The thing about being scratched by a werewolf is that nobody tells you about the paperwork.
I mean, sure, you expect the full moon transformations, the excessive body hair, the sudden craving for raw meat, the howling at 3 AM that makes the neighbors call the HOA. That's all in the brochure, so to speak. But what they don't cover in any of the movies, what Hollywood conveniently leaves out every single time, is that becoming a creature of the night doesn't exempt you from the relentless, grinding machinery of suburban marriage.
My name is Gary Henderson. I'm forty-three years old, I sell insurance for a living, which is basically already like being a vampire, sucking the joy out of people's lives one policy at a time, and as of last Tuesday, I am also a werewolf. And I have to tell you, it's been the greatest thing that's ever happened to my ability to win arguments with my wife.
But I'm getting ahead of myself.
The scratch itself happened during what was supposed to be a routine camping trip. My buddy Doug convinced me that we needed to "reconnect with nature" and "get back to our primal roots," which I now realize was deeply ironic given that I would, in fact, be getting back to my primal roots in the most literal sense possible. We were in the Poconos, which is nature's way of saying, "Here is a forest that is close enough to civilization that you can still get Domino's delivered if you stand on the ridge with your phone held high enough."
It was the second night. Doug had drunk enough craft beer to tranquilize a rhinoceros and was snoring in his tent like a chainsaw having an existential crisis. I was outside, supposedly guarding the cooler from bears but really just staring at the stars and wondering if this was what my life had become: middle-aged camping trips where the highlight was checking for ticks before bed.
That's when I heard the rustling.
Now, in every horror movie ever made, the protagonist always investigates the strange noise. They always walk toward the danger, usually while whispering "Hello?" in a trembling voice, as if the machete-wielding maniac might respond with, "Oh, hi there, yes, I'm in the bushes, just finishing up my murder prep, give me five minutes."
I am not a movie protagonist. I am a man who has been married for fifteen years. I know when to mind my own business. So when I heard the rustling, I did what any sensible married man would do: I pretended I didn't hear it and focused very intently on my beer.
But the rustling persisted. And then came the growl. Not a bear growl. Not a coyote. This was a growl with texture. It had layers, like a fine wine or a particularly complex resentment. It sounded like gravel being poured over velvet, if that velvet was also angry.
I turned slowly. And there, standing between two pine trees that framed it like nature's own theatrical production, was the largest wolf I had ever seen. And I've seen wolves at the zoo, which I now understand is like saying you've seen a tiger because you once looked at a house cat through a magnifying glass.
This thing was massive. Its shoulders came up to my chest. Its eyes reflected the campfire light with an intelligence that was deeply unsettling, like it knew exactly what my credit score was and was disappointed in me. Its fur was matted and dark, almost black in the moonlight, and its teeth... well, let's just say I understood immediately why people in werewolf movies always look so surprised when they get bitten. It's not the pain; it's the sheer dental real estate on display.
I should have run. I know that now. But instead, I did something incredibly stupid: I tried to reason with it.
"Nice wolf," I said, holding up my hands in what I hoped was a placating gesture. "Good wolf. I'm just going to slowly back away and go into my tent, and you can have whatever's in the cooler. There's some very expensive gouda in there that Doug was saving for breakfast, and honestly, he's been so insufferable about this whole 'digital detox' thing that you would be doing me a favor."
The wolf tilted its head. I took this as a good sign. In retrospect, I think it was just trying to decide which part of me to eat first.
"See, my wife, she doesn't even know I'm here," I continued, because apparently when faced with mortal danger I become incapable of shutting up. "She thinks I'm at a conference in Philadelphia. She doesn't understand that a man needs to get away sometimes, you know? A man needs to feel wild. Unconstrained. Free to drink beer in the woods without someone asking if he's taken his blood pressure medication."
The wolf took a step closer. Its nose twitched.
"Right, you probably don't care about blood pressure. You're all about the cholesterol, I bet. Red meat. Hearts. Livers. All that stuff my wife won't let me eat because she says my LDL is 'concerning.'"
Another step. I could smell it now, a musky, wild scent that made every primitive alarm bell in my brain clang simultaneously.
"Okay, look," I said, my voice cracking slightly. "I'm going to slowly reach for my phone and call animal control, and we're both going to pretend this never happened. I won't tell anyone I saw a giant wolf in Pennsylvania, and you don't tell anyone that I lied to my wife about a conference. Deal?"
I reached for my back pocket. The wolf interpreted this as a threat. There was a blur of motion, a sensation like being hit by a furry truck, and then, pain. Not the agony of being eaten alive that I expected, but a sharp, burning line across my left forearm as the wolf's claw raked across my skin.
I screamed. Doug, in his tent, mumbled something about "turning down the AC" and went back to snoring.
The wolf backed away, shook itself like a dog after a bath, and looked at me with what I can only describe as regret. Not the "I shouldn't have eaten that" regret, but more like the "I just gave my email to a timeshare salesman" regret. It whined once, low and mournful, then turned and loped off into the darkness, leaving me bleeding on the pine needles and questioning every life choice that had led me to this moment.
I sat there for ten minutes, holding my arm, watching blood well up in four perfect parallel lines. It wasn't deep enough to need stitches, I decided. It was just a scratch. A really bad scratch from a really big dog. Or wolf. Or... whatever.
I cleaned it with the first aid kit Doug had insisted we bring ("Safety first, Gary!"), wrapped it in gauze, and went to bed. By morning, the wound had already started to heal, which I attributed to my robust constitution and definitely not to anything supernatural.
I was wrong, of course. But I wouldn't realize how wrong until the next full moon.
Three weeks later, I was standing in my backyard at 2 AM, naked except for a pair of tube socks I couldn't seem to shake off, howling at the moon while my wife watched from the kitchen window with an expression that I can only describe as "resigned disappointment elevated to an art form."
The transformation had started around midnight. I'd been watching a nature documentary about wolves, apparently my algorithm had become sentient and ironic, and suddenly I felt... different. Hot. itchy. Like my skin was two sizes too small and my bones were auditioning for a rearrangement.
I made it to the bathroom before the first changes started. The hair was first. Not gradual, not "oh look I'm getting furrier," but sudden, violent, agricultural. It was like someone had taken a grass seed spreader filled with hair follicles and just gone to town on my body. I went from "balding insurance salesman" to "woolly mammoth's distant cousin" in approximately four minutes.
The claws came next. My fingernails didn't just grow; they restructured, thickening and curving and turning into these yellowed, wicked-looking things that tore through my favorite button-down shirt like it was tissue paper. I watched in the mirror as my face... shifted. My jaw cracked and extended, my nose flattened and darkened, my ears migrated up the sides of my head like they were trying to escape the chaos of my transformation.
It didn't hurt, exactly. It felt like... stretching. Like when you wake up after sleeping weird and your whole body cracks in a satisfying way, except this was every bone in my body simultaneously, and instead of feeling relief, I felt hungry. So hungry. Hungry in a way that made the concept of "cooked food" seem offensive. I wanted meat. Raw, red, dripping meat. I wanted to chase things and bring them down and feel their heat in my mouth.
I also, inexplicably, wanted to dig a hole in the backyard.
By the time I was fully transformed, I had lost the capacity for rational thought. I was all instinct and sensation and the overwhelming need to mark my territory. I burst out of the bathroom door, tearing it off its hinges, which would be expensive later, and ran down the stairs on legs that bent wrong, that ended in paws instead of feet. I crashed through the sliding glass door, also expensive, and found myself in the backyard, under the full moon, feeling more alive than I had in twenty years.
I howled. It wasn't a choice; it was a requirement. The sound started deep in my chest, this rumbling bass note that built and built until it burst out of my throat in a long, ululating cry that spoke of ancient forests and hunting packs and the pure, uncomplicated joy of being a predator in a world of prey.
The backyard fence was nothing to me. I jumped it in a single bound, landing in the Hendersons' yard next door (no relation, which has always been awkward at block parties). Their dog, a yappy little chihuahua named Emperor Napoleon, took one look at me and immediately remembered his wolf ancestry, diving into his doghouse and refusing to come out for three days.
I ran. Through yards, through the small patch of woods at the end of the cul-de-sac, across the golf course where I may have dug several holes that would confuse golfers for weeks. I ran until my paws were sore and my lungs burned and the hunger in my belly became a roar that matched the one in my throat.
And then I smelled it. Food. Close. Domestic.
I found myself back at my own house, staring through the broken sliding glass door at my wife, Deborah, who was standing in the kitchen in her nightgown, holding a frying pan like she was considering whether to cook me or beat me to death with it.
"Gary?" she said, squinting at me. "Is that you?"
I tried to say "yes," but what came out was a whine that sounded like a garbage disposal trying to sing opera.
"Oh my God," she said, not dropping the frying pan. "You actually did it. You actually got yourself turned into a werewolf."
I tilted my head, which is wolf for "how did you know?"
"Doug called me," she said, her voice flat. "He said you got scratched by something big on your 'conference' trip. He said you were acting weird when you got back. He said, and I quote, 'Deborah, I think Gary might be a werewolf now, and also he owes me for the gouda.'"
I whined again, trying to look apologetic. It's hard to look apologetic when you have fangs the size of steak knives.
"Well," she said, setting down the frying pan and crossing her arms. "I suppose this explains why you've been leaving your clothes everywhere. 'The wolf made me do it.' That's going to be your excuse now, isn't it?"
I hadn't thought about it, but yes. Yes, that was absolutely going to be my excuse.
"Gary, you are not a wolf," she said, pointing at me with the authority of fifteen years of marriage. "You are a middle-aged man with a condition. And conditions can be managed. You will not track mud into this house. You will not howl at inappropriate hours. You will not—I repeat, will not—bring dead things into my kitchen. Do you understand me?"
I sat. It seemed like the right move.
"Good," she said. "Now, since you're apparently going to be like this every full moon, we need to establish some ground rules. First, you will transform in the basement. I've already put down some tarps. Second, you will wear the shock collar I bought for Emperor Napoleon when he wouldn't stop barking, don't give me that look, it's for your own safety. Third, you will not, under any circumstances, use this as an excuse to get out of mowing the lawn. In fact, I expect you to mow it better now that you have enhanced strength. And fourth..."
She stepped closer, close enough that I could smell her perfume, her shampoo, the unique Deborah-scent that had meant home to me for a decade and a half. She looked into my eyes, my yellow, lupine eyes, and said, with the gravity of a judge delivering a sentence:
"You still have to put your dishes in the dishwasher, Gary. Being a werewolf doesn't make you exempt from basic hygiene. I don't care if you have to use your mouth to carry the plate. It goes in the dishwasher. Not the coffee table. Not the sink. The dishwasher."
I whined.
"Don't you 'poor me' me," she said. "You chose to go camping. You chose to get scratched. You chose to lie to me about the conference. And now you will choose to be a responsible werewolf. Do I make myself clear?"
I nodded. It was a strange sensation, nodding with a wolf's neck, but I managed.
"Good," she said. "Now come inside before you wake the neighbors. And Gary?"
I looked at her.
"If you even think about using this to justify getting a 'girlfriend' because 'wolves are pack animals,' I will silver-bullet you myself. I looked it up. It's legal in this state if your husband is a supernatural threat to the community."
I believed her. I still believe her.
That was my first full moon. That was the night I learned that being a werewolf doesn't make you the alpha of your own home. That was the night I realized that my wife, Deborah Henderson, was the true apex predator of our suburban ecosystem.
But it was also the night I realized something else: being a werewolf gave me options. It gave me leverage. It gave me a supernatural excuse for every petty, annoying, husbandly thing I'd ever wanted to do but had been too socially conditioned to attempt.
I was scratched by a werewolf, so...
So everything was about to change.
The next morning, I woke up naked in the basement, covered in tarp, with a splitting headache and a taste in my mouth that I can only describe as "small woodland creature." The transformation had reversed sometime before dawn, leaving me human again but with a newfound appreciation for opposable thumbs and clothing.
Deborah was already up, making coffee in the kitchen. She looked at me as I stumbled up the stairs, wrapped in a sheet like a Roman senator who'd made poor life choices.
"There's breakfast," she said, not looking up from her phone. "Eggs. Bacon. You're going to need the protein."
I sat at the table, my human fingers wrapped around a human coffee mug, and felt a profound sense of relief mixed with disappointment. The wolf was gone, but the memory of it remained, how it felt to run, to hunt, to be free of the crushing weight of human responsibility.
"So," Deborah said, setting down her phone. "We need to talk about your... condition."
"Deborah, I..."
"Don't," she said, holding up a hand. "Don't apologize. Don't explain. I don't want to hear about how you 'needed to feel alive' or how the 'call of the wild was too strong' or any of that midlife crisis nonsense. You're a werewolf now. Fine. We'll deal with it. But we are going to deal with it my way."
"Your way?"
"Yes. I've already made a list." She pulled out a notebook. "First, you're going to the doctor. Not a regular doctor—a specialist. I found one online. Dr. Aris Thorne. He deals with 'unusual conditions.' He's expecting you tomorrow."
"Tomorrow? But I have work..."
"You sell insurance, Gary. You can email people about deductibles from anywhere. Second, you're going to tell Doug that if he ever takes you camping again without telling me first, I will personally ensure that he joins you in lycanthropy. Third, and most importantly..."
She leaned forward, her eyes narrowing.
"You will not use this as an excuse to be a slob. I mean it, Gary. I will not become one of those long-suffering wives in movies who has to put up with her husband's supernatural mess because 'he can't help it.' You can help it. You will help it. Or I will help you help it with a rolled-up newspaper and a stern talking-to."
I stared at her. "You realize I'm a werewolf, right? A creature of the night? A fearsome beast?"
"You're a forty-three-year-old man who can't remember to put the toilet seat down," she said. "The only thing fearsome about you is your credit card debt. Now eat your breakfast. You have a lawn to mow."
"But it's Sunday..."
"Especially because it's Sunday. The neighbors are watching. They heard you last night. Mrs. Gonzalez from next door called to ask if we were 'doing some kind of outdoor theater production.' I told her you were practicing for a community play. About wolves. For charity."
I ate my eggs. I ate my bacon. I drank my coffee. And as I did, a plan began to form in my mind, a petty, ridiculous, completely immature plan that would test the boundaries of Deborah's "my way or the highway" approach to my new condition.
If I was going to be a werewolf, I was going to be the most annoying werewolf possible. Not dangerous. Not scary. Just... difficult. Just... petty. Just... exactly the kind of husband who leaves his clothes on the floor because "the wolf made me do it."
It was going to be a long month until the next full moon.
But oh, was it going to be worth it.
That first week was all about establishing the new normal. I went to see Dr. Thorne, who turned out to be a surprisingly normal-looking man in his sixties with a practice in a strip mall between a vape shop and a store that sold nothing but different varieties of hot sauce.
"Ah, Mr. Henderson," he said, looking up from my file. "Lycanthropy, is it? Fresh case?"
"Three weeks," I said, showing him my arm. The scratch had healed to four thin white lines, barely visible.
"Classic presentation," he said, nodding. "The Poconos, you said? Yes, we've had a surge in Pennsylvania cases. Something about the deer population and encroaching development. The wolves are getting desperate. Desperate wolves make desperate choices."
"So can you... cure me?"
He laughed. It was not a comforting laugh. "Cure? Mr. Henderson, lycanthropy isn't a disease. It's a condition. Like being left-handed or having perfect pitch. You don't cure it; you manage it. You learn to live with it. You find the balance between your human life and your... other nature."
"So I'm stuck like this? Forever?"
"Forever is a long time," he said. "But yes, you'll transform every full moon for the rest of your life. However, with proper management, medication, therapy, lifestyle adjustments, you can minimize the impact on your daily life. Many of my patients lead perfectly normal, productive lives. One of them is a state senator. Another is a pastry chef. You'd never know they spent three nights a month eating raw venison and howling at the moon."
He prescribed me a series of supplements, iron, silver extract (in homeopathic doses, "to take the edge off"), and something called "wolfsbane tea" that tasted like lawn clippings and regret. He also gave me a pamphlet titled "So You're a Werewolf: A Guide to Productive Coexistence."
"Read it," he said. "And Mr. Henderson? The first year is the hardest. Your body is adjusting. Your instincts are developing. You'll find yourself wanting to do... things. Chase things. Mark things. Establish dominance. My advice? Find healthy outlets. Exercise. Competitive sports. Maybe avoid dog parks for a while."
I went home with my pamphlet and my supplements and a newfound sense that my life had become a very strange sitcom.
Deborah was waiting.
"Well?" she said.
"I'm a werewolf," I confirmed. "Officially. Dr. Thorne says it's permanent but manageable."
"Of course it is," she said. "Everything is manageable with proper organization. Now, I've been thinking about your... episodes. The basement is fine for the transformation itself, but we need to address the behavioral aspects. I've prepared a schedule."
She handed me a color-coded chart.
"Every full moon, you will spend the night in the basement. I've soundproofed the walls—yes, already, I had the contractor come while you were at the doctor. You will have access to water and the raw meat I'll purchase from the butcher. You will not have access to the rest of the house. You will not dig in the garden. You will not howl after 10 PM. And in the mornings, you will clean up after yourself like a civilized person."
I looked at the chart. It was very thorough. It included meal times, bathroom breaks, and a "quiet hour" from 2-4 AM.
"Deborah," I said, "I'm a wild animal. You can't just... schedule me."
"You're my husband," she said. "And I have scheduled you for fifteen years. This is no different. Now, the other thing, we need to talk about your day-to-day behavior. Dr. Thorne mentioned that you might experience... urges. Heightened instincts. The desire to assert dominance or mark territory."
"Yeah, he said..."
"So I've bought you a gym membership," she interrupted. "You will go three times a week and lift heavy things until you don't feel the need to assert dominance in my living room. You will also start running in the mornings. Not chasing, mind you. Running. On a track. Like a person."
"But..."
"And finally," she said, her voice taking on that tone that had ended a thousand arguments over the years, "you will not use this as an excuse to be disgusting. I don't care if you 'feel the call of the wild.' I don't care if your 'wolf nature' wants to shed on the furniture. You will vacuum. You will dust. You will maintain basic standards of cleanliness, or I will call Animal Control and have you taken to a shelter. Do I make myself clear?"
I opened my mouth to protest, to explain that I was a creature of instinct now, that I couldn't be held to normal human standards, that the wolf inside me demanded freedom and expression and the right to leave my socks wherever I damn well pleased.
But then I looked at her face. At the set of her jaw. At the way her hand rested on her hip, ready to grab that frying pan at a moment's notice.
And I knew that if I wanted to win this war, and it was a war, make no mistake, a war for the soul of our marriage and the territory of our home, I would have to be subtle. I would have to be clever. I would have to be petty.
"Yes, dear," I said.
"Good," she said. "Now go mow the lawn. It's getting long, and I don't care if you're having a 'lycanthropic episode.' The grass doesn't care either."
I mowed the lawn. But as I did, I began to formulate my plan. If Deborah wanted to play hardball, I would play... soft ball. Annoying ball. The kind of ball that leaves its clothes on the floor and its dishes on the coffee table and refuses to acknowledge that anything is wrong because "the wolf made me do it."
I was scratched by a werewolf, so...
So the game was on.
That night, I started small. I left my shoes in the hallway. Not in the closet where they belonged, not even neatly by the door. Just... in the hallway. In the middle of the walkway. Where Deborah would trip over them in the morning.
She did. At 6:15 AM, I heard the thud, the curse, and then the sound of my shoes being thrown against the wall with considerable force.
"Gary!" she shouted. "Your shoes!"
I pretended to be asleep. I heard her stomp into the bedroom, felt her standing over the bed, sensed her glaring at me with the intensity of a thousand suns.
"Gary, I know you're awake."
I opened one eye. "Hmm? What's that, dear?"
"Your shoes. In the hallway. Why?"
I stretched, making a show of it, adding a little extra crack to my neck for effect. "Oh, sorry about that. Must have been the wolf."
"The wolf."
"Yeah, you know. Wolf instincts. They like to... mark their territory. Leave things places. Establish presence."
"Your shoes are not territory," she said. "They are Clarks. Size eleven. And they belong in the closet."
"But Deborah, I can't help it. The lycanthropy—"
"Is not an excuse for being a slob," she finished. "Put the shoes away, Gary. Now."
I put the shoes away. But I didn't put them neatly away. I jammed them into the closet at odd angles, so that when she opened the door later to get her own shoes, they would fall out.
They did. I heard the crash from the kitchen, followed by a sigh that spoke of fifteen years of accumulated patience being tested to its breaking point.
Small victories.
The next day, I escalated. I left a dirty glass on the coffee table. Not a cup, not something with a lid. A glass. With residue. Right where she would see it when she came home from her book club.
She saw it.
"Gary," she said, her voice dangerously calm. "Why is there a glass on the coffee table?"
I looked up from the TV. "Oh, that? Yeah, I was thirsty. Watched the game. Must have forgotten."
"Forgotten."
"Wolf brain," I said, tapping my temple. "You know how it is. Short-term memory issues. The lycanthropy affects cognitive function during the day. Dr. Thorne said so."
"He did not say you could leave dirty dishes on furniture."
"He said I might experience 'territorial displacement behaviors.' I think this is that."
"Territorial displacement?" She stopped. Took a breath. "Gary. Pick up the glass. Put it in the dishwasher. Do it now."
I picked up the glass. I walked it to the kitchen. I opened the dishwasher.
And then I put the glass in the sink.
"Gary!"
"What? I put it in the kitchen! That's progress!"
"The dishwasher, Gary. Not the sink. The dishwasher."
"But Deborah, the wolf..."
"If you say 'the wolf made me do it' one more time, I will hit you with a rolled-up newspaper. I don't care if that's speciesist. I will do it."
I put the glass in the dishwasher. But I put it on the top rack, where it didn't belong, and I didn't rinse it first, so there was still residue drying on the sides.
She noticed. Of course she noticed. Deborah notices everything. She notices when the pictures on the wall are two degrees off-center. She notices when I've eaten the last yogurt even though she was saving it. She notices when I'm breathing too loud.
"Gary," she said, appearing in the doorway of my home office (which was really just a corner of the basement with a desk). "The glass. In the dishwasher. It wasn't rinsed."
"Wasn't it?"
"No. And it was on the top rack. Glasses go on the bottom."
"Right, sorry. Wolf instincts. We don't really do... racks. Or rinsing. We just... lick things clean."
"You're not a wolf right now, Gary. You're a man. A man with a desk job and a mortgage. And if you don't start acting like one, I'm going to start acting like someone who doesn't have to live with a werewolf."
"Is that a threat?"
"It's a promise. Now, come upstairs. You need to help me with something."
I followed her up, wondering what new domestic torture awaited. But it wasn't torture. It was worse.
It was the closet.
"Your clothes," she said, gesturing to a pile on the floor. "Every day this week, I've found your clothes on the floor. Not in the hamper. Not on the chair. On the floor. Like you're shedding."
"Well, I mean, technically..."
"Don't. Don't say it. I know what you're doing, Gary. You're testing me. You're seeing how far you can push this 'werewolf' thing before I snap. So let me be clear: you can push all you want. I will not break. I have put up with your 'man cave' that is just a room where you store empty beer bottles. I have put up with your 'golf phase' where you spent $3,000 on clubs you used twice. I have put up with your 'keto diet' where you ate nothing but bacon for three weeks and complained about constipation. I can put up with a werewolf."
She stepped closer, close enough that I could smell her shampoo, lavender and something else, something sharp and clean.
"But I will not put up with a husband who uses his condition as an excuse to be a burden. So here's what's going to happen. Every time you leave your clothes on the floor, I am going to throw them away. Not wash them. Not fold them. Throw them away. Starting with this shirt."
She picked up my favorite button-down. The blue one that actually fit me well. The one I'd worn to our anniversary dinner last year.
"Deborah, no"
"Yes," she said, and dropped it into the trash can. "Next time, it'll be the pants. Then the shoes. Then, if you really push me, I'll start throwing away other things. Your phone charger. Your 'World's Okayest Dad' mug. That stupid painting of dogs playing poker that you keep saying is 'ironic' but which you actually love."
"You wouldn't dare."
"Try me."
She walked out of the room, leaving me standing there, staring at my shirt in the trash, realizing that I had underestimated my opponent.
This was not going to be easy.
But I was scratched by a werewolf, so...
So I was going to have to get creative.
The weekend brought new opportunities for pettiness, and I seized them with both hands. Saturday morning, I "forgot" to mow the lawn. Not because I was trying to get out of it, okay, yes, exactly because I was trying to get out of it, but I couched it in werewolf terms.
"Deborah, I don't think I should mow today," I said, looking out at the overgrown grass with what I hoped was a haunted expression.
"And why not?"
"The wolf... it doesn't like the noise. It triggers something. Fight or flight. I think I might... lose control."
She looked at me. Just... looked. With those eyes that had seen through every lie I'd ever told, from "I'm working late" (I was at a bar) to "I didn't eat the last cookie" (I absolutely had) to "Of course I remembered our anniversary" (I had not).
"The wolf doesn't like lawn mowers," she said.
"No. It's a predator thing. The sound of prey in distress. It might... set me off."
"Gary, the lawn mower sounds nothing like prey in distress. It sounds like a lawn mower. Which is what it is. A machine for cutting grass. Which you will use. Today. Now."
"But..."
"Now, Gary. Or I call the HOA and report that we've got a 'wild animal problem' that requires professional removal. And I know a guy. He's got a tranquilizer gun and no sense of humor."
I mowed the lawn. But I mowed it badly. I left strips uncut. I made uneven lines. I "accidentally" ran over the garden hose and shredded it into plastic spaghetti.
She noticed.
"Gary," she said, standing at the back door with her arms crossed. "The lawn looks like it was mowed by a drunk toddler."
"Wolf vision," I said, wiping sweat from my forehead. "Depth perception issues. The lycanthropy affects my eyesight during the day. Dr. Thorne said...."
"Dr. Thorne said no such thing. Mow it again. Properly. Or you can explain to the neighbors why our yard looks like a wheat field had a stroke."
I mowed it again. Properly. But I made sure to track grass clippings all over the deck, and I "forgot" to put the mower away, leaving it in the middle of the driveway where she had to walk around it to get to her car.
Each petty act was small. Each was deniable. Each could, theoretically, be attributed to my "condition." And each was met with Deborah's implacable resistance, her refusal to accept any excuse, her absolute determination to not let me win.
By Sunday night, I was exhausted. Not from the physical labor, though there had been plenty of that, but from the mental effort of maintaining my werewolf facade while trying to be annoying enough to bother her but not so annoying that she actually followed through on her threats to throw away my possessions.
I sat on the couch, watching a nature documentary about actual wolves, wondering if they had to deal with this kind of domestic politics. Did alpha wolves have to negotiate closet space? Did they get nagged about leaving bones on the den floor? Did their mates threaten to call animal control if they didn't help with the dishes?
Probably not. Real wolves had it easy. They just ran, hunted, slept, and repeated. No mortgages. No HOA meetings. No wives who could see through your every pathetic attempt to avoid responsibility.
"Gary," Deborah said, appearing in the doorway. "We need to talk."
"About what?"
"About the 'girlfriend' comment you made last week. When you said you thought getting one would 'spice things up.'"
I froze. I had mentioned that, hadn't I? In a moment of supreme stupidity, trying to get a rise out of her, I'd suggested that maybe a werewolf needed a pack, and maybe our marriage was too small for my new needs, and maybe we should consider... alternatives.
"You weren't serious," she said. It wasn't a question.
"Of course not," I said quickly. "I was just... testing boundaries. Seeing what I could get away with."
"And what did you conclude?"
"That I can't get away with anything."
"Good," she said. "Because if you ever seriously suggest that again, I will make your life a living hell in ways that have nothing to do with silver bullets or wolfsbane. I will make you wish you were still single and living in that apartment with the broken heater and the roommate who collected vintage mayonnaise jars. Do you understand me?"
"I understand."
"Good," she said. "Now come to bed. You have work tomorrow. And Gary?"
"Yes?"
"Leave your clothes in the hamper. Or I start throwing things away. Starting with your vintage PlayStation that you 'need for stress relief.'"
I left my clothes in the hamper. I went to bed. And as I lay there in the dark, listening to Deborah's breathing even out into sleep, I realized something important.
This wasn't about being a werewolf. It never had been.
It was about marriage. About the thousand tiny negotiations that make up a shared life. About the push and pull of two people trying to coexist in a space that never quite feels big enough for both of them. The werewolf thing was just... a metaphor. A really hairy, inconvenient metaphor for the way we all want to be wild sometimes, to be free of rules and responsibilities, to shed our clothes and run through the night howling at the moon.
But we don't. We can't. Because we're married. Because we love each other. Because at the end of the day, the lawn needs mowing and the dishes need washing and someone has to remember to buy toilet paper.
I was scratched by a werewolf, so...
So I had a choice. I could use it as an excuse to be worse, to be pettier, to drive Deborah away with my relentless, annoying refusal to be a partner. Or I could... actually try. Actually be better. Actually use this ridiculous, impossible situation as a chance to appreciate what I had.
I fell asleep thinking about that. About choices. About marriage. About the strange, wonderful, terrible fact that even a werewolf can be domesticated if he loves his wife enough.
And then, three hours later, I woke up with a mouth full of feathers because I'd eaten half her decorative pillows in my sleep.
Baby steps.