Phoenix Magic of the Wolf Pup

By Herma Lois Snider

In this magical and educational story of adventure, a journalist finds a wolf pup and tries to send it home, starting a thrilling journey through the Great White North to find freedom and romance. It is an inspirational journey sure to encourage all hearing-impaired soon-to-be writers to have the courage to

• Language: English
• Publisher: Palmetto Publishing
• Release date: Jun 8, 2021
• ISBN: 9781638375128

Book preview

Chapter One

THE WOLF PUP CAME INTO Laura Fraser’s life at a time when her existence had been shattered by the death of her husband. She had no way of knowing that what had begun as a simple evening with a friend would end in an incident that would change her life.

She and Mark Wilde were having dinner in Papillon’s, the only nice restaurant in the small town of Clareton where they both lived, when Mark’s pager went off.

What the fuck now? Mark had growled.

Luckily, they had just finished their T-bones and were waiting for coffee. It was dark in the restaurant, but the gloom was relieved by the glow of candles on each table. The deep reddish-purple of the decor lit by the flickering candlelight resulted in a dark womb-like effect. A line of people near the door waited for tables, a human umbilical leading from the womb to the street. Waiters in white shirts and dark pants flitted about the room like black and white birds, hovering over patrons with professional concern.

Laura and Mark had enjoyed a leisurely dinner. An empty carafe of wine stood on the linen-draped table between them. Laura had sipped two glasses of wine and felt the slight glow within her alleviating the panic she had felt about going out on this spring evening.

Placing his napkin on the table, Mark excused himself, made his way through the clustered tables, nodding at acquaintances, and went to the telephone. Mark didn’t walk, he lumbered, clumsy yet somehow possessing an awkward grace in his dark suit. His years on the police force had given him an air of authority. His dark eyes, hooded behind heavy lids, seemed to take in every detail of a room at a glance.

As police chief of Clareton, Mark knew everyone in town and every eye in the room was on him as he made the call. The people knew that something was happening when the

Laura sat alone while Mark answered the call, a small blonde woman in a tailored black pantsuit, her hair swept into a careless mass of curls. This was her first public outing since the David’s death and her thin, pale face reflected the grief she still felt. She had made an extra effort to look nice, but she couldn’t hide the pounds she had lost since David’s death, nor the fact that her face was thin and haggard. Make-up camouflaged the dark circles under her eyes.

She looked about the darkened interior of the restaurant and thought of all of the times she and David had dined here, sometimes with groups of friends, sometimes alone. David had always ordered a steak, boasting that he was a meat and potatoes man. The restaurant, with its purple-magenta decor, served a good steak, and the Clareton gentry often elected to stop at Papillon’s before or after a trip to the city thirty miles away. Ed, Papillon’s owner, had always joined Laura and David at the table to swap stories.

Tonight, Ed had only stopped at the table long enough to speak briefly to Laura and Mark, asking Laura how she was and telling her he was happy to see her, but his usual jovial nature was somewhat constrained and she knew that he, too, missed David and had not adjusted to his death. In the past few months, Laura had realized how many friends David had made and how his death had been a blow, not just to his family, but to a large circle of acquaintances. As their druggist, David had been privy to the varied problems of the townsfolk. He had frequently gotten up in the middle of the night to fill a prescription for a sick toddler. He had advised on formulas for their newborns, doled out salves for itching poison ivy victims, watched medications for safe consumption and always had time to listen to the customers as they came to him with their stories.

In fact, Laura had always felt that, because David heard so many tales of tribulation at the stores, so many sorrows were poured into his ear, it left him drained and weary, unable to offer the same kind of sympathy in his home. He had not listened to any complaint Laura had ever made, had turned a deaf ear to her problems and had never understood her need to share her life completely, to pour out her heart to her partner. To David, it had been enough to be there. He never wanted to reinforce this fact with words.

Laura sighed and folded her napkin on the table. She had become somewhat of a recluse since David’s death, staying home with her memories, unwilling to face the demands of society. Friends had visited and she had chatted with them, but she had not really enjoyed their company and was always relieved when they were gone. She knew that she should get out more, knew it wasn’t healthy to stay locked in with her grief, but it had just seemed easier to stay home than to talk when she didn’t feel like talking, smile when she didn’t feel like smiling and to try to hide the deep pit of emptiness and pain inside her.

Mark had insisted she join him for dinner and she had reluctantly agreed, but now she wished she had elected to stay home. She knew that wherever she went in Clareton, the memories would follow, like shadows blocking the sun.

In the twenty-some years Laura had known Mark, he had never been able to finish a dinner without being interrupted by a call. David had said it was because Mark failed to allow his staff to make decisions, but insisted upon personally supervising every part of his job.

If they eat beans down at the station, Mark has to be the one to fart, David had said, chortling at his own humor.

There was some truth in what David had said. Mark had stayed in his position as chief by attending to every detail, solving every problem and knowing more about the town and the people in it than anyone else. If a rumor was floating about, Mark heard it. If a group of boys in the high school were planning a prank, Mark scuttled the fun and sent the boys home with a stem warning. He had been known to personally drive Clareton’s drunkards home, keeping their vehicles in the police lot until the next day. Respected by the citizens, Mark had an open, friendly manner that put folks at ease and made them feel important. He knew most of the townsfolk by their first names and often dropped in their homes for a visit. The position of police chief was not an elected position, but was by appointment of the town council. The councilmen knew that there wasn’t any person in town as qualified as Mark Wilde for the position. What Mark lacked in training, he more than made up for with his personal knowledge of the town and its people.

Laura’s husband, David, and Mark had been best friends, had attended Clareton High School together and both had returned from college to accept positions in town, Mark as a police officer and David as a pharmacist at Clareton Drug Store. As they had risen in prestige and position, Mark eventually becoming police chief and David purchasing the drug store from its aging owner, then expanding to other stores in other areas, their friendship remained firmly cemented. Both had married girls from out of town, Mark tying the knot with a girl he had dated in college and David marrying Laura after meeting her at a convention. Throughout the years, the two couples had enjoyed many activities, even vacationing together at the beach house Laura had inherited from her mother.

Mark’s long hours and absorption in his job had driven Mary to seek another life. It had been an agonizing decision. Laura had sat for hours listening to Mary complain about the loneliness, the nights when Mark did not return home until dawn, his total lack of interest in her and their home. Finally, one day, Mary had packed her bags and driven away, back to life in the city. In a way, Laura had envied her, for she, too, missed the excitement of living near museums, theaters, big libraries and all of the conveniences of a populated area. But Clareton was David’s home and she had learned to make it her home, too, joining all of the ladies’ clubs, the Library Board, the P.T. A. and the Arts Council.

Laura still heard from Mary occasionally, exchanging infrequent letters and even more infrequent visits. Mary had remarried and had twin sons. It was Mark who had continued to be a part of their daily lives. He had proven to be a source of strength and comfort during David’s long illness and had provided strong shoulders for Laura to lean upon during those long, lonely months before David had died, when he had been confined to a hospital bed, drifting in and out of a coma, his muscular frame fading into a skeletal horror, his cancer not responding to the chemical poisons injected into his veins or the burning torture of radiation.

Mark has been a rock! she had commented to her daughter, Elena, who supervised every aspect of her mother’s life following her father’s death. I am so grateful to him.

Elena had only sniffed, for she considered herself the only steadying influence in her mother’s affairs. But even Elena had to admit that ‘Uncle Mark’ was generous with his time and strength, willingly moving couches and refrigerators, patching the shingles on the garage roof, digging up the dying conifer in the yard.

When Mark came back from using the telephone, he stood over Laura, shaking his head.

I won’t have time for coffee, he said. I’m afraid I’ll have to take you home.

Laura gazed up at him, disappointed that their evening had been aborted, but not sorry to be going home. She enjoyed being with Mark and knew they made an impressive couple, his dark hair and big body contrasting with her blonde hair and petite build, but appearing in public had been an ordeal. Mark was tall with a slightly receding hairline and a decided paunch. Long hours in a squad car and too many beers with the boys had caused his waistline to expand, but he was nevertheless vibrant and strong, his thick body exuding masculine capability.

I suppose I should expect this after all these years, Mark, but I wonder sometimes just what they would do without you. You go take care of whatever it is. I’ll just call the cab.

Clareton did boast a cab. It was run by a man named Charlie Winters, the doctor’s brother, and had been put into service just a few months before. Charlie, unlike his brother, had never been able to find his place in life. He had started one business after another and, when one failed, it was just a few months before another sprang up to take its place. Folks said Doc Winters financed all of these efforts, and everyone gave Charlie credit for trying. The taxicab’s debut had caused mixed sentiments among the Clareton residents. Some regarded a taxi as foolish, most folks had cars or pickups and, if they didn’t, they wouldn’t stay in Clareton long anyway. Others hailed it as a symbol of progress, an indication of fixture bike paths, community centers and expanded library systems.

You won’t need a cab, Laura. It isn’t a life or death emergency. I can take the time to run you home.

What’s happened, Mark? Anything you can talk about?

A stabbing. The culprit is already behind bars. An argument over drugs, Willis said. But that’s not the worst of it. Willis was beside himself with excitement. He kept babbling about a house filled with wild animals. He mentioned a lion and a cat and a boa constrictor. A regular zoo, he said.

Good Heavens!

Look, Laura, why don’t you ride along with me? I have already put in a call to Ben Headlee. He’ll take over the animal situation. All I have to do is supervise and make sure things are handled right. Maybe I can get away early. If not, one of the boys can give you a ride home.

Laura considered the invitation.

I’d better not, Mark, she said reluctantly. I have a few things I want to do and….

And what? he cut her off. Sit around watching TV? Come on, I’ll let you pet the lion. You can get in touch with the animal kingdom. Do you good.

Laura laughed and swallowed her objections. He was right. Crime scenes were dismal places, but this one would at least be different. It would be better than another long, lonely evening staring at the television, allowing the tears to run freely down her cheeks, mourning a life that would never be the same again.

When the bill was settled with the waiter, Laura slipped into her coat. It was April, but Michigan had not yet decided to display the joys of springtime. There was a brisk breeze from the north and the few shrubs in bloom looked windblown and anemic.

As Mark drove across town, Laura huddled in her seat with her coat wrapped tightly around her, waiting for the heater to send forth warm air.

The house is on that dead end street called Parker Lane. No wonder no one complained about the animals. That house is the only one on that street. Very secluded. An old dump, if I remember correctly.

Laura remembered the house. It had a lasting reputation among the townsfolk, for it had once been occupied by a man named George Peters who had been charged with molesting his four young daughters. They had been of various elementary school ages, quiet, well-behaved children with somber eyes and bedraggled clothing. One of the children had complained to a teacher and the authorities had been notified. The Peters children had been placed in foster homes and Peters had been found guilty of incest and child molestation and had been sent to prison. The house had been placed up for sale shortly afterward, but Clareton folks had long memories and wild imaginations. George Peters’ sins seemed to leach into the floorboards and wall joists of the old house, his daughters’ tears cause yellow stains on the old ceiling. It seemed to moan with the echo of suffering and, when the wind blew sharply from the northwest, there were some who claimed they could hear the screams of the four young girls resounding through the hallways.

The house was ignored until it finally became the rental home for a series of drifters, youngsters with no homes, no goals, no jobs and seemingly, no families. They came and went with alacrity and no one in town seemed to know who they were or care. These young men worked for a while in construction or landscaping jobs around town, then would disappear into the horizon, accompanied by their long-haired, stoic-faced girlfriends.

It had always made Laura feel sad to drive through Clareton in the evenings. How many times had she and David driven through these same streets, bound for some function or another? Clareton had been, at one time, just a crossroads, where two roads met to lead travelers in opposite directions. Then, a man who grew rutabagas settled on one of the corners. He became very prosperous, the Rutabaga King of Michigan, and his home, still standing, boasted four stories and a ballroom. Although rutabagas fell out of favor with the public, the town continued to grow. It boasted a bank, a post office, two supermarkets and a clothing store, among its other services. But, despite its growth, it had remained a village, where everyone knew everyone else and how much money they had in the bank. David had loved the town, had belonged to the Chamber of Commerce and all of the other civic clubs and never yearned for anything else. Laura, a city girl, had hated Clareton at first, but she had grown to accept it over the years. It had its shortcomings, but it was the place she and David called home. She and David had driven to the city often to attend the theaters, visit the museums and enjoy the fine restaurants, all of the sophistication not to be found in Clareton. As time passed, she had learned to accept Clareton and its citizenry, although occasionally she wondered what she could have accomplished if they had lived in the city.

A hollow, empty feeling seemed to compress her chest as Mark drove toward the far edge of town. Thoughts of David seemed to Laura to be like a flock of blackbirds, flitting into her mind at the most inconvenient times, darting from tree to tree. She sighed at the thought and Mark, sensing her mood, reached over to pat her hand.

Laura managed a wan smile, noticing how warm his brown eyes seemed, how kind and helpful he was. But, in truth, Mark was beginning to disturb her. He had recently begun to act possessive, as though she had become his to direct and control, like the staff of policemen under his command. He stopped by daily and hovered over her like a mother hen with one chick. On one hand, there was Elena, her daughter, carping at her to get a life. On the other hand, there was Mark, killing her with kindness.

She felt a need to be alone with her grief, to wallow in self-pity, to allow tears to flow freely, to flail the air with her arms, stomp her feet and howl with anguish. That she could not do these things, that even when death struck, one had to maintain a certain dignity, she found disgruntling. Yet even as she felt these emotions, she felt guilty for not appreciating those who cared about her.

One time Mark had pulled her close to him when she had been weeping. She had leaned close to him, siphoning strength from his big body, overwhelmed by her sense of loss. She had then felt the unmistakable stirring of an erection beneath the rough fabric of his trousers. She had pulled quickly away and neither of them had mentioned the incident, but it had made her wary of any intimacy. Mark was David’s best friend. She could never think of him as anything else.

Sometimes she told herself not to be silly. David was dead. Elizabeth Taylor had said that after Mike Todd’s death when she had taken up with Eddie Fisher. Mike’s dead. I’m alive. Perhaps Liz was right. Nothing could ever bring David back. She was only forty-six years old with, hopefully, several decades left to live. Mark was decent and kind and she knew him as well as she would ever know a man. But she could not avoid the truth. She did not want him. He was a wonderful man, the best…but she did not want him. She wanted David. Oh, God, she wanted David! She wanted his long, lean body beside her, his arms around her. She wanted his soft voice in her ear.

They had arrived at the house on Parker Lane and, as Mark had said, it was a dump. At one time it had been painted yellow, but the wind and rain had faded it to a putrid shade of gray. Its shutters were hanging loosely, flapping in the breeze, its roof was missing shingles, its rotting porch sagged. The yard was a mass of debris, old cars, woodpiles, auto parts and various wire pens. From the rear of the house, where a tangle of shrubbery hampered the view, she could hear a cacophony of violent barking and snarling.

Willis said they are pit bulls, explained Mark, opening the car door. They’re penned in the back. He said they look pretty hungry. It beats me why these kids will collect animals when they can’t afford to feed themselves.

What about the man who leased the place? asked Laura as she left the car.

He’s the one who was stabbed. He’s in the hospital. He’ll be there a while, Willis said. One of his lungs was punctured. They picked up the kid who stabbed him on the highway outside town. The knife was on the seat beside him.

Why do you suppose he liked pit bulls? Laura followed Mark’s lead as he picked his way through the junk toward the front door.

Dog fighting, I imagine, he replied. Though we may have trouble proving it. Now, Laura, this is a crime scene, so don’t disturb anything. Just follow me and don’t touch a thing.

Meekly, Laura obeyed, feeling like an intruder. Hal Willis met them at the door.

Hi, Chief Glad you’re here. Guy was stabbed in the living room. He admitted there was some kind of dope deal going down. He owed money, couldn’t pay, so he was stabbed. He’s singing like a canary at the hospital. The guy that did it is at the station now. They’ll be taking him over to county jail pretty soon. I got the fingerprint guys in already. They’ve dusted everything.

Good work, Willis, said Mark as they gingerly moved through the entryway. Laura noted that everything visible was covered with a gray powdery substance.

What about the animals?

They’re in the basement, Chief, except for the pit bulls. There’s about six pit bulls and one that looks like a sort of sheep dog, pit bull mix. The rest of the.er.creatures are in cages downstairs. Except for the snake. He’s loose.

Loose?

Yeah, he’s crawling all over the basement. It ain’t a pretty sight. I just stayed up here and waited for you. I ain’t in a hurry to get near that thing!

Willis was in his thirties and had been on the police force for eight years. He was the departmental detective, which meant that he was usually busy tracking down marijuana growers, glue sniffers, joy riders and petty thieves. The crime rate in Clareton was so low that the townsfolk joked about having the policemen double as gas station attendants. Laura knew that the stabbing of the young man on Parker Lane was going to create quite a stir, especially when it was added to the fact that the crime occurred in the old Peters’ house. Folks would say the house was cursed and probably start up a petition to have it torn down.

For Christ’s sake, Willis, said Mark, with a touch of irritation in his voice. If there’s a snake loose in the basement, go down there and catch it. You’re supposed to be a big, brave hero! Don’t tell me you’re afraid of a snake?

Willis shook his head. Chief, that thing is as big around as a sewer pipe. I’m not going within fifty feet of that thing. It’s ugly and it’s slithering around down there just waiting to nab someone. You want snake? You go get snake. That’s why I called you.

Willis was a slender, slightly built man with sandy brown hair and a gap between his front teeth that made his smile doubly engaging. Because of his lack of size and his boyish demeanor, folks in Clareton usually chortled in amusement at the thought of Willis apprehending any criminal, but because he was a hometown boy, they tolerated his shortcomings and treated him with a grudging respect.

Laura looked around the living room. It was cluttered and dirty, which wasn’t surprising considering the rundown condition of the house’s exterior. Old pillows and stained throws were tossed over the couch, which was losing its stuffing. An upholstered chair was placed in front of a television set, which was still on, although someone had turned down the volume. Beside the chair was a table overflowing with beer bottles and ashtrays filled with butts. In the center of the old, frayed rug were splotches of red-black, drying blood.

Laura shivered, reflecting that the young man had been watching television and enjoying a beer when the visitor had arrived. Then it had been loud words and a gleaming knife and life was changed, perhaps forever. She tried to picture the house’s occupant. An unkempt man, probably slouched, dirty, uncombed hair hanging past his shoulders, with a beard and chains around his neck, perhaps an earring dangling from one ear.

She followed Mark to the kitchen. It, too, was cluttered and dirty. The sink, stove and table were covered with dishes, pots and pans, some of them still retaining the remnants of previous meals. The wallpaper was peeling, the old linoleum scuffed and scattered with food. She shuddered and thought of her own son. Had he lived, he would have been in his twenties. Would he have grown up to rebel as this young man evidently had? Would he have defied tradition to live as an aimless drifter?

She wondered about the young man’s parents. Were they, at this moment, wondering about the whereabouts of their son, hoping for a call or a letter, anxiously awaiting word from him? Or were they as slovenly and neglectful as the occupant of this dirty house seemed to be, cold and uncaring?

At that moment the silence in the kitchen was rent by an earsplitting, shattering roar! The walls of the old house shook, as though quaking in terror. Laura jumped, her heart leaping.

Mark laughed.

I think I hear a puddy-tat, he said, imitating Tweety-Bird.

Just then Ben Headlee stormed into the room, clutching his black case, which Laura knew contained implements of the veterinarian’s trade…tools, medication, tranquilizers, all of it ready for emergencies.

Ben had dressed in a hurry. Everyone in town knew Ben and his wife, Ardis, were early risers and went to bed at sunset. They had gotten into this habit when the area had consisted of farms and Ben had been constantly called out in the middle of the night. Now that most of the farms had been subdivided, the nighttime emergencies were fewer, but Ben still prepared for bed at dusk. At the moment, his pajama tops were tucked hastily into his trousers and the bottoms of his pajama legs flared out at his ankles like a blue fringe. His white hair was still tousled and his rotund, pink-cheeked face displayed his indignation over being called into the cold night from the warmth of his bed.

Hello, Laura. What are you doing out at this hour? he glared at her as though she had caused all of the confusion.

Jesus, Mark, he said to the chief. Don’t you guys ever do anything in the daylight? What kind of foolishness is going on here anyway?

Ben, if you didn’t go to bed with the chickens, you wouldn’t always miss the excitement!

Excitement! I don’t want excitement! I want sleep. Buncha lazy, no-good sleepyheads in this town. Stay up all night. Lay in bed all morning. Stores don’t even open until nine or ten. Nine or ten! My dad had hay in the barn by then. I milked the cows before sunup!

Nowadays, our milk comes from faucets, said Mark. So you ought to buy yourself some fancy duds and take Ardis out on the town at night.

Just then the loud, enveloping roar sounded again. Ben Headlee’s eyes grew round with wonder.

You suppose that young fellow could sleep through that? he asked. And them pit bulls out there ain’t exactly gentle as lambs either. What kind of mess have you brought me into, Chief?

I told you, Ben, we have Simba, the lion, for your pleasure and several of his fellow creatures from the animal kingdom.

Well, I ain’t exactly set up for lions. Most of the folks in this town have dogs about the size of a loaf of bread. I could feed ‘em all to that Simba and he’d still be hungry.

Willis says they’re in cages, so we might better leave them here for the time being, under supervision, of course. You can have a look at them, Doc. See if they are properly fed, check them for problems. Then you can help us corral the snake.

I ain’t no snake handler, Mark. I’m just a country vet. What you want is someone from the circus.

Lots of snakes in the country, Ben. You’ll do just fine. That snake will probably take one look at the Irish mug of yours and be afraid to cause any trouble, said Mark teasingly, So let’s go take a look at this menagerie.

Laura followed the two men as they went to the basement door and started down the stairs. It was poorly lit and in the gloom, she could see the cobwebs hanging from the ceiling. The wooden steps were chipped and stained, covered with the dirt collected from many years past. A musty smell emitted from the basement below, almost gagging her. She gasped for air and located a tissue in her pocket, holding it over her nose.

Come on down, folks. Welcome to the Clareton Zoo. The fragrance you smell is from several months’ supply of lion dung. You get used to it after a while, called a young policeman from the foot of the stairs. Just don’t get too close to him. He might spray. He seems to have a bladder problem.

In the dim light of the bare bulb hanging from a wire in the center of the room, Laura saw that it was Pete Meacham, whom she had known since he was a youngster and had mowed her lawn and performed various chores about the house. After graduating from Law Enforcement classes, he had taken a job with the Clareton police department. A personable young man with a slim, muscular body, dark hair and eyes, he had always reminded Laura of her son. Now he was grinning broadly as they came down the stairs.

Willis liked to passed away when he saw the snake, but he ain’t mean. The snake, I mean, I’m not too sure of Willis. He’s a friendly snake when you get to know him. Almost lovable.

Where is he, Pete?

Right over there, Chief. In the corner. Taking a little siesta right now.

Laura peered through the gloom and gasped. It was a huge snake, a boa constrictor, coiled and repugnant, its serpentine body gleaming in the dull light, its head raised, its beady eyes staring at them with what seemed to be a malevolent intent. The three new arrivals stepped backward as though synchronized. Laura repressed an urge to dash back up the stairs to safety.

Jesus Christ Almighty! breathed Mark. That has to be the granddaddy of them all! Glad you came along, Ben.

Who, me? What am I supposed to do with that…that Godzilla? Take him home? Ardis will have a shit fit.

Ben, you’ll have to take him. The other animals will be safe in their cages until I find some place to take them, but the guys aren’t going to want to handle this snake.

Can’t say I’m crazy about the idea, either, grumbled Ben. And Ardis will make both of us sleep in the doghouse.

Laura laughed aloud at the thought of Ardis Headlee handling this monstrous snake. Ardis was a tiny woman, as plump and ruddy as her husband. She alternately bossed and babied everyone she met, treating acquaintances with the same loving concern she displayed for the animals in her husband’s clinic, plying them with food and advice.

Look out! Mark cried. He’s coming this way!

Again the trio stepped backward, almost falling over each other in their haste.

Shucks, Chief, he’s just being friendly, said Pete. He just wants to say hello…and he’s hoping you have a mouse in your pocket. Nothing like a mouse for a midnight snack.

Well, Pete, if you like him that much, we’ll let you figure out a way to get him out of here. What can we do with him, Ben?

There’s a cage in the back of my truck, said Ben reluctantly. If you can get him in there, Pete, I’ll take him to the clinic. But you’ll have to ride along with me, because I’m not touching that monster myself. Tomorrow, Mark, you find a place for him. Hear that? Tomorrow! I don’t want to be stuck with this creature for the next year. Ardis will divorce me. You get on the phone early and make some arrangements. Maybe some zoo will take it.

Sure thing, Ben. Tomorrow. Pete, can you get it in a cage?

I think so. But this fellow don’t really need a cage. He’s house trained.

Pete stepped toward the snake and soon had the enormous reptile curled around his body like a shawl.

See, he’s a lover, that’s what he is. Likes to snuggle up.

Laura could not bear looking at the snake, so she left the men and wandered near the other cages. The lion was there, a tired, mangy old soul who was not half as frightening as he sounded when he roared. Beside him, in the next cage, the puma glared at her in indignation. His ears were erect, his long tail flopped back and forth, his large, slanting, feline eyes carefully watching every movement made by the humans who had invaded his realm.

As she stared at the puma, she heard a slight rustle in the far corner of the basement. She walked over to the source of the sound and found a piece of plywood propped into the corner against two walls. Carefully, she walked over to the plywood and peered down into the makeshift pen. Her eyes made out a small figure on the floor, resting on a pile of dirty, shredded newspapers.

It was a small puppy, laying splayed on its side, legs extended, tiny head tucked downward. In the gloom, she could see two round eyes staring up at her. It was a tiny, pathetic creature, with bald patches intermittent with unkempt fur, so emaciated that its bones threatened to break through its skin. Its breath came in tortured gasps, the tiny ribcage moving up and down, trying to suck in life-giving air, and all the while the sad, dark eyes stared at her as though resigned to its fate, as though there was no light in the shadowy tunnel into which he was descending.

Oh, God! Laura breathed.

Mark walked up behind her and stared into the pen.

What is it, Laura?

A dog, she replied. A puppy. It’s sick.

Probably belongs to one of those pit bulls out in back.

Maybe, but it doesn’t look like a pit bull.

That’s because it’s not a pit bull, said Ben Headlee, from beside them. He had walked over and was peering into the cage. That happens to be a wolf.

A wolf? How do you know it’s a wolf.

Because I know a wolf when I see one, said Ben caustically.

They pulled the plywood away and leaned it against the wall. Then Laura and Mark stood watching as the veterinarian examined the pup. Ben’s big hands dwarfed the tiny creature as he tenderly poked and prodded.

Can you help it? Give it something to help? asked Laura anxiously. Suddenly it seemed very important to help the little creature in its misery.

Ben shook his head. He’s about gone, he said. Best thing to do is hurry it along. Nothing’s broken that I can find, but he seems to have been starved. They probably didn’t know what to feed him. Tried to feed him mice or something.

Laura, when she grasped the meaning of Ben’s words, shook her head fiercely.

No, you can’t kill him. He needs help.

Ben arose from his stance beside the pup.

He needs more help than I can give him, Laura. The kindest thing to do is …

No! said Laura emphatically, We can’t just kill him. It’s…it’s inhumane.

She was near tears. She had had enough of death and dying. She had paced a hospital room until the doctors had told her there was no hope for Renny, her son. She had watched David die, inch by inch, and had stood by helplessly, unable to stem the monster devouring his body. Now the little wolf pup was looking at her with the same resigned expression that she had seen in David’s eyes. She could not endure it again.

I’ll take him, she said. I’ll take him home with me.

Mark took her arm and gently turned her to face him.

Laura, the little fellow’s about gone. Look, you don’t need to get involved in all this I don’t think it would be good for you. It would be too painful. Why put yourself through it? Let Doc take care of it. It’s the humane thing to do. Come on, I’ll have Willis drive you home.

Laura was trembling, her mind on the struggle she had endured while David was dying. At first she had been terrified, waking in the night to stare into the darkness, crying out, trying to push the reality of the disease away. She went through agonies of denial, telling herself that there must have been some mistake, the laboratory had sent the wrong test results, the x-rays had shown someone else’s lungs. David could not have cancer. He was strong, agile and still very young. He should not have to face such an ordeal.

But there was no denying it, the cancer lurked in David’s body like a coiled serpent, waiting to strike. As the months passed and the treatments took their toll, David became ill and nauseous, his body becoming thinner and thinner. He stopped eating, pushing away the food she set before him. She argued with him, insisting that he try to eat, wanting him to accept nourishment and get well.

Try! she had admonished him. Try, David! Just a few bites!

But David didn’t try. His appetite had faded and, as the weeks passed, he suffered every ailment the doctors had warned about before the treatments began. His skin was burned, his throat was sore, he was terribly nauseated. No medication seemed to relieve his