The Wolf and The Cockatiel

Mr. Wolf and the Cockatiel Across the Hall

         Deep within a small apartment lined with books there lived a wolf. The wolf, who in a fit of convenience was named Mr. Wolf, had collected so many books that the only source of light was one bare bulb swinging from the ceiling. There were so many books that the only way his wallpaper asserted its existence was through a pungent musty aroma that bothered Mr. Wolf to no end. However, Mr. Wolf held a lust for language that would never allow him to lighten his collection.  It was a strange and horrible love that was born of envy. He built himself a palace of novels so that he might glean from them one day the ability to speak. He had already gotten a strange sort of communication going. His friends would usually catch some meaning from the snarls and snaps he began to associate with certain objects and ideas.  He was content with his progress until The Cockatiel moved in across the hall.

         Mr. Wolf saw The Cockatiel moving in dressed in full regalia. He wore a smart trilby which perfectly suppressed his wild crest, a tailored vest which hid all but the gleaming white feathers of his arms, pleated pants which covered his gnarly reptilian legs, and leather wingtips which elegantly hid his fierce talons.  Mr. Wolf soon learned that The Cockatiel had learned how to speak. It was shaky. It was primitive. But, it was the King 's English. Mr. Wolf immediately hated The Cockatiel with every shivering timber of silver fur covering his body, but as soon as the others in the building learned about The Cockatiel, he was the life of every party. He would say all sorts of things that Mr. Wolf knew to be disengenuine. Mr. Wolf knew the source material. The Cockatiel's parlor tricks came from the stacks of books which Mr. Wolf held so dear. The Cockatiel conjured Hemmingway and wooed every woman creature in ear shot. He would go home with a different animal each night, whispering the contrived, yet deeply enchanting worlds he had learned to regurgitate into their ears. They giggled and swooned. They bowed to his mystifying and undulating tongue. Mr. Wolf was furious. He snarled and snapped to himself in his apartment. His fangs were brandished at the phantoms of the night as he sat alone in his palace of tomes. He felt betrayed by the legions of literature which adorned every available surface of his lodging. The Cockatiel was a hissing tape recorder which played back the most unfaithful shadows of Mr. Wolf's beloved worlds. Mr. Wolf seethed and writhed and fumed until morning.

         Mr. Wolf happened to exit his rage the next morning to behold The Cockatiel escorting last night's feminine bounty out of his apartment. She was also a wolf. Mr. Wolf looked into her eyes and what looked back was a deep and murderous creativity which was painful and beautiful to behold like the rays of the sun. She cracked a fanged smile so cruel and lovely that Mr. Wolf could say nothing. Her tweed shorts played with the silken, silvery fur of her legs and became one with the earthen suede ankle boots covering her feet. These features aligned and became perfection with only the vaguest hint that something was missing. Mr. Wolf was stunned. And, yet, he was brought crashing back to this world by the warbling squawk of The Cockatiel's morning greeting.  It was a hackneyed quote of some kind. It was one Mr. Wolf didn't recognize, but it roughly translated to good morning. The Wolf Girl kept her gaze on Mr. Wolf and retained her frighteningly mystifying smile. The Cockatiel seemed a bit displeased but retained his composure and bid Mr. Wolf goodbye for the day. Mr. Wolf used his usual snarl to bid him adieu. He watched the Wolf Girl walk away with The Cockatiel. What he spotted nestled above the Wolf Girl's hypnotic backside was the freshly bandaged stump of a freshly cropped tail. Mr. Wolf was furious again.

         He bided. He waited. He steamed. He stewed. Mr. Wolf sat alone in his apartment with his cunning, yellow eyes fixed on his door, and his keen ears trained to the sounds in the hallway. He waited for The Cockatiel and the Wolf Girl to return. Eventually his patience was rewarded when he heard two sets of footsteps approaching. Mr. Wolf stepped into the hall and put himself between The Cockatiel and his door. Fiery, indignant blood pumped through Mr. Wolf's veins. He panted heavily and presented his toothiest, most sinister, gaping grin to The Cockatiel. Mr. Wolf snarled and snapped something that roughly translated to, "What the fuck did you do?" The Cockatiel spat out a butchered quote that roughly translated to "What the fuck are you doing?" But, of course, neither had any idea what the other had said.  In a flash, Mr. Wolf wrapped his powerful jaws around The Cockatiel's neck. He clamped down and felt his mouth fill with the rush of fresh blood and the snap of tendons. He searched with his tongue for the Cockatiel's silver voice box and tore it out. He swallowed the precious instrument in one bite. Mr. Wolf felt the warm, red fluid drip onto the floor and coagulate into the fur on his mouth. Mr. Wolf listened to The Cockatiel's pathetic, gasps and squawks of terror and futility. Mr. Wolf watched The Cockatiel's eyes fill with innocent fear and dart frantically in search of freedom, a savior, or justice. Mr. Wolf watched The Cockatiel's fine hat roll off of his head and expose his wild crest. Mr. Wolf watched the small drop of life fade out of The Cockatiel's eye.  Mr. Wolf felt the gut wrenching terror of the Wolf Girl's gaze on his back. The palpable look of pure shock lingered briefly, and then disappeared. The Wolf Girl fled, forever. Mr. Wolf looked down at the Cockatiel and felt shame. He felt fear. He reached deep within and pulled forth a deep and coppery howl. In her hiding place, the Wolf Girl swooned. Mr. Wolf fell to his knees and wept.