kimu

There’s a gray wolf at the park who makes me a little jittery.

Jittery, as in I sometimes worry he might like to eat me.

His name is Kimu, and we struck up a conversation when a mutual acquaintance of ours, a mockingbird called Mitch, introduced us one day.

Like Nutwit, Mitch likes to taunt me because I’m domesticated. Gives me a lot of grief about how free he is, soaring stringless over the whole town.

“I’m not the only one who’s pampered,” I said one day. “I mean, look at Kimu. He’s not exactly running wild.”

As soon as the words were out of my mouth, I regretted them. And when I looked at Kimu’s I could kill you with one quick bite expression, I really regretted them.

“In any case,” I said, moving the subject along, “I’ve lived wild. It ain’t a picnic for a dog.”

“What was it like?” Kimu asked. He moved closer to the edge of his domain. He had a strange odor, intense and scary and a little bit intoxicating.

“Well, I was just a pup,” I said. “Abandoned by the side of the highway.”

Kimu was listening intently. “Must have been tough.”

“All I could think of was food, water.” I didn’t like the catch in my voice. “Owl got me.”

“Those guys are fierce,” Kimu said. “Can’t hear them coming.”

“I know, right?” I relaxed a little.

“I hate owls,” said Mitch. “Hate them with a passion. They eat birds, you know.”

“So do wolves,” said Kimu, giving Mitch a meaningful look.

“So you were . . . wild once?” I asked Kimu.

“Never. Born and raised in captivity. Suzu, over there? She was. She’s told us stories that would curl your fur.”

“Honestly, it’s nice to have a roof over my head. It’s tough out there, man. Really tough.”

“I suppose,” said Kimu.

I looked at him and, for the first time, wondered if I really did have any wolf in me. He was a majestic animal, with teeth that could shred a tree trunk.

I am also majestic. But more portable. With teeth that could mangle a pencil with enough time and effort.

“Hey, Bob,” Mitch said, “do dogs howl the way wolves do?”

“Of course we do.”

“So let’s hear something. A duet maybe.” He fluttered his wings, revealing startling patches of white. “Do you know ‘Talk to the Animals’? They play that on the carousel.”

“Go away, Mitch,” said Kimu, with just the right amount of menace in his voice.

“C’mon. Just a little howling. Pretend there’s a moon. Pretend you’re free. Pretend—”

Kimu growled, and so did I. His was pretty impressive. Guttural, deep. It spoke of death and dismemberment and all kinds of unpleasant bird nightmares.

I growled too. It spoke of . . . me being mildly peeved.

Still, Mitch got the message. He disappeared, a blur of wings.

“Actually, I’ve never howled at the moon,” I admitted.

“Me, neither,” said Kimu. “I’d feel kind of silly, doing it here.”