This is an attempt at a story, mainly inspired by Of Wolves and Men by Barry Holstun Lopez. Feedback welcome. To be continued.

As far as I can tell I am the last of my kind. My mother told me she lived with a pack, with wolves from other families. The only wolves I have known are my mother and brothers and sisters, all of whom were killed by men. Most of what I know I learned from my mother, most of the rest from men.

Men are like wolves. They are clever hunters, and have family and friends like we do. But they differ from us, and from other wild animals, in their strange ignorance of death. I know, you're thinking it's surely the other way round, it's wild animals who aren't aware of their mortality. Perhaps you're also thinking I'm an unusually literate wolf. The latter I can explain more easily. I am a wolf spirit, using human fingers to type my story. The former idea, about perceptions of death, is perhaps impossible to explain. But I'll try.

When I was young I was stupid, and would kill without thought. Anything that moved I would chase, it was fun. If it got away it didn't matter, mother would feed us. But as I grew bigger, I learned the ways of bigger prey. I learned stealth and patience, to watch from a distance as deer went to drink, at the same place every day. Mother and I would hide in our places, then I would run out and frighten the deer towards her. When she caught one, I would help her kill it. There were other tricks, this was one of the first I learned. A couple of times my mother clearly let deer escape which she could have caught. Being young and ignorant I was disappointed in her, and foolishly conveyed this, in my yip yappy juvenile way. She gave me a look which quietened me, and which made me feel sad, so I would whimper and cuddle up to her. Looking back, I think I didn't want to understand that look.