The night is cold. Lose gravel creaks under the soles of my shoes as I stroll down the road inside the park. Tall, old oaks flank my paths on both sides, their hides nearly as old as myself. Wrinkled, rough, riddled with scars of past visitors leaving their marks; how I can relate. As the clock strikes the first hour of a new day, I pass the statue of de la Fontaine and decide to rest for a moment. My breath is condensing, trailing as a misty cloud in front of my face and I get to watch it waft into the distance, spreading and diluting until it disappears, as if to parody the situation. Nothing is how I remember it was way, way back when I first came here. The street lamps were lit with gas, the dark of the night was neigh impenetrable, even for the trained eyes of an apex predator and the lone dame would not dare leave the hose at this hour.
The Ranelagh gardens used to be a hiding ground for all manner of nightly activities. The lone drinker, the working girl, the odd character promising to reveal your future by merely tracing their dirt-stained nail across a seam on your palm. Darkness hid everything, the black of the night would swallow all the sins we were afraid to commit under the judging light of the sun.
But that was a long, long time ago.
Now my ears can pick up the honking of cars, the street lamps do good duty on illuminating the paths and robbing the night of its purpose. I need not so much as turn my head to spot other night owls that walk through the park. Are they here because they miss the night? Or is it just their busy lives that see them active at this hour? I look up to glance over the statue. It is looking back down but not at me, instead fascinated by one of his own fables cast in Bronze just like he is. A smile pinches the corners of my muzzle, egging me on to let it happen and after a moment of consideration, I smile widely.
“Monsieur Fontaine.” I raise my brows in Lew of a hat I could pull in his honor. “Nous ne nous sommes peut-être jamais rencontrés, mais tu me manques comme un cerf.”
And it is true; I do. We were similar in some ways. Our written works have influenced generations, mine the aristocracy, yours the children and yet neither of us had fully mastered the language we used to put them to paper. Fascinating how a powerful idea can overcome such fundamental obstacles. I still thank you to this day for being such an inspiration. Perhaps one day, there will be a statue of me as well. One I didn’t commission myself. As I turn to continue down the path towards Ranelagh Avenue, my brief onset of joy falters and I feel my ears fold with sorrow once more. I had believed a return at night would bring back the memories I sought but all I am feeling is pain. This park, this world has aged and so have I. Memories of myself walking this fine gravel flicker through my head. I remember the tactile feedback on the pads of my toes, the texture of fine rocks, dotted with the occasional sapling and errand seeds of plants.
But what is left of this? I feel compelled to stop once again, facing a large mirror put up at the side of the road. Its frame is made of welded, rusty metal and covered in glued-on shards of itself, the mirror in the frame missing its right half. How poetic. I position myself as the author intended, facing the front as to only observe half my own self. Staring back is a tired, old Lupine. I was so young when I first came here. Full of vigor, full of mistakes, a naïve young man on his way to greatness, dressed in the single, worn trench coat he had brought with him from his home in Romania. He was virile, strong, he climbed the oaks in this very park to sit on the top branches and howl at the moon until the peelers would show up. A Wolf that hunted. A Wolf that watched from the window of the apartment on the opposite street, hoping she’d leave the lights on again tonight.
I was alive.
I remember it so clearly; the rush of air across my face and chest when I ran. Hunched on all fours, my muzzle agape and my tongue rolling back and forth to cool my heated frame. The feeling in my loins as I anticipated the leap forward to catch her. Never again had it felt like this, nothing could ever hope to match the myriad of emotions and impulses that all boiled down in a manic maelstrom to condense into a single moment; my jaws on her neck.
Oh, what I would give to feel it again.
Now I am refined. My body is clad in Cervelt and Cashmere, the scent of the beast of my youth tamed with perfume. Masking my natural scent was my earliest step towards sophistication. But it did not come to me naturally, people always knew. Just like that girl in Lagos, they could always tell.
Not of this world, she had said. I truly understand what she meant now.
The breath chokes in my throat for a moment as I remember; the rough weave of her brown, spotted fur. How her dreadlocks felt between my fingers when I pulled them and the stud on her tongue that graced the roof of my mouth at any opportunity. I wonder what you would have made of my past self. Would you have liked it? I believe so. I glance down at my front, breathing in deeply to make my chest expand and encourage the waistcoat to embrace my frame more tightly. The chest tuft fights the fabric with its volume, still upset to be locked away despite the shirt not being buttoned up all the way. My digitigrades strain as I flex my calves and lift my toes inside the shoes. I remember being so excited when I received my first bespoke pair, even though it was painful to wear them in. Something I had envied my Canine acquaintances for; the common dog’s foot is so much easier to fit. Finally, I slip out of the past again.
I have arrived.
The spot is all but banal. A small cross-section near the Raphaël and Prudhon Avenue, nothing but asphalt and a couple trees. But one of them is special. Here it happened for the first time! The first girl! I stand still and close my eyes, drawing deep breaths to try and evoke the scene again. She was so scared, looking back at me every few meters she ran. The rolling clicks of her hooves on the road, her voice that rang like a bell in my ears.
Bête! She would bleat out. Bête!
When I caught her, I did so leaping. Across the entirely of the intersection! I open my eyes again and glance from one side to the other. It seems frankly absurd to think of performing such a feat but I am certain to not be embellishing it. I was driven by the most primal urges, so pumped full of Testosterone, a bullet to the chest would not have stopped me! But these feelings are fleeting memories now. Looking down at my crotch, I had expected the uncomfortable strain of my endowment begging to be released and be given attention, but my sheath remains calm. Not for a lack of function but lack of care; the scene does not excite me any longer. I feel disappointment clutch my throat; my Adam’s Apple moves in my gullet as I starve off the feeling of petty anger. Why am I not feeling as I used to? Is it the night’s cloak being spread thin by the street lamps? Is it the noises of a city that refuses to rest in the backstage, mocking me with it’s blaring? All I wanted was to hear her sing for me again.
Walking across the street to the lone tree where it happened, I suddenly feel reluctant to pay it a visit. Looking up into its old branches softly waging in the cool wind of the summer night I begin to question whether the problem is me and not the surroundings.
“Guten Abend, alter Freund.”
There he is. A medium-sized Oak with dark, cracked bark. You stopped her for me. You took the impact of us both when I jumped her. I sunk my claws into you when I swatted for her face and she managed to duck. A testimony to my strength, four deep cuts that you stole from her and made your own. I position myself in the same stance I assumed over a century ago and brush my right hand across your bark to feel the scars of that night. But they are not here. For just a moment I feel the world disappear underneath my shoes. A black, gaping hole where I stood that sucks every emotion out of me until nothing remains but resignation. Instead of the scars my hands have brushed a plaquette nailed into your front.
Plantée le Mars 2001
My eyes glare at the small metal rectangle dangling from the plaquette. The small, bold letters laugh in my face, I can hear it ring in my ears. You are gone, the tree is no more, a new one has taken its place. I remain in position for a while longer, my eyes unsure which direction to pick. Finally, the tension in my body loosens and I turn at the spot, walking back the way I came.
