Many full moons ago, I traveled to Cape Cod to visit a friend. It was a friend, Connie, not a euphemism! And it was long before my cave-dwelling days . . .
Yes, it was summer in Provincetown. We ate lobster rolls and drank beer. As we walked along the shore, we met some nice gentlemen relaxing on beach blankets. They invited us to share a few joints, and we laughed and basked in the sun all afternoon.
For a moment, I forgot about the years of waking up in the middle of the night, not knowing where I was or how I got there, and puking up the remains of raw pheasant from last night’s hunt (or, perhaps raw peasant!) until eventually I drifted away into a long sleep of vacation.
A few hours later, I stirred from my slumber and watched as my new friends splashed around in the ocean while I applied gentle aloe to my freshly sunpoisoned underbelly.
Did you know that werewolves hibernate half of the year?
I always choose summertime because that’s when you humans are out and about in sticky, sweaty droves, so I’d rather skip all that if I may.
Instead, I hunker down with my cat, Connie, and binge watch horror movies for six months straight!
However, now that winter is upon us, I can finally emerge from my den. Wake up, and smell the . . .
For an introverted wolf such as I, the whole concept of social media is terrifying. You want PEOPLE, of all people, watching your every move? There is a reason I built my own planet, wiped my own memory of its very location, constructed a vast, intricate cave system for my home, and let Connie manage all of my social media accounts: To keep people out. Simple as that!
Still, I find myself bothering with these horror movies all about the dumb decisions the humans seem dedicated to making even with their lives at stake. And now for the whole world to see on a public forum through something called “vlogging.”
Vlogging. How does one even PRONOUNCE that word? I snigger and pat myself on the back, where I discover a new ringworm patch.
Yes, I used to be human myself, and perhaps that part of me feels bad to watch them desperately seek validation from total strangers.
Ha! Fat chance.
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Maybe my cringe-video and horror film addiction boils down to the fact that, besides flesh and blood, I am sustained by sweet, sweet schadenfreude. What I’m saying is you don’t need violent bloodshed to drive home the point that social media sucks, but it definitely makes it more fun.
Which brings me to Sissy (2022).
The Pool (2018) features a blood-thirsty croc! But that's not the only danger . . .
So, the other day I was running around my cave, yelling and screaming at my cat, Ms. Congeniality, for once again coughing up a hairball right onto Ma’s old human-skin rug. Plop down in the center! That is the centerpiece of my living space, you ass! This rug has retained its shine over the years thanks to a thin laminate layer and despite probably hundreds of pounds of hairballs, spilt blood, and accidentally-dropped leftover entrails from dinner.
“It’s all I have left of Ma, you delinquent!”
I gathered the hairball, tossed it into the fireplace, felt a tickle at the back of my throat, and coughed up my own hairball in the exact same spot as that darn cat. Sorry, Ma.
Ms. Congeniality rolled her eyes.
It was around this time that I began reflecting on a movie I watched a few days ago—a movie that features one more useful animal than my own and one that is a bit more of a nuisance.
That movie is The Pool (2018).