“Ashes” was first published in December 2017, by the James Dickey Review of Reinhardt University.

On a personal note, “Ashes” is my favorite of my published pieces to date.

Three summers ago, the men came over the mountains and everything changed. I was beautiful then; young and healthy, with a sleek coat the same silver as the mountain stream in the sunlight. Now I have grown thin. Now my coat is dull and gray, the same flat, lifeless color as the sky.

The men came and they tore down the trees. They dug deep pits in the earth, seeking their black rocks. Their digging choked the streams; now they run thick and brown, the water undrinkable. They burn trees and rocks alike, and ashes fall from a dead sky.

The men brought with them their mates, their offspring, and their animals. They brought the luscious flocks that tempt us, and the strange half-breeds that smell like us but who serve the men. My pack sought only to hunt their flock animals in place of the deer the men had killed or driven away. But the men turned and began to hunt us.

My pack was large once, my mate and I the leaders. The spring before the men came, I gave birth to eight pups. Eight! It had been a mild winter, and a good summer before. My mate and I were strong and healthy, and the pack was well-nourished and content. All eight pups survived that first spring - an incredible feat. But then the men came, and our joy turned to ash.

Our pack struggled to find enough food. Slowly, through either starvation, death at the hands of men, or stealing off in ones and twos for better hunting grounds, our pack dwindled to just me, my mate, and our pups. My litter from the spring after the men came was small. One pup died just days after she was born. The other did not survive the summer. The third lived to adulthood but disappeared one day. His smell still emanates from one of the man-dens. I believe he was killed by the men and they kept his coat for the warmth.

This spring I had only one pup. She was born the day after I saw my mate killed in front of me. Without a pack I cannot hunt large game. The men have killed or scared away all the smaller animals. I cannot feed myself or my last pup.

So now I have come to this: stalking a small man-child to take the food it carries.

I left my pup hidden in the den, where no man could come upon her. She waits for me, her amber eyes large and sad with hunger. I have crept up to the man-den closest to the edge of the ever-thinning trees. They have slaughtered one of their animals and I smell the meat as they prepare it in their odd way. To keep dead meat around and not eat it while it’s still warm with life baffles me. But even this dead, singed meat smells too good for me not to be tempted.

I draw near the dwelling. The voices of men rise and fall inside. The door opens. I shrink back into the brush and hide in the shadows. I have grown thin, and I fit between close-lying shrubs with ease.

The smallest man I have ever seen, a little man-pup, emerges. She - I can smell the femaleness even at this young age - speaks with someone inside. The top of her head is covered with luxurious downy fur the color the sun was before the smoke blotted it out. She wears a covering that I have often seen men and their mates wear, but never one so bright. This one is the color of blood.

She carries a basket that she struggles to lift. The aroma of meat and other tempting man-foods wafts from it. I can’t stop my mouth from watering. She toddles off down the path through the clearing, heading for the woods on the other side. There are many clearings, many pockets of man-dens, and the forest between them grows smaller every day.

She is so young, so tiny. I marvel that any mother, even a man-mother, would send this little pup out into the forest and not watch her. For a moment, I brim with pride at the thought of my own little pup, safely hidden away. She knows not to leave my sight when she leaves the den to explore.

I silently stalk the little man-pup from the shadows at the edge of the already well-worn trail through the woods. I shouldn’t hesitate - I should just pounce and take the food in the basket before any of the men see me. But for some reason, I feel motherly concern for this little man-pup. I shouldn’t - she and her kind are the reason that I and my kind have starved.

I follow her further, but before I can act, she comes to one of the many cleared areas in the woods where the men have erected their man-dens. She pads up to the door and taps on it with her little fist, calling out. She sets her basket down. Now is the moment - I will dart in and snatch the meat from the basket while her is attention turned. But no, I am not quick enough - now she pushes the door open and takes up the basket again.

I slink around the side of the little dwelling. No smoke rises from the top of this den, as it does from all the other man-dens. I can smell the cold ashes inside. And I smell something I am sure the little man-pup did not, or she wouldn't have entered so casually.

I smell death in that man-den.

It is the smell of soft, quiet death, rather than wet, bloody death from injury. It is the way my sire's mother smelled when we found her at the back of our den the summer before the men came, having died quietly in the night.

I creep closer, examining the air with a deep inhalation. There are no other men nearby, just the little man-pup and the dead inside.

Hunger has made me bold, and I dart quickly into the man-dwelling. The little female has not pulled the swinging wood closed behind her. In the dim light inside, I see her pushing on another door that gives way under her hand. The space beyond is dark; that is where the smell of death is strongest.

"Granny?"

The child makes a soft mewling noise, and I realize she is calling out to the dead one further in. I creep closer. I won’t miss this chance. The meat in her basket will fill my baby's belly, if only for tonight. But the ground here is made of wood, and even though I tread softly, it creaks.

She turns, basket still in hand, and our eyes meet. She isn’t afraid. Why isn’t she afraid of me? I’m terrified of her! At least, I’m terrified of her kind. To my astonishment she takes a step toward me, one hand held out to me.

"Doggy!" she cries. I smell her relaxed and comfortable excitement. She thinks I am one of their half-breeds. Good - all the better.

I quickly dart forward, snatching the handle of the basket in my teeth and tug.

"No, doggy! Bad!" the little pup cries, gripping the basket tighter. I have no more time. I have dawdled enough. My own pup is waiting for me, and who knows when this pup's mother may come for her.

I shake my head sharply, as I would to snap the neck of prey. This breaks the child's grip but sends her sprawling. There is a snap, like the bones of a wild turkey under my jaws. I don’t drop the basket and its supply of food, but I turn to see what the child broke when I threw her off balance.

I turn and smell a new emotion from her. Now she is afraid. Now she is in pain. My eyes take in her crumpled position. Her neck is bent at an odd angle, and I realize that she is gravely injured.

She lays staring up at me, wheezing, but doesn’t move, save for her eyes flickering from me to the basket. Her mouth is the only other part of her that seems able to move. She whimpers.

"Doggy?"

It seems to take her a great deal of effort to make even that little sound. I’ve seen this before. I’ve seen deer in flight from my pack misjudge a leap over a rock or fallen tree and land badly, breaking a limb, neck, or both. I feel a stab of guilt and pity. This little man-pup will now lie here until someone finds her, or until she can no longer draw breath. And then, the dry branches of the basket still grasped in my teeth, I realize that what I thought was a small meal to tide my pup over has become a windfall that will save us both.

I will take the man-pup with me. I can ease her passing - make it quick and clean - and then my own pup will live. I drop the basket and pad softly over to her. She is afraid, yes, but it seems that she is afraid of the pain, not of me. She doesn’t struggle as I lower my muzzle over her small, soft neck and pinch off her breath. It is quick. It is quiet.

As I begin to drag my prize - the meat that will sustain my baby and me long enough to leave this valley and be free of the men - there is another creak behind me. I turn to look, never letting go of my new-found food, as there is a cry of rage. A huge man stands in the door. He brandishes a heavy piece of metal on a stick at me. It’s the same hideous tool that mowed down our trees and felled my mate. I bristle. I snarl. How dare this beast kill all my kind and now seek to take the first large creature I have killed in weeks?

He charges at me. I drop my treasure and leap away. But my weakened state has left my defenses slow, and a horrid flash of bright pain erupts in my side. His weapon has connected. He rips it free. Flesh and fur are torn from my flank. I fall down, the dull ash of my coat stained red with blood.

He drops to his knees and cradles the body of the little pup. A low whine, not unlike the sound that the injured child made, escapes his lips. Even as I lie here in pain, I still register surprise. I understand now: this was his pup.

The thought brings me back to my own pup. I realize now that I will never see her again. A whimper escapes my own lips. I drag myself toward the door. Even if I can’t make it back to the den, I don’t want to die here – not in this dwelling that smells of men and death. I make it far enough that I can see the lifeless, ash-gray sky before the man comes up behind me. I am barely mobile. His aim is sure.