Mom offers me more bread.
I say, No, I'll have something later.
Disapproval gazes at me. She warns me of the rat poison, to the east. The squirrels eat it, too.
I won't run east, I promise as I have ever since the farm east of here was sold.
Dad calls me a good girl.
I let out the best growl my still human larynx can muster. I told you not to call me that, it says.
The moon lights up my childhood room through the open window.
I've done this hundreds of times, once every four weeks.
A thin blanket is all that is between the body in space and mine.
I've waited long enough.
The blanket slides off my fur, its offer of warmth no longer needed.
I stand up, on all fours, fast and fierce.
The stable is almost empty these days, only some chicken still linger there.
I sniff, but they are asleep and dumb, more feathers than meat.
Dad still keeps them, a memory of the farm he grew up on that won't fade as long as he feeds it.
I remember when I had wanted to smell Judy up close, when she still stood in the stable, in all her glory.
She panicked at my sight, tried to kick down the iron gate.
I ran back and buried my head under Mom's stroking hands until the night was over. Even wolves can cry.
Trees fly by as I jump through the night.
I hit the ground with my leathery paws just to take off again.
Faster than any human could.
I run, my body an arrow about to strike.
The little meal makes a final mistake, now shivers under the power of my paw.
I can smell its utter fear, then proceed to enjoy this piece of life.
You must have many questions but I can't answer them. Somewhen someone put this curse on me.
I could subject myself to studies, until everyone agreed that it's no more than medieval magic.
Is it really a curse, though? One night a month that I need an excuse to be away from the phone for a few hours?
I'm not stupid. I have a collar with a tag I could wiggle into, in case I should forget the moon.
Not that this will ever happen. But my parents gladly pay the taxes for their "wolfdog".
I even tried spending some nights in my apartment, howling at comedy reruns. It just isn't the same, though.