How are you all doing? I know the post-election craze has a lot of people in a funk (to say the least). I’m Canadian and even my small news stations are still covering the potential vote audit and other political stories from your neck of the woods. I can’t imagine how overwhelming it must be. If you need gifs or someone to vent to, I’m here. Oh! And you’ve just had Thanksgiving – if you’re partaking, Happy Thanksgiving!
If you’re NaNo-ing, your word count is probably getting up there. Great job! Keep on going! I know it’s tempting to turn back the pages and start revising, but don’t give in! I’m a chronic revise-as-I-goer, which explains why I’m only at 25k. Learn from me. If you’re feeling crappy about your words, here’s a little advise from one of the greats.
I had an exciting day yesterday. I went to the Yamnuska Wolfdog Sanctuary. They have low-high content wolfdogs that are have been rescued / surrendered. It was ammmmazing. So amazing that it inspired this little bit’o’post.
Every one and their dog has heard of a werewolf; of lowly English professors that shape-shift into giant, flesh-eating canines. My ancestors have a different take on the tale. One or two of you know that I’m 1/4 Native American (I’m Métis, if you want to get technical). We have what’s called a Rugaru.
The Rugaru is actually the Michif pronunciation of French words “loup garou”, which translates into “wolf-man”. Since the story of the Rugaru is passed down orally throughout the generations, the nature of the Rugaru varies greatly. Some believe it’s like the cannibalistic Wendigo while others believe it’s peaceful, like the Sasquatch. I mean, I don’t want to run into either of those but I’d take Big Foot over a Wendigo any day.
The thing that differentiates the Rugaru from your common (haha) werewolf is the way they’re turned. The victim doesn’t need to bitten by a Rugaru to trigger the transformation…all you need to do is look at one. That’s it. Imagine you’re out for a hike in the woods. The sun is setting, shading the forest around you in swatches of bruised purples and dusky greys. You’re heading back for the main trail but you’re getting a little turned around. Mostly because you’re distracted by all of the sounds; the sounds growing louder and louder with each passing shadow. The seemingly innocent snaps and cracks of branches are now more rhythmic. You swirl your pack around so it’s on your chest. You paw through it, searching for the can of bear spray you know you packed.
A branch breaks in front of you. You look up and a tall, sinewy monster gazes at you. It’s covered in coarse, brittle hair but it seems almost human-like. It has the mighty head of a wolf and amber eyes that stare into your soul. You scramble for the bear spray but by the time you find it, the creature is gone.
You breathe out a sigh of relief. You make it back down to your car and home in time recount the entire tale on social media before calling it a night. That night you wake up with a start. Your skin is on fire. You curse the holistic bug spray your Mom made you pack and head for the shower. You crank on the water, letting steam fill the bathroom before you climb in. You dump body wash into your hand and rub it over your burning skin. It froths instantly, coating the coarse black hair covering your shoulders.
You shriek, pawing at your skin, screaming in horror as your limbs stretch and thin. Your toenails tear free from their fleshy confines and curved, yellow claws spurt out amidst fountains of blood. Your neck rolls, your vertebrae clacking and popping as your spine curves into the all-too-familiar silhouette of the trail monster. You slash your way out from the behind the clinging shower curtain and leap through your bedroom window. You don’t care that you left the shower on or the window open. You don’t care about anything anymore.
You’re one of them now.
Anyhoo! I hope you have a wonderful Friday. I’m thinking about you all.