual haunts. I have a set pattern for my grocery list, just the way I suppose you do. First off, fruit and vegetables. I like to find a nice ripe patch and have a bit of a roll. So many smells! Once my fur was coated in a big pile of scents so tangled it would take a month to sort out the different origins, I next headed for the meat section.
And, yeah, I had a sniff at the little one. I’ll hold my paws up for that. But sniffing never did anyone any harm. It wasn't shoving my nose into the girl’s rectum or nothing because I’m using those words fi-gu-ra-tive-ly. A kid’s anus smells like a… a…
Well, goodness, you know what they smell like. Has any person ever wanted to put their nostrils closer than they are? I doubt it. Now, if she'd been a dog, I'd have been right up there. Mm.
And before we get down to the nitty-gritty can I just point out a few facts here? One, that kid had no business being on that forest path on her own. Two, I'm hungry. Where's my lunch?
Chapter Two
Oh, come back for more, have you? I heard the jury's still deliberating. That's humans for you. Give them a split-second decision to make, and they'll freeze dead in their tracks. Your tiny brains can't process all the information, see. A dog would run or fight, and if the latter then by the time that battle started, he'd have a bloody good strategy. Attack the throat or groin, or even pile on in there and direct the weight at your shoulders to bring you down.
Now, I can think of all that right off the top of my head. You'd still be standing there, eyes wide with fright and your brains humming with static. Useless. Bloody useless. No wonder you take dogs onto the battlefield. Otherwise, there'd be both sides frozen like statues, staring at each other terrified. Not a single shot fired.
Anyway, there I was in the woods, and along came this little girl who most certainly didn't belong there. She had a picnic basket in one hand, full of empty wrappers, crumbs all around her mouth, and a guilty expression plastered on her face.
She'd been up to no good. There’s a possibility that was why I was attracted to her, or maybe it was the bloody enormous red coat she wore. Great job, Mom. Send your kid outside wearing a cloak that is visible from a mile away.
Truth be told, I sometimes worry about one of my pups. My littlest one's got a streak of white painted down her back like a road marking, and it's the height of summer. In winter, that kind of mark might blend in, but right now? Even humans can see her running through the forest. I’m concerned, so I'm teaching her ways to disguise it. The darkest, stickiest mud to roll in. The staining you get from the different tree barks, that sort of thing. Always trying to help her not be killed by something spotting her when it shouldn't.
And what does that little girl’s mother do? Does she teach her daughter camouflage so she can walk safely through the forest without fear? No. She takes the girl she’s pretending now is so precious to her and wraps her up in fire-engine red. Talk about Mom of the fricking year.
So, I spotted her a mile off and ambled over to make some idle conversation. Maybe reserving the right to give her a damn good scare if I thought it was worth the effort.
But I didn’t even bother.
The kid was chattering away, loud as hell, talking up a storm. If she put the same energy into walking as she did into mindless chit-chat, she’d have been to granny’s and home by the time I arrived on scene.
My ears can only take so much abuse, you know. I got out of there. Gave the basket a bit of a sniff, in case there were still a few odds and ends hanging about. The girl squealed at that and tipped it upside-down to spill out its contents. A common dog might have been tempted to lick those wrappers and see what sugary remnants it could get, but I’m above that. I just played with the shiny silver one for a while—so pretty—and then I went about my business.
The guilt radiating off that girl. Pfft. There was no way what was in that basket was something she should have been eating. But I didn’t eat any of it. She did all that damage hersel
f.
And yeah, I sprayed the wrappers with my scent. But I only did that because I thought my wee girl would enjoy playing with the silver one too. She takes after her dad like that. Smart as a whip and full of exuberant excitement at the world around her.
Goodness. Hear me gushing. I guess I am damn proud of that pup. She’s gonna grow into a strong, fine bitch, you mark my words. I wouldn’t be surprised if the woods aren’t soon spilling over with white-striped lovelies.
And if that does happen, it’s because of the effort I put into making certain she knew how to take care of herself. It sure as hell isn’t because I tarted her up and set her loose on the world in a big, red coat with a big, red hood.
Chapter Three
Day two of deliberations. Half of me thinks the jury is just dragging their toes to keep getting the free meals. They’re not great, I can sniff that for myself from here, but from the scrawny limbs on some of them, it’s a choice between this and nothing.
Me, I’d rather have the decision. Even from down here, I know the score. I may not share much in common with a goat, but if the jury shoves me into that role, I’m sure they’ll make me fit. Up there in the courtroom, I did my best. That’s comfort enough for me.
Still, if they vote against me, I can rest easy knowing that my little ones are cared for. My sweet bitch is tougher than she looks, and on a dark night in the forest, she looks tough as hell. Ahh-wooooooo.
Well, I’d wolf whistle if I could, but my mouth just isn’t the correct shape. Look at you, all judgmental. Take a glance in the mirror sometimes buddy before you cast physical aspersions my way.
Where was I? Oh, that’s right. The wee girl skipped off happily, and I was chasing silver wrappers in the sunlight. My stomach told me off after a while, said I needed feeding, and so did my pups.
I don’t know how much you understand about the woods. Seems to me humans learn as little as possible about the things that matter. The forest is bountiful, but only if you know your way around. There are some who have lean years before learning to read the signs.
First of all, there’s Mayberry’s field. He’s the farmer out on the edge of Ivy Kingdom. That old coot can’t see well enough no more to shoot at rabbits. And the last time he set a snare he only caught himself. You can run into a rabbit there no matter how loud and un-stealthy you are. Even you might be able to pick one up, much as you lumber up and down those stairs.
There’s a lot of places like that. Nature and man being all symbiotic. Mayberry isn’t capable of keeping his cottontail population down, so animals step in to breach the gap. It means we’ve always got a fresh bunny in our bellies, and he still gets to harvest a few meager crops.
Personally, I don’t enjoy rabbit neither, so I can’t blame you for that sentiment. It’s not the stringiness that bugs me but those nettles they’re so damn fond of. Make me come out in hives, more often than not. And bitter? Whew, boy. I’d rather have the dregs of this jail coffee than a bunny for dinner.
But when times are lean, I’ll hunt there. The little ones take precedence when you’re a father. No matter what anybody’s saying upstairs, I’ve always taken that parenting shit seriously. My bitch doesn’t need food gathering to add to her list of chores, and she’s not above giving me a nip to remind me. Our litter is a menace to keep track of, and do they fight? But it’s all good. At the end of the day we all love each other, and that’s the best feeling in the world.
Another place I depend upon is down the stream that cuts through the woods. There’s a spot and, before you ask, I’m not telling you where. You have the air about you of a fisherman, and I’d rather live without the competition. Anyway, the fish are always jumping or sleeping in the sun. On a good morning, I can hook three of them out with my paw. I don’t even need to get wet. Although, most of the time I enjoy a cooling swim. Especially if it’s a beautiful summer’s day.
I trotted down to my spot and lo and behold—the same damn girl as before. Little Red’s stuffed her basket full of mushrooms, this time. And she’s dropped her feet into the stream, right at the bend where my main meal should be deep in slumber.
I was so angry. If that had been one of my pups, I would’ve torn a strip off them. No thought for others, just sticking her sweaty toes wherever she damn well pleases. Now, I don’t mean to sound rude. I’m sure if Red Riding Hood’s sitting at a dining table making polite conversation, she’s wonderful. Maybe even at church, all spiffed up. I’ll believe that under different circumstances she could be a perfectly lovely girl.
But on that day? All I saw was a greedy guts who ate things not meant for her, then stuck her feet in someone else’s dinner. And come now, mother. If you didn’t want your child to come to harm, why’d you let her pick mushrooms beside the path in the very darkest part of the forest?
I growled a bit, and I’m sorry if that scared her. Understand that I was growing increasingly frustrated. Certainly, the peeing of her pants was overkill, and swinging a basket at my face could’ve hurt me quite badly. I get a bad rap, but I’m no big meany. Even though there are plenty of folks to tell you otherwise. Already that day, she’d crossed me twice. But when I left her there, she was still unharmed.
Well, unless I was getting rabbits I needed another plan, so this time I headed out for the old cottage. You know the one. I thought, there’s every chance some relative has installed their doddery daddy there to die.
Humans aren’t my first pick in food. Obviously not, but I was started to feel a bit anxious. The last breakout of hives I experienced, there’d been a few minutes there when my breathing went all funny. And I’m serious, if it came down to a choice between my kids and me, then you can write me off as a goner. But I wasn’t volunteering until I’d exhausted all the other possibilities.
The cottage is tucked deep into the woods. Some days, it surprises and puzzles me to see it’s still standing. The person who built it there must’ve been quite mad. But they must also have been at the top of their carpentry game.
The trees that surround it are tall and well-established. Their branches stretch high above, intertwining like dark green lace. The canopy blocks all sunlight from reaching the ground below. Around there, the fungi sprouts up so large, the mushrooms masquerade as footstools.
Moss creeps its slow pace across the forest floor, consuming the bark on both sides without a need to be careful. It spread its furry tentacles out toward the cottage many years ago, weighing down all the wooden planks with its heavy green cloak.
That’s why I always expect it to be gone. The builder sure lined up those crossbeams nice and tight. Some surrounding trees have already succumbed to that mossy weight, and they stretched up taller and looked stronger than the cottage ever could.
But still, it lingers. And it has the most glorious scent. Dark and dank and rich with rotting. The people left in there, societal discards, smell like fermenting grapes and murky brown urine.
Humans are so fussy to eat. I don’t understand all the packaging you wrap around yourselves. Once I snap and fiddle my way through one layer of clothing, there’s another two or three revealed beneath. And even in the height of summer, that cottage is chilly cold. The old folks left in there always come in a knitted wrapper of the highest ply wool. Now that stuff is stringy.
The huntsman’s evidence really hurt me. I understand his reasons for lying, but I never expected the jurors to be so ignorant. How could anyone not know what the cottage was for? My father used it, his father used it. This thing stretches back generations and not just in dog-years.
I realize you humans have your fables, designed to protect children. Believe me, my fellow canines bear the brunt of it. Instead of, “I took Rufus outside and shot him in the face because he’s lame,” you feed your kids the lie of country fields and dogs running free in the never-ending sunshine.
So, look, I’d understand if some members of the jury believed in fairy tale endings for their beloved grandparents. Who’d want to taint a child’s memories of darlin
g gramps by telling the youngster he was fed to wolves? But these are grown men. Some of them even smell familiar to me. That means somewhere along their family tree a relative’s been dumped in the death cottage.
And I’ll tell you something, there is a never-ending supply at the old place. If those people really don’t know what happens after they leave their burdens there, they’re mired in self-delusion to the point they should seek professional help.
Why, during the great crop failure, our pack could barely keep on top of the constant demand. While you starved, we grew fat on your leftovers. Sometimes I’d turn up to find three stuffed into the bed. Each one drawing the blanket up around their chin. The hard shakes of pure terror were using up the last of their energy, but their scrawny chicken arms told a story of the horrors that had already befallen them. Starvation and neglect at the hands of those meant to love and protect.
Those poor people. They were so close to the edge of death, to say I killed them would be a travesty. And now times are better, you all pretend that no one knows what I’m talking about.
When a member of our pack grows old, we group around to warm their tired bones with our body heat. When they feel the time upon them, they make the gesture of walking away to die so we can choose not to see. The noble walk. And, instead of letting them perish alone, the wolf closest to them, son or daughter, brother or spouse, will join them in their journey. They’ll rest with them as they gather up the remnants of their earthly spirit to travel into another realm. A true soul mate keeps them company until they breathe their last. Then they return to mourn with the family.
And I’m the one you’re all calling an animal.
You stick your aged and sick into a little cabin in the woods and never wonder where they go from there. You pretend not to see the terrifying spatters of blood darkening the walls.