Kitty Goes to War

I could hear his anxiety, and an undertone of embarrassment, as if he thought no one else worried about this kind of thing. I tried to reassure him. “It’s a legitimate concern. Especially living in a big urban area—you never know what’s going to happen. But you can take precautions, like giving yourself plenty of time to get out of town.”

“But what if you get stuck? People must get stuck sometimes. What do you do? Have you ever gotten stuck?”

I had, but only because of events totally outside my control. I wasn’t going to bring up those messes. “I’ve never been in a situation I couldn’t handle. The problem with getting stuck is, our wolf sides really want to get out and run. So while you could lock yourself in your house, werewolves are pretty good about breaking out, even scratching through doors and breaking windows. You need a really solid room or cage to prevent that from happening. I know that some werewolves have built cages in their houses for just such emergencies, if they’re close to shifting and don’t have time to get into the wild. Another thing that helps is having fresh meat on hand. If the werewolf has a big juicy rump roast to gnaw on, he calms down and stays put. Does any of this advice sound useful, Mark?”

“Yeah . . . yeah. It makes sense.”

“Having coping strategies in place can reduce a lot of anxiety.”

“Yeah, I can see that. I may never use a cage in the basement, but just knowing it’s there would help. Thanks, Kitty.”

“And thanks for your call. If any of my listeners out there have other good coping strategies, I’d love to hear about it. Next caller, please.” I shifted in my swivel chair and leaned toward the mic.

“Hello, yes. Oh my gosh, am I really on?”

“Yes, you’re really on,” I said, amused. “What’s your question?”

“Um, well. Do you have any advice about telling your family that you’re a werewolf? It’s not something that ever comes up in regular conversation. And, well, I just don’t know how to bring it up with my parents.”

“I get this question pretty often. There isn’t a good, right answer because everyone’s situation is different. Have you been a werewolf for a while, or is this a recent thing?”

“Oh, it’s been a couple of years. But that’s just it. I’m finally comfortable with it, I think. And it feels awful keeping this big secret from my family. It’s eating me up. But I’m scared to tell them, I don’t know how they’ll react.”

“Here’s the advice I usually give: truth isn’t always the best policy in cases like this, if it’s likely to upset your family and they wouldn’t understand. But you might consider that they’ve already guessed that something’s going on, and they might be worried about you. If that’s the situation, it might actually be a relief for them to hear the truth.”

“That’s it!” she said. “That’s it exactly. My mom’s been asking all these questions, and I have to keep dodging. She must think I’m on drugs or something.”

“And next to that how bad is being a werewolf? If you do decide to tell your family, you might also give them as much information as you can, like copies of magazine articles, or even my own book, Underneath the Skin.” Shameless plugs never hurt anyone . . .

“Okay. I’ll have to think about it. But cool. That helps.”

“Good luck to you. Now, moving on.” I was trying to pick relevant calls, questions that would help Tyler and Walters with situations they might run into, answers that would help them cope. So far so good. I hoped they were listening.

“Hi, I have a question about getting along with other werewolves and things?”

“All right, bring it on.”

“I’ve got this situation, I’ve never heard of anything like it. It must be kind of strange, but it seems to be working out.” He was male, young sounding. Either inexperienced or embarrassed—a true-confessions kind of call.

“What’s going on?” I said.

“Okay, so I’m a werewolf. And I met this girl—she’s a were-tiger. How cool is that?”

“That’s pretty cool.”

“We decided to move in with this other couple—they’re were-leopards.”

“What was that line about dogs and cats, living together? Sounds a little wild, literally. You all get along?”

“Yeah, we seem to. We all go out on full-moon nights together. And I bring along my friends—a couple of werewolves. We’re not a pack or anything, it just works out.”

“Well, that’s just great,” I said, wondering what the real story was, because I didn’t get happy stories like this too often. “So what’s your question?”

“Is there a name for something like this? You know—werewolves have packs. Were-lions have prides. But what are we? My girlfriend wants to call us a collective, but that doesn’t sound cool enough.”

“Collective or a zoo?” I said.

“Come on, there’s got to be some kind of technical term.”

“How about ‘roommates.’ Why make it any more complicated? Let’s take another call.”

I clicked the line on as I greeted the next caller. Instead of the usual enthusiastic answer, I got a deep sigh, and I braced for the heavy-duty confession that would inevitably follow. People only sighed like that when they had real problems and no one else to talk to. It was difficult, but it was also the reason I’d started the show in the first place—so people like this would have someone to talk to.

“Hi, Kitty,” he said. “I’m not even sure why I called. I just . . . I just have to tell someone what happened.”

“That’s what I’m here for. Just take your time.” I tried to sound comforting and authoritative. It was all an act, but it seemed to fool people—they kept asking me for advice. One of these days, everyone was going to see right through it.

“I want to talk about my brother,” he said, speaking quickly, as though he wanted to get it out before he changed his mind. “He was a park ranger and was attacked by a werewolf while working in the back country. He killed himself a few months later. He couldn’t live with it, he couldn’t stand it, so he found a silver bullet and shot himself.”

I closed my eyes and rubbed my forehead against a sudden headache. I hated this. I wanted to reach out and hug him, but I also wanted to scream. At least radio—the microphone—gave me a shield. A mask to hide behind.

“I’m so sorry,” I said. “That’s very difficult.” I sounded so trite.

“I keep wondering—could he have gotten help? Is there anything I could have done to help him? Did he have an alternative?”

I tried to sound professional, as if I had the ability—or even the right—to serve as someone’s therapist. “I’m guessing that since he was attacked in the wild, he was never brought into a pack. He didn’t have anyone to tell him what had happened to him or help him adjust. In my experience, it’s difficult for someone like that to recover and achieve any kind of stability. Sometimes they do, or sometimes they run away. I don’t know if anyone could have helped your brother. There isn’t a standard procedure for this. He must have felt very alone.” That was what happened—you felt alone, lost, paranoid, helpless. The rage and violence followed.

My caller said, “I’m the only person he ever told about what had happened. And I’m glad he told me, because at least I know why. At least it makes a little bit of sense. I try to tell myself it’s better this way. He was so afraid of hurting someone. Isn’t this better than him hurting someone?”

It must have seemed like the responsible thing to do. He must have thought he was saving more than he was losing. I imagined all that despair. It made me think of Tyler and Walters, lurking in their hospital room.

“I don’t know,” I said. “I like to think there’s always a choice. I can’t put myself in your brother’s shoes. But you’re right, he probably didn’t see any other way out.”

“I wish . . . I just want anyone who’s listening to your show, anyone who’s thinking they don’t have another way out, who thinks that’s a solution—try to get help. Try to find someone, anyone, to help. Don’t give up. Because me—my family—we’ll never be the same. I don’t know that he thought about that.” I didn’t know how he could say all this without sobbing.