Hunting with the Pack

I'm a share something I wrote 14 years ago.

It's only tangentally wifwolf related, but the thread needs a bump, and I'd rather add some kind of content that is at least kind of related to do so.

We've all had experiences we call visceral; those things that when they happen, we feel them deeply; emotions turned into a physical sensation deep in our bones; something so primal and primitive it moves something inside whos existence we were unaware of until that very moment.

Some people go their entire lives without truly experiencing the visceral. Some people spend their lives in pursuit of the visceral.

I do not go seeking the visceral, but neither do I turn it out of my life. Oddly though, the visceral seems to visit me most during

Dreamtime...

I am with the pack, the wolf pack of my dreams, and we are on the hunt. Something primal snakes forward inside of me, like the warmth of a campfire through my veins. I am not a wolf, but I am accepted. I shouldn't be able to be down on all fours, let alone run swift and silent with the pack that way, but I can, and I do.[1]

The air is cold on my naked skin. A thin blanket of snow covers everything. The trees in my woods are naked of their leaves. I should feel colder than this. I should be shivering and uncomfortable. But I'm not. I am only cool, the kind of cool that invigorates. And we are moving. We are on the hunt. Nothing else matters. Soon enough I'll be so warm I'll wish I could crawl out of my own skin just to cool off.

I am with the pack, and we are on the hunt, and nothing else matters. They don't have names, why would wolves have names? But I associate their forms with an identity in my mind.[2] I know each of their scents. He has an odd hint of nuttiness to his smell. I know each of their voices. His is the boldest, and usually the first to sound off. Hers is the most powerful, if she is growling I think even a bear would back away. I know the touch of each of their fur. Hers is the softest and finest. His is the most coarse. I know each of their markings. Each one is so beautiful it makes my heart ache.

Snow is falling. The tiniest needle like flakes are falling from the sky. All else is so quiet, I can hear the cumulative sounds of the snow ending its journey. There is a deer ahead of us, moving through the trees and boulders that make up my woods. It is a buck. It is a big buck. His antlers are not to be taken lightly. They are dangerous, and to be avoided if at all possible.

The pack spreads out, in a half moon formation. Our stealth is perfect, but somehow, the buck knows. Something deep inside clicks, and he senses danger, even if he doesn't know how or why. He freezes. I burst into motion. From behind him and to his left, I leap on him in a blur. His hooves seem to be kicking everywhere, and he tosses his head back, almost gouging me with his antlers. The pack is with me, snapping and biting at him. I want the meat for all of us. But I want this for me. I want this kill. MY kill. MINE.

I grab his antlers in my hands, wrap my legs around his body. I twist his head around with all my might, the others helping to drag him down. I bite at his throat and spit out a mouthful of hair. I bite again. I taste raw flesh, and his blood explodes down my throat, and sprays past my lips. I grin viciously, knowing I've hit something vital, and try to burrow my teeth deeper. Wether it is my bite, or the rest of the pack that proves to be his death, I am not sure. But it does not really matter. He goes still underneath me.

I have killed. From his death will come continued life. An ancient circle is again completed. Life to death, death to life; and I am a part of it and aware of it on a level I never understood before. It is a level that cannot be reached through conscious thought; it can only be reached through experience and feeling. The primal thing inside moves again, and I somehow feel more complete.

We feed. No one slips out of line, and no one has to enforce hierarchy. There is little left of the buck when we are done. But he will provide another meal on the morrow. We wash each others faces, and reinforce bonds. He howls, and we join. The snow is cold against my skin, but not bothersome. We curl up and bed down for the night. She accepts me curled into her side, and this brings me a joy that hasn't been given a word to describe. It is better than happiness.

And in dreamtime, I sleep.

And the visceral is a part of me.
[1] It is dreamtime, it doesn't have to make sense, even though it does, because it's dreamtime.
[2] This makes describing things in words terribly difficult.