Once There Were Wolves

by Charlotte McConaghy

A man’s anger, his violence, is no one’s responsibility but his own.

isn’t that the way of animals, to break your heart with their courage, with their love.

She’s not a person, who understands right and wrong. You can’t be angry with an animal, can’t hate it, get revenge upon it. That doesn’t make sense. She didn’t kill because she was cruel. She killed because there are instincts in her body telling her to do so, to protect against threats, to survive, sustain herself, live on.

Because whether I feel it or not, whether I love her or not, she has attacked two people. Because if she isn’t put down they all will be. Because this is my job, an awful part of it. But not because she deserves punishment or because I want revenge.

I sink to the ground and place my hand on her forehead, stroking her soft fur. “I’m sorry,” I whisper. “I’m so sorry.” Her eyes look up at me and I open myself to her completely, lay myself bare for her to see, and she does, and dies. All creatures know love. I stroke her for a long time.

I know nothing about hatred or love, about cruelty or kindness. I know nothing.