What Every Wolf-hybrid Owner Should Know

If you hear howling at any time of the day,

know that it means something.

Always expect to be leaned on, jumped on, and sat upon;

having your arm lovingly gnawed on will be a common occurrence.

Knowing how to stand your ground is essential!

These animals are companions, not pets.

They are also more wolf than dog.

Their golden eyes, upright ears, and prowling gait will draw attention.

You will quickly learn that their intelligence is like a seven year old, who
opens doors, gets water from the fridge, and rearranges the pillows on the couch.

Grunts, growls, teeth-clicking, and grumbles will be added to your vocabulary.

You will have conversations that you are almost certain are mutually understood.

You will watch in awe as they push the dog house to the edge of the fence,
hop on top, escape, and go after a flock of turkeys down the street.

They are one of the most loyal canines on the planet who will always come back home.
Your family, and closest friends are their pack, their family.

Their separation anxiety is through the roof.

Say goodbye to vacations.

In their eyes every stranger is suspicious.

They’ll growl at a childhood friend when they hug you if you don’t make introductions.

Say hello to big dog privileges, you’ll never be bothered with this beast beside you
even though they're the biggest chickens.
Hunting is in their blood.
They can’t help but chase things,

but the likelihood of them catching anything is slim.

They are big powerful babies that do as they please on a whim.

They will steal the deer antlers decorating your neighbor's lawn
and then prance across the street in victory.
The Ballad of a Small-Town Breakup
The bridge was already burning
and the grass was never green
painted bright to prevent turning
the kind eyes into ignorant mean

The bridge was already burning

yet assumptions insist to grow
the rumor mill starts spinning
everyone presumes they know

The bridge was already burning

whoever’s loudest first will win
the small town; one lie spurning
crazy? Perhaps I’ve always been!

The bridge was already burning

a character assassinated in days
hot labels launched like missiles
I refused to broadcast your ways

The bridge was already burning

and the telephone game goes on
hold on to fantasies, not learning
that my credibility was long gone

The bridge was already burning

our relationship more than lost
all words deflected off their ears
for my side wasn’t worth the cost
Zenna’s “Zen”
She breathes deeply, deeper and deeper until her eyes pull themselves open like old
blinds. She breathes out a bad dream that ascends up to the gray ceiling of her bedroom, half
hoping and half forgetting that it’s Saturday and she didn’t miss her test. She throws off her
blankets and looks for the inner peace that every child of God is supposed to have, for the zen
pulled from her name. She combs through her hair with pale fingers for some remnants of
tranquility hidden between the golden strands, and comes up short.
She breathes and hears war drums in the silence of the old white house with green trim.
She inhales, and then hisses at the cold that sinks into her bare feet. Shuffling over to the
window she lets in the sun, treading carefully to avoid waking the tired aging man down the
hall, and the boisterous twins across the way. She breathes and fogs up the glass of her window,
which throws the emerald grass of the backyard into soft focus; but her stillness doesn’t last
when her eyes catch the thick black cord plugged into the wall, she trails it with her eyes and
sees that her speaker is winking at her in neon green. She breathes in as she passes her dresser
with the glass vase that holds a bouquet of drumsticks, and her lips twitch in a groggy attempt
to smile.
She tiptoes out of her room and down the stairs and still they creak. She cringes in her
brother’s faded AC/DC t-shirt that hangs off one shoulder and the other brother’s stolen pair of
basketball shorts. She doesn’t breathe until the wood floors stop their complaints, rushing into
the kitchen and onto the stoic tile. She pushes air out through her nose, squinting in the
sunlight that spills into the house. Stormy gray eyes take their time adjusting to the bright
spring morning, ears tune in to the songs broadcasted by birds, her nose snaps to attention at
the tray of oatmeal cookies left out on the stove, and her mouth forces down the aftertaste of
that nightmare.
She breathes in over the tray of cookies until the smell settles into her brain and cookies
are all she sees. Snatching two off the tray, she wanders past the photo covered fridge and hangs
her head. She breathes, and her lungs inspire her heart to keep beating. She breathes, and her
lungs expel air out into the kitchen like a bolstering wind misting with memories. Her eyes
twitch, her hands curl into fists, her gaze is drawn to the photo framed in green and red stripes,
to a family with pearly white smiles, matching pjs, and the woman at the center with shadows
under her hazel eyes. She breathed in eagerly then and they all said, “Cheese!” Now she breathes
for the woman that can’t, to sing the sadness out of the songs written by two lost twins, and
remind the man why he should too. She breathes.
 She sighs when she falls into the chair at the head of the table. Her elbows rest on the
wood and bite by bite the cookies are devoured, and crumbs rain down onto the table in
dissonance with the melody of the birds. She breathes out the number of empty seats around
her— one, two, three, four, five.
She breathes and wonders if her older brothers are still alive after their first high school
party, and her breath falters on the secret. Somehow her breath remained even while her dad
asked why the boys didn’t come down for dinner, and she replied that they turned in early as the
adults would say. Her father lifted his brown eyebrows and stared at her with soul-piercing gray
eyes, huffed, then served them spaghetti while shaking his head. She breathed into her hand
when he wasn’t looking to check how bad the lie stunk. She smelled nothing, so she continued to
breathe.
Shaking her head she sweeps the remains of her breakfast into a hand. She breathes
quietly, turning to the right to observe starkly white walls, then to the left back through the
threshold of the kitchen warming beneath the sun’s smile. She twists all the way around, forcing
her spine to pop in seven places before she glares into the living room. Nothing moves on the
golden couch with bronze and red pillows, nor does the recliner rock with ghosts.
She breathes a prayer soft and low that everyone in her family is safe in their
soundlessness. She breathes slowly and returns to her place, hunching over her hand filled with
crumbs. Her eyes ping pong off the corners of the room once more before she leans down and
licks the crumbs from her hand.
“Sup Zen!” one of the twins exclaims. She breathes out a heavy sigh.

— Inspired by Rick Moody’s “Boys”