Everyone’s got family problems. Gary’s dad drinks, and Shelly’s mom is so
afraid of intimacy she won’t tell family members how she feels about them until
they’re on the death bed. Or she’s on
hers. That was a really awkward two
weeks. By those standards, your family
is pretty functional. They just happen
to be a pack of wolves.
Which was fine, great even, until you turned 16 and your
wolf dad explained to you, through a complex series of subvocalizations, scents
and body language, that you needed to go the human world and give it a shot out
there before you decided to continue living in the forest and murdering deer
with your teeth. It’s like Rumspringa
with wolves. Not a terrible concept, really.
But here comes of the day where we tell you what the problem
is, oh no! You don’t speak English! Or any language that isn’t just a series of
unruly growls.
Upside, there’s a boarding school nearby where the
headmaster speaks wolf (she used to live with your pack before she decided to
come to the land of the two-legs).
Downside, the kids there are all gonna tease you and call you “Growly
Gabby” even though you don’t growl so much as stare and occasionally release guttural
shouts, and your name isn’t “Gabby,” it’s “Head That Touches the Moon as the
Hunt Dies, Who Stands Glistening with Blood Over Kills, Whose Teeth are Blunted
with Visciousness.”
Today you’re going to enroll in said boarding school. It’s gonna be rough, but bear with it,
because in about a decade you’re going to be out, speaking English, working as
a paralegal and, because of your impressive physical strength and neutral,
group-oriented morality and permissive personal hygiene standards, you’re going
to basically be the dreamgirl of everyone in this office. So please, stay golden through those terrible
teenage years. We want to catch your eye
in a decade when we come into your office to try and get out of simple assault
charges for hurling a basketball at a child during a peewee hockey game.
Congratulations Growly Gabby!
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