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Wild ones dig dens. They do not construct housing. But this human is corrupting them even at this most basic of levels, introducing them to the concepts of building shelter. I feel myself bristle with outrage, but a warning growl from a nearby wild one forces me to calm myself again. I cannot show open hostility to the human. To do so would be to invite potentially lethal violence on myself and leave her free to continue her corruption.
She is engaged in the simple task of stirring what she declares to be soup. Cooked food should not be in the diet of these ancient ones, but she has twisted what was into what could be. I am afraid that too much damage has already been done. Wild ones who cook food and live in houses are not wild ones at all. They are just feral Vulpari.
The pack approaches the human and each of them shows her affection, rubbing their bodies against hers in a bonding show, their tails wagging low and slow to demonstrate calm excitement. I am astonished and appalled in equal measure. I cannot begin to understand why the wild ones would find a human in any way something worthy of their affection and protection.
I hang back, watching. I do not know what the wild ones have in store for me. Evidently they do not need to eat me, because the human is doling out food to them in earthenware bowls. Which means she has also taught them some form of pottery, complete with firing it.
I am watching an absolute atrocity unfold before me, and yet everybody present seems to be enjoying themselves immensely. My research indicates that wild ones often suffer from diseases of the skin and flesh, but these wild ones all gleam with good health. She has made a difference to their lives. She has ruined them.
I watch her as she serves the pack her version of a meal. Finally, she approaches me. I have to admit that she is not entirely unpleasant in appearance. She is quite soft and rounded in her body and in her face. Her pelt is a red hue that is quite striking, and her features are pleasant. These thoughts are already softer and kinder than any I ever planned to have in connection with a human. I am quite disgusted with myself.
“Are you hungry?” She asks the question in a lilting tone that strongly suggests she does not expect me to understand a word she is saying.
“Hello,” I say. “Are you a human?”
Her jaw drops. “No fucking way do you talk. A talking walking dog!”
The insult is extreme. “I am not a dog, human. I am a Vulpari.”
“Is that what you all call yourselves? Wow. You have no idea how long I’ve waited to have a good conversation with someone,” she says. “Ever since Steve and Kurt died…”
“In the fire?”
“No, they exploded in the atmosphere. Must have been a problem with the ship. I was left here.”
“Mehehehhh!” The ungulate appears, looking very smug and pleased with itself. It rubs its head against her side and sits down, chewing its cud with a completely satisfied expression.
“How has that thing not been eaten?”
“Because he’s mine. When I was left here, it was just me and my support goat, Bilbo. He’s looked after me, and so have the wild things.”
It takes me a moment to realize what she means by wild things. She is referring to our honored ancestors.
“Wild things!” I boom the words in offense. “Things?”
* * *
Penelope
I’ve said something wrong. I get the feeling it wouldn’t be that hard to say something wrong. This creature looks like one of the wild ones, but there are several subtle differences.
Now that I am close to him, I can tell that he looks civilized, or in other words, domesticated. His fur is shorter and denser. His teeth are not quite as long, and his nose is not as animal. His tongue is more agile, allowing him to speak in a way the others cannot.
“These are wild ones,” he growls, drawing himself erect as he starts to lecture me. “These are the honored ancestors from whence we came, and you are an interloper who may have damned them all…”
I don’t hear the rest of his sentence, because it evaporates into a scream as my guardian Wulf bursts across the clearing, knocks him off his feet and proceeds to gnaw on his neck in a way he seems to find very unpleasant.
I sit down and drink my soup. This newcomer is obviously not familiar with the wild things, even though he has all sorts of bold and inflated ideas about them. They do not tolerate any kind of aggression toward me. He’s learning that now with his face ground into the dirt. He has very striking blue eyes. One of them is focused on me with what I can only describe as fury. If he had any sense he’d stop staring at me. Wulf is never going to let him up while he has that energy.
