Howlin’ at the Moon

Harlan was strange. Kids in school had said he was weird. His college major made no sense. He hated it. He was a socially isolated and poorly adjusted adult. That’s why it wasn’t terribly surprising to find him nude, on his hands and knees, on the porch of his family’s vacation home. To give the poor man some credit, he had just come back from a sunset float. His wonderful uncle had brought two inflatable pool loungers to the lake cottage, where Harlan was making prolonged and extravagant use of them.

He needed that, more than anything else, after the conversation he’d had with his sister. She’d come over around 4:00 PM. They fired up the grill and cracked beers around 5:30 PM. Then dinner. Then another drink. She wouldn’t stop asking.

“How are you, actually?” she’d asked.

“And what does different look like this time?” she’d demanded.

All Harlan could do was reply, “I’m not sure.”

But that wasn’t good enough. She kept digging. Harlan kept drinking. His sister, the shining star known as Gloria, had left around 7:30 PM. Suspiciously close to the time when the sun set, but also just a bit too early to see its full majesty. It was almost as if her early departure was meant to send a message. Harlan was self-aware enough to know that he tended to overthink minuscule details of social interactions, hence the need for a float. Radiant pink and orange hues perfused the gentle ripples that broke against the lip of Harlan’s floating mat. A meditative state swept over him as the breeze alighted on his exposed toes causing them to tingle in a subdued summer ecstasy. Were it not for a single deer fly buzzing about his temple, bringing grainy static to his bliss, he might have fallen asleep then and there.

After the float, he tramped through dense woods back to the cabin. Shedding his swimsuit haphazardly upon arrival, he marched through the living area to the kitchen leaving behind a trail of wet footprints. He popped a hard cider and kept the porch door open to the dark. Evergreens grasped at the sky as though they might catch the clouds, illuminated gray against the midnight blue backdrop. Woods that deep tended to guard secrets, as though the trees were sentinels on the border between this life and the next. Were a traveler to peek just on the other side of their thin veil, he might uncover a new world that was entirely foreign.

Overwhelmed by sadness, Harlan dropped to his hands and knees. Pain such as his could only be contained for so long. A guttural, mournful howl escaped his lips. He howled again. Everything in him came out; his agony and hopes, the faint wisps of love and deep exertion poured forth into the sound. The forest responded: insects ceased their incessant buzzing, waves calmed.

The sun found him early but not ready. He’d agreed to meet his sister in two hours for a trip into town, but as soon as he opened his eyes, he thought of canceling. Awkwardness from the night before clung to him, and Harlan realized that if he canceled, she’d have more questions. Her questions were growing steadily sharper.

He sniffed his armpit.

“Oof, bad,” he exclaimed.

He was amazed, and slightly proud, of the magnitude of his own body odor.

“A few days in the woods’ll do that to ya,” he thought to himself as he rose from bed and located his still-damp bathing suit.

Outside, light filtered through the branches of the evergreens and caused the brush beneath to glow. He set off back down the trail to the swimming area. Still half asleep, he trotted the path: brush and water to his left, a forested incline on his right. He felt the distinct sensation of being watched, but he saw nothing. After a few more steps, he stopped again. He was being watched. He knew it.

Shaking off the last of the morning haze from his eyes he surveyed the trees and brambles. Against the brown and green backdrop, he made out a grayish shape. A quadruped. A canine. Its frame was thin, but it had mean angular features, the kind of features that made the hair on the back of Harlan’s neck stand up. Harlan was accustomed to dogs, but he’d never owned one. He didn’t know if the dog was friendly, so he picked up a nearby stick. The two creatures examined one another for a full minute. Harlan, being the more evolved of the two, decided to seize the initiative by taking a clumsy step backward.

The dog took a step forward.

“Go on,” Harlan cried, “Get out of here!”

He swung the stick through the air before him, “I said go!”

The hound seemed utterly unperturbed.

Cold beads of sweat formed on the back of Harlan’s neck. He prepared to swing the stick again. Just then, the dog lifted its head and sniffed at the air. It let out a yip before turning around and darting off into the woods.

Harlan stood motionless for another minute or so, listening. Soon the rustling of branches died away and he heard nothing. His hand ached when he dropped the stick, and his knuckles were white.

The water was still calm when he arrived at the swimming area. After tossing his towel onto a nearby rock he waded into the water. Wet sand pressed through his toes, and he was momentarily reminded why he loved coming up to camp so much. He swam, then stood to listen; the sound of snapping twigs came from behind the tree line.

The rest of the day passed without incident. Harlan finished his swim, grabbed lunch with his sister, and excused himself when she decided to go visit a distant relative. Rather than spending the afternoon exchanging pleasantries, he went back to camp and spent the rest of the day fighting with an ancient gaming console with a disc tray that had to be wedged open using a credit card. Finally, he got a two-decade-old first-person shooter game working.

By the time Harlan took a break from his game the stars were already visible through the single-pane cottage window. He powered down the system and climbed the narrow stairs to the upper floor of the cottage where he collapsed onto a sleeping bag atop a bare mattress. His mind was active. The game’s theme music played in his head. Just when he thought that sleep might be approaching, he heard something. His heavy eyelids slammed open. There it was again. A rasping sound from somewhere below him, as though something were sliding along the outer wall of the cottage. Sounds like these were common, and they didn’t worry Harlan much, but he held his breath as he listened. Every now and then he’d hear a scratching, which sounded as though it originated directly below him.

“Probably just mice,” Harlan thought to himself as he took a sip of water from a bottle on his nightstand.

The scratching continued for five minutes with intermittent pauses. These mice must be particularly large and determined. Though uneasy, Harlan was very comfortable, and he desperately didn’t want to leave his bed. Several minutes later the sounds died away, but comfortable sleep eluded him.

The cabin’s windows didn’t have blinds, and the morning sunlight was too intense for him to ignore. Downstairs, still exhausted, he cast himself into a heavy recliner near the television and thought about firing up the game. That would require him to stand again, and so he decided to rest for a few moments first. He inhaled deeply, trying to push off the intense grogginess he felt, and noticed a bizarre scent. It was a sickly smell, sweet and rotten, like spoiled seafood.

“What is that?” he said to no one. He stood and looked around. The trash in the kitchen, the first place he thought to check, was practically empty save for a few paper plates and some coffee grounds. He opened the back door where several stairs hewn from spruce logs led down to a circular fire pit. He jerked his head backward in shock. Three pickerel lay by the steps, each marked by a single bite. Clouded eyes stared at nothing. The fish lay like apologies delivered to the wrong door. Harlan felt ill.

He closed the door, “I’ll deal with that after coffee.”

After many cups of coffee and overfilled with blueberry muffins, Harlan was finally feeling awake. Stale warm air began to make the cottage uncomfortable, so he opened the front and back doors to allow the breeze easy access. The fish were gone. Initial surprise melted away. He wasn’t going to argue with free cleanup. Instead of thinking too deeply about the disappearance of the fish he grabbed a folding chair. Finding a sunny spot just outside the cabin he plopped the chair down and sat. Blinding sun shone directly at his eye level. Harlan stood, turned the chair 180 degrees, and sat back down.

Once his eyes had adjusted, three shapes resolved along the crest of a nearby hill. Blinking, the shapes came into focus.

“Oh,” Harlan said loudly as he realized what they were.

Just behind the tree line: a pit bull, a rottweiler, and a doberman – watching. The pit bull was sloppily chewing on something. Fish, Harlan assumed.

“Should I call someone?” Harlan asked aloud. The dogs kept their distance, and Harlan knew he could find safety in the cottage if they came charging down. As he watched, the ears on the doberman perked up and turned toward him. The rottweiler’s tongue bounced lazily in the air as it panted. In truth, Harlan thought the dogs were beautiful, definitely of good breeding, but none of them appeared to have a collar.

Twenty minutes later the crunch of gravel caught Harlan’s attention. He stood as his sister’s green Subaru rolled up the gravel drive. Glancing at his phone, set to sleep mode, he saw several unread messages. By the time Harlan thought to warn Gloria about the dogs she was wrestling a cooler out of the backseat. Harlan rushed to her side on tiptoes, never taking his eyes off the dogs. They lounged, all heavily panting in the midday heat, their eyes trained on Harlan and Gloria.

“There are . . . uhm . . . dogs,” Harlan said breathlessly.

“What?” Gloria replied as she thrust a grocery bag into Harlan’s arms, “Like the neighbors have dogs?”

“No, look,” Harlan replied, gesturing with his shoulder toward the dogs. Gloria turned toward them.

“Hmm?” she said, setting the cooler down with a thud.

She surveyed the three. The pit bull stood and sauntered off into the woods.

“Yeah, they don’t seem interested in us.” she answered, “I bet someone from a nearby camp will come looking for them.”

Arms loaded, she stalked toward the cottage and yelled back at Harlan, “Bring that thing in, will ya?”

Gloria busied herself in the kitchen while Harlan checked his phone. According to the messages he hadn’t checked, they were going to grill seasoned chicken, and he was supposed to pick up some chips and drinks from the convenience store. Gloria had obviously realized he was going to fail in his duties because there were both chips and drinks in the bag.

“Sorry!” he called from the porch.

“Hey,” Gloria called back, “can you fire up the grill?”

“Uh, yeah,” Harlan called back. He found a bag of charcoal inside the cottage’s door, which he lugged around the building to an old kettle grill with broken handles. At the grill, a corgi finished peeing and wagged at him like they were old friends.

“What?” Harlan cried, “Go on, shoo!”

He ran at the dog, which darted toward him playfully. Just before it reached him, the corgi veered off toward the trees. It stopped and turned after about fifteen feet and continued wagging its tail.

“What’re you yelling about?” Gloria called, clattering out through the screen door.

Harlan just shrugged and inclined his head in the direction of the corgi. Gloria looked between the three dogs and the corgi.

“You pick up plenty of strays . . . when you can’t keep people,” Gloria teased. The dog’s presence seemed to bother her less than it did Harlan.

“Have you named them?” she asked.

Harlan thought for a moment, sweating, then replied, “Fine, we’ll call that one Despair, that one Agony, and . . . ”

“Shut up,” Gloria cut in with a laugh. Her curls bounced.

The day passed in a pleasant rhythm. By evening the dogs had disappeared, and more importantly, Gloria didn’t ask many prying questions. She even stayed for sunset. When the golden rays had decayed over the water she set off, crunching away down the gravel drive. Harlan went back to the front porch. The evening air was thick with the scent of pine. A sudden lapping sound caught his attention. Down by the water, he saw the doberman and rottweiler, closer now. Side-by-side, the rottweiler drank from the lake while the doberman stared in his direction. The rottweiler stopped drinking and looked in his direction as well. It let out a single booming bark. Harlan jumped. Neither dog moved. A little uneasy, Harlan retreated to the kitchen where a pile of dirty dishes waited. There were also trimmings and a few unsavory bits of chicken leftover. Usually he’d throw these away, but instead, he put them in a metal bowl and set them on the ground outside.

The next few days melted away in the way that only summer days do. The four dogs were around but remained aloof. Another small dog whose breed Harlan couldn’t recall showed up and yapped at the others, but none came near the cottage. Harlan went about his usual activities: reading, swimming, grilling. On a grocery run, he noticed a sign displaying the fire warning level: medium. That afternoon was spent gathering fallen limbs for his first campfire of the season. When dusk fell, he lit the fire. It started easily. Hissing from the logs was oddly comforting in the evening dark. Blackened pieces of fractured wood reached critical temperature, and then their ashy surface would ignite. Orange and white heat would drift across the surface of the coals, consuming its entirety, and moments later it would die out with a barely visible puff of smoke.

Harlan felt safe enough to let his mind wander. He hadn’t allowed himself to process the events of the preceding months, but it seemed he could no longer avoid doing so. When his mind was idle the thoughts came up, and that is exactly why Harlan had kept himself buried under a pile of work at the office and started several home improvement projects that he had neither the training nor experience to complete. Yet here, by the lake, fire popping and spitting, he finally felt ready. She was gone. It was for the best. He now had a chance, nay, a mandate to become the kind of man he had always wanted to be. In bemused amazement, Harlan realized that his right hand, draped over the arm of the folding chair, was stroking something soft. His adrenaline spiked and he jolted when he looked down and found the corgi was nestled against the legs of the chair. He had started stroking the back of its neck as if by habit.

The cold surprise melted quickly in the warmth of the fire, and Harlan was grateful to have his new companion. He sat there lost in his thoughts. Then an unusual craving crept over him. He wanted a smoke. This was something he did only on rare occasions, and usually it made him feel sick. Yet he remembered a box of cigars on a high shelf in the cottage’s main room. The corgi whimpered softly as he withdrew his hand, stood, and entered the cottage through the back door. Most of the larger cigars in the box smelled musty. He ditched them for a cheap pack of Black & Mild.

With a single thin cigar, he returned to the screen door. Crackling of the fire was audible even in the kitchen, but there was a strange new stillness that seemed to emanate from behind the door. The sensation was enough to give Harlan pause. When he stepped out into the night his eyes took a moment to adjust. The fire, though glowing warmly, did not give off much light. The corgi had vanished. Harlan sat on the bottom step and retrieved a lighter from his pocket. Flick. The flame quivered in the cool evening breeze. Two eyes caught the lighter’s flame.

“Oh shii,” Harlan exclaimed, dropping the lighter and pushing himself backward instinctively until the steps dug into his skin.

A wolfhound, larger than any he had seen, larger still than any he imagined could exist, sat next to the fire. Its fur was deep black, almost as if it were made from the shadows cast by the firelight. Looking directly at him, the hound exhaled a deep baritone growl. Harlan was shaking. Cold beads of sweat sprung from the nape of his neck. He didn’t dare move. The wolfhound watched him intently. Harlan’s heart thundered in his chest and soon he was gasping for air, tendrils of fear encircling his throat making it difficult to breathe.

To his horror, the wolfhound stood. Its head was at Harlan’s chest level. Its size was extreme, impossible, more of a beast than any domestic animal. With slow, absolute strides it moved toward him. Harlan was certain on some primal, instinctual level that fleeing would be useless, and so he cowered on the steps, silently praying for mercy. Its breaths were loud, rasping, and carried a thick rumble – almost how Harlan imagined those of a lion would sound. Step by step, its massive paws brought a shaggy, menacing head nearer. They made eye contact. Harlan looked away immediately. He closed his eyes expecting to be devoured.

What happened next felt unreal. Warm breath on his cheek. A bass growl reverberating in his bones. Plunk. A massive weight in Harlan’s lap. Then, to his shock, nuzzling. The wolfhound rubbed its head against his arms, which Harlan was shielding himself with. This continued for a time that seemed to stretch on indefinitely. Harlan’s heart rate slowed ever so slightly, and he dared to place one of his arms on the creature’s head and stroke behind its ears. An equally massive tongue lolled out from its mouth and dampened Harlan’s wrist.

“Good . . . dog . . .” Harlan said in a hoarse whisper.

Harlan recovered, somewhat, over the next few moments. He continued stroking the beast and moved his scratching down the back of its neck. There he found a collar, which was loose, and rotated freely about the dog’s neck. A small octagonal pendant hung from the collar. Its surface was gold, and carved into the surface was the name, “Regret,” and a printed code “06-20-21-APT9” that Harlan assumed must be some kind of registration number.

“Regret?” he asked aloud. The dog lifted its head, still panting, and gave its tail a small wag.

“Hell of a name,” Harlan said.

He sat under Regret’s weight as the fire died. When only a pile of smoldering coals remained, Regret wandered off into the night leaving Harlan alone on the steps. Harlan forced himself to breathe. Summer night air felt cold in his lungs, and he went inside. That evening Harlan checked to be sure he had locked all the exterior doors. Sleep didn’t come easily. His dreams were disturbing, and though he mostly didn’t remember them, a few scenes were etched into his memory long after waking. He had dreamt that he was surrounded by a pack of twenty or thirty ravenous hounds, which began to devour him piece by piece. Oddly, when he would have expected to feel incredible pain, he felt serene and deeply relaxed.

An out-of-touch feeling gripped him the next morning. His encounter with Regret, and his dreams, had left him anxious. Through the closed cottage doors, he heard dogs running and yapping. The windows were thick, and so Harlan was able to muster the confidence to peer through one. The lake was still, and the tops of the spruce swayed gently. As Harlan watched, the corgi ran into view pursued by two larger labradors. They caught up to the corgi and tussled playfully. The corgi was able to right itself and the other two ran off. Then the corgi looked up at the window, and noticing Harlan, began to yap happily. This reassured Harlan. He opened the heavy wooden door and gazed out through the screen. The labradors heard the clanging door and ran over. They both looked up at him through the screen expectantly, wagging their tails.

Harlan, perhaps still under the influence of his dreams, thought they looked hungry. It was surely a good idea to feed them - lest they seek out their own meal. There were hot dogs in the fridge. Opening the pack, Harlan spilled a good amount of hot dog juice onto his fingers. Hot dog juice had always disgusted him: the brine sticky on his fingers, like the old texts he hadn’t deleted. The labradors brushed up against him when he returned to the porch. Several other medium-sized dogs whose breeds Harlan couldn’t recall joined him. Harlan began to split the hot dogs into pieces and distribute them. The labradors were clearly thrilled and began to wiggle in place. The dogs further off sat on their haunches and waited patiently for Harlan to throw them their piece.

The pit bull stalked over. It watched as Harlan distributed the food. It barked. Sharply, harshly. The other dogs didn’t notice. The pit bull moved a bit closer.

“Come on” Harlan called, “Come get some.”

He had just thrown the corgi a particularly large piece that hung limply from its jaws when the pit bull began to growl.

“Hey,” Harlan shouted, “No need for that,” as he fumbled with the hot dog pack. Before he was able to throw a piece to the pit bull, it lunged at the corgi and caught a haunch in its slobbering jaws. The corgi yipped then squealed, but the pit bull bit down hard and began to shake.

“Hey,” Harlan shouted. He began to move toward the dogs, but then the pit bull let out a nasty snarl without relaxing its grip. The corgi shrieked and struggled. It couldn’t wriggle free, and it began to nip at the pit bull’s much larger rear legs.

“Oh shit,” Harlan said, then repeated, “oh shit.”

He couldn’t get in the middle of a dog fight.

Just then the labradors began to back away while whimpering softly. The pit bull suddenly released its grip, and the corgi darted away. The pack quieted in the same way Harlan’s mother had when she first heard the news. The pit bull lowered its head and stood completely still. The towering beast Harlan had encountered the previous evening, Regret, trudged over. It was even more massive in the daylight. The towering jet-black wolfhound approached the pit bull. It swung its head toward Harlan as it passed, not making a sound, as if to say, “can you believe this guy?”

Regret approached the pit bull from its side. The pit bull tucked its tail. Regret lowered its own head, so they were standing snout to snout. An incredibly tense moment passed. The pit bull abruptly dropped to a lying position. A second later it rolled onto its side and lifted a paw. Regret sniffed closely at its underside. Another tense moment passed.

At last Regret raised its head. Harlan exhaled. He hadn’t realized he was holding his breath. Regret sat back on its haunches, and the pit bull righted itself before scurrying away – tail still tucked. Regret now stared at Harlan, opening its powerful jaws to pant lazily.

“Uh, oh, right,” Harlan said, his fingertips still marinating in the salty juice of the hot dog pack. He gripped one of the slippery sausages and chucked it to Regret. Regret snapped it out of the air, chomped twice, and swallowed. Harlan’s hand fell to his side, and immediately the corgi began licking at his fingers.

“Whoa,” Harlan exclaimed, having not anticipated the sticky tongue of the small dog. The corgi’s fur was matted, and its haunch was slick where it had been bitten. Droplets of crimson seeped slowly from its wounds. It was clearly favoring its rear leg, but its behavior was otherwise unchanged.

“You guys need to chill,” Harlan said, sending another hot dog flying toward Regret. The labradors returned to his side and began jostling for a spot to lick his fingers.

His phone pinged. Gloria. “Therapist name: Mara Levin. She’d be good for you” she had written.

Harlan brought a folding chair around to the porch and sat, watching the dogs’ antics for the next few hours. The labradors and the corgi continued to play, though the corgi now took frequent breaks to sit under the shade of a tree. The doberman and rottweiler stayed together, occasionally disappearing into the forest. The pit bull, who Harlan found himself very unhappy with, kept to itself and lay away from the rest of the pack near the foot of a tree. Regret had disappeared. A dachshund made an appearance and ran up to Harlan as if to say “hello.” It carried a small stick in its mouth, which it presented with obvious pride. Harlan took no interest, and the dachshund dropped the stick at his feet. It began yapping.

The sound was terrible and high pitched. Harlan sat up and looked at the little dog.

“Stop,” he said firmly.

The dachshund picked up the stick and looked up at him. It’s brown eyes conveyed heart-wrenching sorrow. Harlan sat back in his chair and closed his eyes. Seconds later the yapping resumed.

“Come on,” he said in exasperation.

Again, the dog picked up the stick and gazed at him. Harlan sat back again. The stick once again clattered against the boards of the porch. The shrill yips resumed.

Harlan sat completely upright this time. He scooped the stick up off the porch and tried to shake off some of the slobber. The yapping intensified. There was a swish as Harlan flicked the stick across the gravel drive. In a flurry of squealing barks, the dachshund rocketed after it.

“You really love to talk, don’t you?” he asked when it returned with what Harlan was sure was a different stick, “I’ll call you Filibuster.”

A foul note was carried on the next morning’s breeze. Rotten and metallic. It made Harlan feel queasy, and finishing his second cup of coffee on the porch was too uncomfortable, so he went inside and sat at the table. Being inside on a day this nice also felt wrong, and even inside the stinging odor didn’t abate. He wondered if a veritable time-bomb, the outhouse, had finally gone off. A slow realization dawned on Harlan that it was his responsibility to investigate. Donning a long-sleeved shirt and overalls seemed appropriate, and he put on heavy hiking boots last. Reemerging into the midmorning sun, he saw a good number of dogs and thought again about their sudden strange presence. At least most of them seemed good-natured.

The odor was most concentrated on the side of the cottage nearest the forest. He walked past the doberman and rottweiler, sitting in their usual spot. Harlan wondered if the smell bothered them. He’d heard that dogs had a more acute sense of smell, but he also knew that their sense of pleasantness and unpleasantness was hopelessly warped. Harlan tried to hold himself back from gagging, but that was next to impossible. A bit further on he found a speckling of blood on the broad leaves of a shrub. A long groan escaped his lips. This could only be bad.

Harlan returned to the cottage and found a half-length shovel leaning by the front door. He wasn’t entirely sure if it was for his protection, or for burying something unsavory he expected to find, but the heavy wood and metal implement felt good in his hands. Returning to the woods, he located the blood speckles. Under careful observation, it became apparent that they formed a path leading off into some thick brush. Harlan followed. He did his best to block the face-level branches that took swings at the back of his head as he passed them. Splotches of blood became more frequent and larger. Terror gripped Harlan, to be sure, but under that was an intense curiosity. He had to know.

Thick leaf duff that covered the ground had been removed in large swathes, as if by some sort of struggle, revealing dark earth. This trail of blood and disturbed brush came to a small clearing in the woods. Harlan gasped and barely managed to keep himself from vomiting. Blood sprayed the clearing. Fur clung to bark. Harlan pulled his shirt over his nose and mouth. It was unbelievable. Nowhere was anything that could be described as a corpse for Harlan to bury, and so he did his best to upturn bits of ground that were particularly gory. This didn’t help with the odor, and Harlan supposed he’d have to let it fade slowly over time - or pray for rain.

On his trek back, now sweaty, Regret emerged from a thick stand of trees, joining at his side. The shock of seeing a wolfhound that stood at his chest level still felt fresh. He looked closely at Regret, which appeared just as it had before. Regret also seemed to be watching him intently, at times dropping behind and following at a short distance. The behavior made Harlan uneasy, but Regret seemed calm, and he had the shovel. Now back at the cottage, Harlan yelled, “Come ‘ere.”

A surprising number of dogs responded. They ran from all corners to stand before him. Regret stood at his side, and Harlan supposed its presence might have had some effect on others. None of them seemed the least bit disheveled. Even the pit bull who had caused issues the day before seemed in good spirits. Abruptly, Harlan noticed that one of the labradors was missing. He scanned the area. Then he heard a whimper come from behind him. Under the porch he saw a pair of reddened paws.

“Okay,” Harlan said firmly, “come on out.”

The labrador wriggled its way out from the crawlspace under the porch. Its actions kicked up a dust cloud, and the dirt became matted in its damp fur. The otherwise light tan coloration around the dog’s jaws and paws was stained in a muted red. Harlan couldn’t believe what he saw. He would have thought Filibuster a more likely culprit than this animal, who seemed to emanate love and goodwill. Harlan was at a total loss, but he could feel the pack watching him. Numerous sets of eyes, now ten pairs or more, burned into his back. He somehow knew he must demonstrate that disorderly conduct wouldn’t be tolerated. It took him several full minutes to come up with a solution as the gaze of the pack remained unbroken.

Harlan’s solution was the least violent he could conceive of, maybe because he didn’t actually believe the labrador could have had anything to do with the bloody mess in the woods. He’d seen a coil of heavy orange rope inside earlier. Harlan tied one end of the rope around a tree and created a sturdy loop with the other end. He called the dog over to him. Of course this didn’t go smoothly. First the wrong dogs came over. Then, at last, the dog he had caught red-pawed approached. Harlan tried to slip the loop around its neck, but he misjudged its distance ever so slightly and the loop fell inertly to the leafy ground. Harlan picked it up to try again, but the labrador was already wise to his efforts. It barked at him and darted away into the woods.

“Yeah, I never did like leashes either,” Harlan called after the labrador.

“A lot of good that did,” Harlan said, turning to Regret, who was still watching him.

The dreams returned. They were short, blurred, and bloody. Most evaporated into the fog as quickly as they emerged, but one stuck with him. He was down on all fours, running alongside several other quadrupeds wrapped in shadow.

Crackling gravel roused Harlan from an afternoon nap. He wiped a bit of drool from the corner of his mouth and stood up from the armchair where he had been snoozing. There was barking, and Harlan stumbled outside – buttoning his flannel as he did. A rust-streaked pickup crawled up the drive. The labradors stood on the porch, and Harlan eyed both wearily as he passed. The stains had faded, and he couldn’t be sure which of the two he mistrusted, so he decided he would mistrust both. The pickup stopped, and a burly man stepped out. He wore thick gray work overalls atop a black t-shirt. Harlan met him halfway.

“Afternoon,” said the man, his voice gruff.

“Good afternoon,” Harlan replied, “I’m Harlan.”

“Jeff,” said the man, they shook hands, “you know you’ve got like twenty strays runnin’ around?”

“Oh,” said Harlan, realizing that the dogs would obviously become a problem at some point.

“Yeah,” the man continued, “we own the camp down the way, and they’ve been making off with food.”

“Just about gnawed through the gas line on my grill,” his irritation was apparent.

“Uh,” Harlan said, “Yeah I noticed some dogs now that you mention it.”

Harlan was confronted by a strange internal conflict. Part of him saw this man, Jeff, as a ray of hope. His appearance was the first thing in days that felt real, material, and normal. On the other hand, he had developed a strange affection for the animals, which spent most of their time playing, sunbathing, or begging him for scraps. Their attachment to Harlan was almost immediate, and it felt like real friendship. Harlan hadn’t felt anything like real friendship since, well, as long as he could remember.

“Well, I should hope so,” said the man, angrier now, “They’re all coming from your lot.”

“My lot,” Harlan repeated. There were many directions that the conversation could take, and none of them felt appropriate.

“I’ll take care of ‘em for ya,” the man said, firmly, “no charge.”

He gestured with his thumb to his truck. Harlan saw a rifle was mounted in the rear window, just in front of a white sticker shaped like a deer skull. Blunt, simple, targetted. The man’s argument resembled his last argument with her.

“Uh, that’s okay,” Harlan said, “They’re not bothering me.”

“They’re not bothering you?” Jeff repeated back in slow disbelief.

“Now listen here,” Jeff yelled, taking a step forward.

Just then, Regret approached slowly from behind Harlan and sat down at his side. Harlan’s hand, which had been hanging loose, rested midway down Regret’s back. Its fur was warm from the sun, and Harlan grabbed a handful.

Jeff took a step back. He hadn’t remembered dogs could be so large.

“They’re not bothering you,” Jeff whispered, taking another step back.

“Nope,” said Harlan.

Without another word, Jeff hopped in his truck and reversed slowly down the lane. Harlan stroked Regret’s neck as he watched the truck disappear around the bend.

Evening fell with unusual gravity. It was as though the humming of insects and rustling of leaves diminished in perfect synchrony with the light. Harlan even noticed the unusually subtle transition, hardly believing that the midday sun had given way to stars. There wasn’t much food in the refrigerator, though Harlan still felt it was his responsibility to feed the pack. He set out a sorry offering: stale chips. Usually this would have brought forth a seething mass of wagging tails and sniffing noses, but the dogs didn’t respond. There were fewer than had been around on previous evenings. The corgi, who Harlan was dismayed to see still walked with a limp, though an endearing one he could easily look past, came over to sniff at the bag but didn’t bother a lick.

Harlan was confused by their lack of enthusiasm. It was hard for him to imagine the dogs had any better option. He shrugged, resolving to visit the grocery store tomorrow and perhaps even purchase a bag of dog food. He spent the evening inside watching an old VHS tape that had been tucked on an exposed rafter. The tape was damaged, and a firm undercurrent of static prevented him from understanding a good portion of the dialogue. It wasn’t particularly engaging, and Harlan couldn’t convince himself to pick up one of the soggy paperbacks that lined a shelf in the kitchen. So, with little to distract him from his own hunger, he went to sleep early. Unlike previous evenings he fell asleep immediately after hitting the sleeping bag.

A rumbling bark woke him. The sound caused the boards of the cottage to vibrate. Something about its tone communicated to Harlan that it was a call he should not ignore. He slipped into a pair of jeans and long-sleeved shirt before descending the stairs to the living room. They creaked under his weight. Another menacing bark made the door rattle in its frame.

“Good lord,” he said, more curious than afraid.

Harlan threw open the door and found himself face-to-face with Regret. The wolfhound had reared up, placing its front paws on the door. Harlan’s eyes widened. Regret stepped backward allowing Harlan to exit the cottage, which he did – still not realizing that he should be afraid.

Stepping outside tripped one of the motion sensors mounted along the cottage. The area was illuminated from above. Harlan couldn’t believe his eyes. Regret stood alone on the porch, but at least twenty dogs of various sizes and breeds formed a semicircle around the two. They all watched. Harlan recognized many of the dogs, but there were new arrivals he hadn’t met. A baritone growl brought Harlan’s attention back to Regret. Sudden realization dawned on him that Regret was usually silent. The sound was startling. Harlan’s blood ran cold.

Then another sharp, loud bark. Regret’s maw opened wide enough for Harlan to glimpse a row of huge teeth. A snarl. Its sound was grisly and shook Harlan to his core. Regret took a step toward him. Harlan took a step back and bumped up against the cottage door. He thought about trying to flee, but Regret was so close. An otherworldly force kept him rooted in place. Regret seemed to tower before him. Another bark. Harlan felt as though his bones were disintegrating and his limbs were filling with a dense liquid. A final bark, and Harlan fell to his knees. His eyes were now perfectly level with those of Regret, and instinctually he dropped his gaze to the boards of the porch. His breaths were quick. Harlan waited.

After a few moments, he felt Regret’s wet nose brush against the back of his neck. Regret inhaled several times, sniffing his collar. Harlan felt as though all the oxygen was ripped from the air by that sound, and he couldn’t breathe. His chest was tight while his heart pulsed rapidly. There was another sniff. Harlan didn’t look up. It was followed by the heavy clunk of Regret’s paws moving away from him. Harlan glanced up with his eyes but stayed where he knelt. Regret had moved to the edge of the porch so that it overlooked the other dogs. Harlan trembled as he watched. Regret looked up at the sky and let out a long howl. The sound lasted for at least thirty seconds. Regret howled again, this time joined by a choir of the other dogs – all in unison. Harlan felt his vocal cords begin to buzz gently and then activate.

“What the hell are you doing?” A particularly shrill version of Gloria’s voice pierced the morning stillness. Harlan felt the sharp tip of a shoe against his ribs.

“Uhh,” he said, barely awake.

She prodded him again in the ribs, and Harlan coughed. He slowly pushed himself into a seated position. His head hurt.

“What?” he asked.

“I said what are you doing?” Gloria replied, her voice angry.

Harlan looked around. He found that he was shirtless, covered in dirt, and lying in the middle of the gravel drive a good distance from the cottage.

“I was . . .” Harlan began, “I don’t know.”

“You don’t know?” Gloria yelled.

“Oof, ouch, don’t yell,” Harlan said, rubbing at his head which throbbed. The light felt too bright for his eyes to make any use of.

“Have you been drinking?” she said.

“I don’t think so,” was his sluggish reply.

“Then what are you doing in the road?” the anger building in Gloria’s voice.

“I don’t know,” he said.

She looked down at him with a mix of fury and pity.

“Harlan,” she said, more softly now, “You need to come back to real life.”

“Let me just think for a minute,” Harlan begged.

“Oh, you need to think,” Gloria gasped, “You need to think. Like that isn’t all you’ve been doing since the elevator closed and she wouldn’t meet your eyes.”

Harlan regretted telling her that story.

“God, just shut up,” Harlan cried. Anger and confusion were blending in his stomach. It felt like an outburst was long overdue.

“Just shut up,” Harlan said again.

“You know what,” Gloria replied, “Fine. You weren’t listening to her then, why would you listen to me now?”

“Have fun with your dogs,” she finished.

Harlan collapsed back onto the gravel drive and listened as Gloria’s footsteps moved away. Her car started, and the crunch of gravel under tires faded.

Harlan lay in the gravel for quite a while after his sister left. The sting of her words lingered, and he simply couldn’t muster the strength to stand. He was also hungry, but he knew there was no food waiting for him. If he wanted to eat, he’d have to get dressed and drive into town. So he just sat.

Eventually Filibuster waddled over to him and brushed against his face. It yapped at him.

“Ah doggo,” Harlan said quietly, not opening his eyes. He petted the little dog. When it wagged its tail, its whole body swung from side to side. Harlan couldn’t help but laugh. He was disappointed when the dog ran away.

But it came back a few minutes later dragging a half-empty bag of chips behind it, which given the dog’s size must have taken considerable effort. Filibuster dropped the bag of chips next to Harlan’s hand. He scooped up a handful and ate them but was disgusted by how soggy they had become.

“Thanks for trying,” he said.

Harlan was eventually able to drag himself back to the cottage, and he even went into town for lunch. For some reason going to the supermarket seemed as though it would be too difficult for him, so he went to a drive-through. His life regained some semblance of normality. Harlan resumed regular meals, he went for swims, and he even got back to a regular sleep schedule. The memory of Regret’s bark still caused the hairs on his arms to stand whenever it came to mind. At the same time, the pack began to thin. Dogs would branch off in twos and threes, and this time they didn’t return. The pit bull was first. Then the doberman and rottweiler. Harlan was sad to see them go. The next day he lost track of the corgi and Filibuster. Harlan felt these departures intimately, as though he were losing a part of himself. He’d stand on the porch listening in the afternoons – expecting to hear the sound of yapping or of dogs wrestling, but there was nothing.

Regret was the last to leave. One evening, after Harlan had settled in for the night, there was a raking sound outside the door. When he opened it, there stood Regret with a raised paw. There was no trace of the threat Harlan had encountered before. Regret looked at him and then lowered his head. Harlan sensed that an important moment had arrived. He scratched the back of Regret’s neck, and then almost lost balance as Regret leaned against him. Again, he was surprised by the hound’s enormity. Regret rubbed its neck back and forth across Harlan’s torso, and its collar slipped off. Regret backed away, and with the tip of its nose nudged the collar toward Harlan. He crouched and picked it up, turning the shining pendant engraved with the word “Regret” in his hand. Regret trotted off in the direction of the woods without a glance back. Harlan knew he wouldn’t see Regret again. The forest was alive with the sound of insects, and the moon was full.