Ted was tired of being an accountant. He was tired of feeding the meters downtown, of pushing numbers around all day, and of dealing with the world and all the petty people in it. He was tired of the green bean casserole that he cooked for himself when he was out of hot pockets. The only excitement left in his life was wondering whether his dry cleaning would be ready by Monday or get pushed back to Tuesday. Ted’s life had faded to gray, so he did what any self-respecting, middle class, single man bored with his life would do. He went home and kicked his neighbor’s dog.

A woman, thin more like a heroin junkie than a supermodel, meandered along a walking path in the park. A black coat wrapped around her frame, and a ragged shawl hung from her neck. She carried a purse the size of a suitcase and wore a hat ugly enough for a museum. Her pale skin shimmered in the glow of a full moon as it clung tightly to her narrow face. She plucked a dry leaf from a clearly dying brown bush and pulled it close to her face for examination. Thin-rimmed glasses slid down her nose causing her to squint. The leaf crackled in her fist with satisfaction, so she snatched a handful and crammed them into her massive purse. They shared the space with a bunch of mushrooms, half-a-dozen earthworms, and two toads. The tail of a small dog hung out the back.

The woman stood at the kitchen counter grinding up mushrooms and mincing toads. The dog lay unconscious on the linoleum floor next to the coat rack. He whimpered a little while his legs twitched. He was chasing a rabbit, or a cat, or something in his sleep. He dove for the whatever he was chasing in his dream and knocked over the coat rack in reality. The coat rack slammed to the ground, and scared the piss out of him, literally.

“Where am I? What’s going on? Oh God, did I pee on your floor?”

The woman ignored him and chopped up the earthworms.

“Um, hello?”

Still nothing.

“Hey lady, where the hell am I?” he barked.

“Hush puppy.” she whispered.

He sat down on the tile floor and said, “Of course, I’m a dog. You can’t understand anything I say you stupid, scrawny, disgusting old hag.”

Her eyes snapped to him, hot as embers. She marched towards him with a rolled up a newspaper and slapped him across the nose. “Bad dog.” she hissed, then returned to her preparations adding, “That’s not a very nice thing to say to a lady.”

The dog was floored. His mouth dropped open and a floppy pink tongue rolled out.

“You can hear me?” he said.

“Of course I can. You’re barking up a storm?”

“I mean, you understand me?”

“Mmmhmmm. I see you’ve pissed on my floor.”

“Thank God. Look lady, I need your help. I know this is going to sound crazy, but I’m not really a dog. I’m a guy. I’m Ted from Philly. I’m an accountant, and I don’t know how –“

“I know what you are,” she interrupted. “I think you know as well. Tell me Ted from Philadelphia, have you been howling at the moon tonight?”

It started slowly sinking in.

“I’m a werewolf?” he said.

“No Ted. You’re a were-border collie.”

She tossed him half of an earthworm which he snatched out of the air and swallowed.

“Oh Jesus, why did I eat that? Why did you throw me that?”

“Shit, you’re right. You’re not going to just sit under the table and beg for scraps are you?”

“Very funny. So how’d I get here?”

“I found you knocked out in the park. It looked like you were chasing cars or something and ran into a stop sign. Nobody seemed to care, so I brought you home.”

“To your apartment?”

“It’s a den.”

“Whatever lady.” he said as he scanned the room. Lots of strange paintings, mostly portraits of old ladies in the woods, hung without frames from the walls. “So, how come you can understand me?”

“I’m the fucking dog whisperer.”

“Right.”

“You really haven’t figured it out?” She slid the diced toads, worms, and shrooms into an empty ice cream bucket and carried it to the living room. Ted followed a few paces back. She dumped the mix from the bucket into a crock pot just barely smaller than a Volkswagen, turned to Ted and said, “I’m a witch you idiot.”

“Yeah right. What do you fly around on, a Roomba? And what’s up with the Jacuzzi?”

She swatted him again with the newspaper and stirred the pot.

“It’s a cauldron, and I take public transit, pant sniffer.”

“Classy. So, since you’re the expert and all, how did I get to be a werewolf?”

“Were-border collie, and usually you have to do something bad to an animal. Running over a little kid’s new puppy is the most common cause, but sometimes it’s worse. Sometimes it’s really sick, sexual stuff. You didn’t, you know –“

“No, I certainly did not! Look, I just kicked my neighbor’s dog. That’s all.”

“Well, that’s not very nice of you Ted.”

“He shits on my lawn all the time, and I was having a bad day.”

“You pissed on my floor. What should I do to you?”

“Yeah, I’m real sorry about that, but let’s get back on track here. How do I change back?”

“The cure? What makes you think you deserve it?”

“Because I’m really sorry for kicking that dog.”

“That’s it?”

“And for peeing on your floor.”

She pulled a Wilson tennis ball from a drawer and began bouncing it off the linoleum. “Fine. Only if you think you truly deserve it,” she said smiling at herself. Ted’s head bobbed up and down, his eyes hypnotized by the bright yellow ball. He stood up, and his tail started to wag.

“Tennis balls? The cure is tennis balls? Please let it be tennis balls,” he said, panting now.

She bounced the ball off the hard floor more aggressively and said, “So you’re sorry, are you?” Ted was bounding up and down with excitement. “You want to be all better now?” she said as she waved the ball in the air. His nails hissed over the tile as he dodged back and forth fixated on the ball. “Who’s a good doggie?” she said, and the last string of self control in Ted snapped like a mouse trap.

“I’m a good doggie!”

She tossed the tennis ball underhanded across the living room, and Ted sprung into the air after it. He was a good dog, he knew it, and good dogs got tennis balls. With perfect form he caught the Wilson in mid-air, leaving him just enough time to look down and say “Oh shit,” before he plopped into the boiling stew.

“That’s a good boy,” the woman said as she stirred the brew.

“Darryl honey, do you think I’ll end up one of those old ladies with a wardrobe full of muumuus and fat pants?” his wife asked from the kitchen.

Darryl’s tired eyes stayed with the newspaper spread across the table. His hands, dry as sandpaper and tough as leather, wrapped around a cup of day old coffee. He shifted a bit in his chair trying to get comfortable in his Carhart overalls. A button on the back always dug into his ass whenever he sat in that chair.

“Honey, do you think I’ll be one of those old ladies with twenty-two cats in the house and a dozen mangy dogs tearin’ up the backyard?” she asked.

Darryl’s eyebrows bent a bit as he wiped the sleep from his eyes. There was an itch on the top of his right pinkie toe, but his steel-toed boots always took so goddamned long to put back on that he bit his lip a little and tried to ignore it or will it away.

“Honey, do you think I’ll be any good at bingo when I’m old?” she asked.

He flipped the sports section over and started in on the international news. It was the smallest part of the paper, which he attributed to why people in this town knew so little about what happened outside it. He learned more from listening to Jim and Rich bitch at each other every day at the Dunkin Donuts where they all went on their lunch break.

“Darryl dear, do you think I’ll die alone?” she asked.

“I think you can do anything if you put your mind to it,” he said.

On his way out, he kissed his wife goodbye just as he had every day for the past 15 years. With his left hand, he held her close a little longer than was necessary, looked into her eyes, and said, “Just foolin’. I love you, baby.”