Yes, you read that correctly, last night, alone on my kitchen floor, I screamed in pain and in terror as I pushed five puppies from my birth canal.
I’m hungry, tired and incredibly afraid. I don’t know what to do and this is all my fault… but it could happen to you too, under the right circumstances. Or should I say, very wrong circumstances.
I’m 36, divorced, and I live in the English countryside. I used to live in London with my ex-husband. He worked in “the city”, a part of London where all the big banks are, trading stocks or bonds or whatever the fuck it is those sleazy suits do to keep our economy on a knife edge.
We were well-to-do, we had a three bed flat, a new Audi and went on beach holiday’s at least six times a year . But I can now admit that my ex was an utter twat, and I was not happy. He cared more about his work than he did about me, there was no love in our marriage, or sex. We tried therapy and near the end we even tried having an open relationship, but that only made things worse.
I was sick of London, of the traffic and the crammed tube, sick of the fried chicken shops and overflowing pubs, sick of the “fatburgs” that haunted our sewers and the smell of piss on every corner. So after the divorce, we sold our flat and I spent my share on a little farmhouse with a couple of acres of land in the country.
The English countryside is lovely, if you can see past the rain and the mud and that smell of natural decay that everyone mistakes for “fresh air”. At least compared to London it was lovely. But it was also lonely.
It was a year after my divorce that the loneliness really started to get to me. It was hard to meet men in the country, I was a stranger there, the villages are small, tight-knit communities. The few available men were a bit simple for my liking, sheep farmers and tractor drivers.
After dating a banker, I was now after a more intellectual man. Someone who enjoyed art galleries, long walks in the woods and crossword puzzles! Please let there be a man nearby that shares my love for crosswords! But those men are in short supply out here in the country.
So I was lonely, and not only that but my biological clock was ticking, I had always wanted kids and now I was starting to fear I was going to miss the boat.
So I got a dog. Or in a way I inherited one. I was driving back from the shops, along the narrow winding country lanes flanked by hedgerows, when I slammed on the brakes. In the middle of the road stood the most handsome dog I’d ever seen. He was of no determinable breed but he was wolf-like, had a lush coat, alert ears, a proud posture and stunning blue eyes.
As the dog was blocking the narrow road, I put my hazards on and got out.
There was no one in sight in the neighbouring fields but I assumed this was a farm dog, belonging to one of the locals.
When I tried to draw the dog away from the road he licked my hand. I must have stayed there for ten minutes stroking his super soft coat.
When I finally returned to my car the dog followed, and when he caught sight of my groceries in the back seat he whimpered, those big round eyes begging for a feed. The way the dog gobbled up the ham it was obvious he was starving, so I took him with me in my car, along the narrow lanes, knocking on nearby doors in search of his owner.
No one knew who the dog belonged to. So that evening I went out and posted FOUND DOG signs with a picture of my new friend. I posted them all down the road and in the local village.
Three days went by, then I got a call. It was from an elderly gentleman who told me that the dog belonged to his recently deceased neighbour, and that the dog had run off when she died.
I asked him if he wanted the dog and he said “Oh no! that would be quite impossible.” and then wished me a good day.
So that is how Wolfie, as I named him, came to be mine. And he did a very good job of curing my loneliness. I still longed for a man, at least for a man’s touch, but Wolfie was very much a loyal companion. A companion I could spoil, exercising my growing motherly instincts.
Two weeks after inheriting Wolfie, my neighbours paid me a visit. Their home was in the adjacent field, and although they didn’t visit often, they would occasionally call to the house, bringing home-cooked treats such as scotch eggs and scones.
Today my neighbour, Mrs. Shippman, was distressed. She had come by to warn me. The night before, she and her husband had heard a banging on the window while they were watching the tele’. They turned to see a man’s face, out there in the dark, nose pressed against the glass. When they switched on the light, the man disappeared.
“The police found footprints in the mud outside our window, footprints from bare feet!” she exclaimed.
Her story disturbed me, things like this might be expected in London, but out here in the fields, without a pub for miles… I suddenly felt very glad that I had Wolfie, due to his size he would scare off intruders and if I were put in a dangerous situation, Wolfie would fight to protect me.
A month later, I was boiling tea in the kitchen, when I saw the forensics people pacing slowly through my field. They were wearing disposable white coveralls, examining the muddy ground beneath them and placing yellow markers as they went.
As I watched them I received a knock on my door. The police informed me that there was a break-in at the Shippman’s house, both husband and wife had been killed. They asked me if I had seen or heard anything, they said that tracks of the suspected killer had been found not just around their house, but on my property as well. They showed me CCTV footage from outside the Shippman house to see if I could identify the suspect. He was bearded, with long hair and he was totally naked.
I was horrified. To think that this nude lunatic was creeping around my house, looking through my windows, it was terrifying. I could not stay there. That same day, I packed my suitcases. Wolfie and I moved into a bed and breakfast in the local village. I loved my little farmhouse but I decided I would either sell it, or wait until the killer had been caught before moving back in.
And a few days later, I met someone. I was sat in the village coffee & cake shop, working from my laptop when he came in. A good looking man, solidly built, his clothes and hands dotted with all colours of paint. He struck up a conversation with me, which led to dinner, then to drinks and finally back to the rickety bed in the old B&B. And so overnight, I was cured.
Barry was an artist, like me he was escaping London. He had rented a small studio in a barn where he could work on his paintings in peace. He lived outside the barn in a small campervan.
We started to see each other almost every day for the next two weeks. It got to the point where the owner of the B&B had to have a word with me. She said that the walls are thin, and that they could hear everything. I was embarrassed and when I told Barry about it, he convinced me it was time to move back into my house. He said he would move with me and I would be much safer with him around.
There had been no news from the police about the murders, as far as we knew the killer was still at large. The story had leaked to The Sun, which reported horrific details of the murders. According to the tabloid, the Shippman’s had been torn apart by the assailant’s teeth.
So Barry, Wolfie and I, all moved back to my farmhouse. Barry and Wolfie did not really get along. In fact Wolfie did not seem to like any men at all. He would growl at any man who came near me in the village. I think he was just being protective, and may have had a bad experience with men earlier in his life.
I hoped that Barry and Wolfie would become friends, but Barry did not make much of an effort. He actually suggested building a kennel for Wolfie so that he could live outside. But I insisted Wolfie wasn’t going anywhere.
There were other problems with Barry, and I think because of my loneliness I overlooked most of his flaws. For one, he did not contribute at all once we moved in together. He did not offer to pay any rent, he didn’t cook or buy groceries and did very little in the way of cleaning. He would spend long days at the studio and then come back at night to eat, drink and fuck.
The biggest problem was that Barry didn’t like kids. I asked him early in our relationship what he thought about children, “little bastards,” he said. So it was around this time, when I was reconsidering our relationship, that something horrible happened.
Barry had been drinking, we both had a few too many actually, and fell asleep on the couch. I woke up to hear clamouring coming from the kitchen, I assumed it was Wolfie and went down the hall to investigate. In the hallway a painting of a cat had been ripped in two.
As I called out to Wolfie the shuffling of feet went from the kitchen into the dining room. As I got to the kitchen I was shocked to see food strewn everywhere. The fridge was wide open as were all the cabinets. Food packages and scraps were scattered across the floor and countertop.
I started to panic and called for Barry. The shuffling feet went from the dining room to the front door. I armed myself with a small steel frying pan and crept towards the front door.
The door was wide open, swinging back and forth in the wind. I stepped outside to look into the darkness, it must have been early morning, as the sky on the horizon was a deep red.
I heard a rustling in the bushes, then the door blew shut behind me. Oh god! My keys were inside. I banged on the door urging Barry to wake up.
Then I saw it emerge from the foliage. The man, a beastly man, long hair, grizzly beard, he snarled at me and I ran. I ran around to the back of the house where the living room window was.
I banged on the glass of the back door. Screaming at Barry to let me in, finally he woke in confusion but it was too late. The naked man rounded the side of the house, coming towards me like an ape, his hands digging into the ground as he charged.
I ran into the field, sticks and gravel digging into my bare feet. I slipped in the mud. I fell face first, dropping the sauté pan.
I scrambled to grab the pan as the beast descended on me. As my hand found the handle I spun around in the mud swinging blindly at the predator, there was a clang as the pan caught him in the cheek.
The beast was stunned and I managed to run back towards the house. Barry had emerged armed with an umbrella. Barry’s eyes widened in fear as he saw the wild man making ground behind me.
“Get in the house!” I yelled as I came running past Barry, the snarling man just behind me. Barry ignored me and instead swung the umbrella like a cricket bat - the wild man caught it in his teeth, pulling Barry off balance.
I watched in horror as our attacker bared his canines and lunged at Barry’s throat. A shower of blood erupted as the beast tore ribbons off flesh from his neck. Barry was on the ground now, helpless, the beast hunched over him.
I backed away and into the house. I needed to call the police. As I slammed the door I took one last look through the glass.
The sun broke the horizon, a piercing golden globe, casting light onto the bloody scene. And as the light struck the wild man he transformed. To my horror he transformed into a dog. But not just any dog. It was Wolfie.
I spent most of the next day digging. Digging a grave in the field. As I dug through my tears, I wasn’t sure if the grave was for Barry or for Wolfie. But it’s Barry’s body which ended up there, four feet deep in the mud.
The police would never have believed me. I would have lost Wolfie or they would have looked at Barry’s injuries and determined them to be human teeth marks, potentially even blaming me. It was cleaner this way, nobody even knew Barry was living with me.
The next time Wolfie transformed was a month later. It was so strange to see his furry body twist and bend into a fleshy and muscular male human. He did not go wild this time but was instead calm.
I had the urge to touch him, to pet his long hair. To stroke his beard and feel his soft skin. And Wolfie seemed to enjoy it.
I thought I should maybe dress him, was it wrong to stare in awe at his naked human body? Instead I decided to take a pair of scissors and trim his hair and beard. I trimmed it short and he looked almost respectable.
I wondered if when he turned back to dog form whether his hair would be shorter.
The way he looked at me was like no other man had looked at me before. Piercing blue eyes radiating unconditional love and loyalty.
And so I wrapped my arms around him, and I kissed the wild man. It may have been the wrong thing to do, but it felt so right at the time. The next morning I awoke in bed, my arm across the sleeping dog.
Wolfie’s transformations became natural to me. I grew excited when the next full moon approached. Excited to see my wild man again. But then one day Wolfie disappeared. And a huge hole in my heart began to grow. Little did I know that something else was growing in my womb.
If you have any advice for me I would be more than willing to hear it, but please don’t be mean. I know what I’ve done is wrong and I know many will read this with disgust. But as I lay here nursing five blue eyed pups, I feel a certain mother’s attachment to them, these are after all, my children.