The Tales of a Vegetarian Wolf (Part 2)
We're back for part two of Sarah Parthemore Snavely's (from Dag fÃ¶r Dag) epic tale about a vegatarian wolf. In part one (here) Sarah introduced us to the rather loevable wolf and now we get to find out where his adventures have taken him. Header image by Anika Mottershaw and wolf image by Emilie Lashmar. The Vegatarian Wolf Digs In by Sarah Parthemore Snavely Now that we are all clued in on the oddities and peculiarities that make our protagonist the sometimes soya-mun... (continued)
We're back for part two of Sarah Parthemore Snavely's (from Dag fÃ¶r Dag) epic tale about a vegatarian wolf. In part one (here) Sarah introduced us to the rather loevable wolf and now we get to find out where his adventures have taken him. Header image by Anika Mottershaw and wolf image by Emilie Lashmar.
The Vegatarian Wolf Digs In
by Sarah Parthemore Snavely
Now that we are all clued in on the oddities and peculiarities that make our protagonist the sometimes soya-munching, sometimes bone-licking wolf that he is, let us go back to one specific night, a night so legendary those who are privy to it have found themselves with jaws gaping and eyes blinking in disbelief. Ah Wolfie, that nightâ¦
First things first: Wolfieâs whereabouts were southbound of that magical MalmÃ¶ line. So as we all know, he was his vibrant meat-eating, lady-slaying, musically maniacal self. This particular night the Wolf found himself in the capital of Bavaria, the home of a much-loved brew called Augustiner and a few trailing love affairs for some members of Wolfieâs travelling party. Ah yes, Munich, Germany, the city that proudly possesses âMunchen mag Dich (Munich loves you)â as its motto, just perfect for our passion-infused tale. Music had been delivered, t-shirts exchanged between band and buyer, gear packed back in Gertie, the pregnant singer sent on her hotel-bound way, and Wolf and the boys set off to quench their unmanageable thirsts in this third-largest of Germanyâs metropolises. Somewhere between venue and first bar, I am told a distance not more than four city blocks, the Wolf broke free from the stumbling pack and right then and there, the adventure began.
You must understand that although Wolfie possesses some incredibly noble genes, a strength beyond compare and an appetite that sends even the 1000-pound gal from Mississippi shivering, his bladder is much more comparable to that of Little Red Riding Hood than a cosmonaut. So once again, Wolfie found himself hunting down a pissing groundâ¦ not that he would think of it so crudely, being much more refined than your here storyteller. He found himself a latrine, did his duties and only then realised heâd been separated from the pack. Without a single spot of the local currency, without a map of the local area, without the simplest clue to where the other alcohol-hungry hounds had headed, did our wolf fret? Quite the opposite, my lovelies. Nose pointed high in the air, olfactory glands ripened for the hunt, he took stock of his surroundings. BING! There she was, her beauty beyond compare, her long gothic locks easing darkly down her autumnal back, her eyes full of that peculiar blend of magic and dissatisfaction, and Wolfie quietly thanked his anxious bladder for inciting this perfect turn in events. Their eyes met, her blood recognised his blood, and without a word their hands became entwined. No one need question the moment of passionâs inception, and so these two â our beloved Wolfie and his angel of the night â proceeded down the Bavarian pavement just two steps behind her pack. They entered a drinking establishment but five minutes since heâd gone for that fateful pissage, and I tell no lies, who did Wolfie happen upon but his own pack of hounddogs, tossing back the JÃ¤ger, the steins flowing with hand-crafted brews. The hounddogs howled with satisfaction, red-cheeked and liquored-up, so pleased to have their wolf amongst them again to lead them straight into temptation. As they rubbed their blurry eyes and scratched their road-weary heads in befuddlement at the dark angel latched at Wolfieâs side, their lips meeting every so often in the shameless space of the public ground, what more could they do but slothenly slap his shoulders in congratulation and thrust a bursting pint in his love-hungry paws.
As drinking establishments are wont to do, this particular one closed, leaving our boozed-up hounddogs howling at the door, brazenly wondering where they could seek out more of the golden liquor saint. With even breath and steady love-filled hand, Wolfie watched his pack stumble down the road, leaving him in their wake. He did not follow. He did not enquire as to where they were headed, his intellect far superior to theirs at this hour of the night. He did not wonder how he would find his way back to them come the new dawn. One thing and one thing alone rested on his hairy heartâ¦ the love of this dark angel. âI want to take you to my favourite site in this fair city,â she whispered his way. She beckoned â he obeyed. Wrapping his lean maverick arm around her delicate waist, they padded toward this sacred spot. In the distance furried in his vision by the liquor on his tongue, he saw the gravestones first, then the tranquillity filled him. âThis is where I come when the world is too much.â Oh our Wolfie understood her words deeper than she could have imagined. Their feet planted within a burial ground but their spirits soaring high above, their mouths met in a warm, wet embrace. Who would imagine that such blood, such life could roar through oneâs veins amidst a sea of death and deterioration? Wolf was pumping now, the animal within him at full throttle. We must be together! He untangled his tongue from hers and panted, âYour placeâ. With her in the lead and somehow managing to cool off the boiling pot of desire, they calmly walked in a direction still unbeknownst to Wolf. His heart was steeped in mystery and magic and utter lust, not to mention the state of affairs in his road-worn, hole-in-the-crotch jeans, which were put to an entirely new test of endurance at this hour. She stopped. She turned to face him. âYou canât come in. Iâm so sorry. I live but in a closet-sized crack in the wall, and the rough witch who runs this shanty allows no passion within earshot.â Now at this blue-balled moment, most men would squeal out in disappointment, but not our noble wolf. He took her hand, glued his eyes to hers, and asked for her mobile telephone number. âI will take you to the ancient burial ground in my Nordic hometown, when you visit me someday soon.â A final kiss, and with now baggier than before jeans he waltzed off.
But where, Wolfie, oh where did you go from there? No map, no money, no address, no pack of hounddogs at your side. No need to fret, dear reader. For up ahead a female beckoned...
To be continued, for this night has only reached its halfway pointâ¦
Dag FÃ¶R DagAnika MottershawShort StoryThe Tales Of A Vegetarian Wolf