Wolves

I got up early to move the car from a school zone where I had to park after getting back to my block close to 1am too tired to look for a more forgiving spot. On my way to the car, I feel the sun and the air and think for the nth time of my life “I should go outside in the morning more often. It’s great for my mood.” I never remember this advice. I see a woman walking two tiny dogs with big hairy ears. The dogs are wearing what look like baby pajamas bespoke for their quadruped bodies. They’re trotting down Wolf Street.

Last night I gave Lindsey a lift home on our way back from the late night, and she said “what’s the parking like on Wolf Street” though I hadn’t mentioned living near it. That’s how good the South Philly native’s memorized geography was; I had given her other details about my neighborhood and she reverse-mapped a cross street. Back to Wolf Street. I translated a novel called Loups Garous a million years ago; I am crossing my fingers I get to voice a wolf; Taylor Lautner looks nothing like his name; werewolves should all be women; I saw a fox with a rabbit in its mouth get chased out of Cape May Point by a big bulldog-boxer mix. I know foxes and wolves aren’t the same. What if Le Petit Prince featured a wolf instead of a fox; a peony instead of a rose; a girl instead of a boy. Wolf is such a pleasant word to utter. The Japanese word for wolf is even sexier: 狼:おおかみ. Benevolent god. I like the Swedish word for it too: varg. What would be the airbrushed tee shirt equivalent of the sound “wolf”?

I picture these little hairy dogs on Wolf street in their Spiderman pajamas blessing my block with urine and transforming under the full moon. Our org accountant just adopted a German Shepherd, which feels like a whole ass statement. I picture Lindsey’s dog as a pointer, but maybe an Australian shepherd. People look like their dogs. Her husband’s Australian. I think of Australians as sun-loving morning people but maybe that’s because the hole in the ozone floats right over them and they have no choice in their closer relationship to the sun. Dogs I’ve dogsat love their morning walk. I am dog-sitting Trumie tonight, in his house while Christian keeps down the fort at home. I’ll be a secret tenant in his mom’s apartment and the dog and I will have a plausibly deniable tryst.

Maybe I could start peeing in the street in the morning to force myself out here earlier. Who was Wolf Street named after, I wonder. I’m not going to google that. You can tell me later if you happen to find out. I’m not kidding when I say that uttering wolf feels good. Try it. I’m not saying anything important today.

I can still throw in a good media reference relevant to this. A beautiful film: Hour of the Wolf by Bergman (1968). “The time between midnight and dawn when most people are born or die.” So…probably not 7:15am in Philadelphia LOL.