Forgotten

Domestication began with the first contact with the human, this was the stance of the pack as it was the stance of the leader. The leader had no name. None of them had names. They did not understand the concept of language, and many of them if given the opportunity would defer, and flea to be with the others safe and serene in the community of the pack.

Smith shuddered to think he'd once been like them. Afraid.

Now he spent most of his time among the humans, moving with them, laughing with them, talking their talk and dreaming their strange dreams. He enjoyed the look and smell and feel of their culture and once he'd learned their words he thought of himself as a sort of reverse paleontologist.

And in his case his fascination had begun only tepidly with first contact. It had been a small boy in the woods, lost, separated from his family. The boy had been cold, unmoving, seeming-lifeless and, upon first, approach unresponsive.

Sniff, circle, sniff again.

And then the sound and the movement of the boy and he was back and away, frightened. He didn't know about tears then, but the boy had been crying them, and he hadn't know the word for it then, but the boy had been as his pack had always been taught to be, afraid.

Nothing kept him there, there were no ropes or traps, simply the boy, huddled and alone and fearful, and in that instant the birth of his humanity began. He neared the boy again, the boy shuttering with the cold of the night, and became warmth as a mother had once done for him, as all mothers would do for all cubs. And the boy gave him the name wolf and he said it and then the bigger ones came and took the boy away and Wolf went home to keep silent, knowing the damage was done and the smell was on him and that they would cast him away.

***

Then came the women... he recalled them quite well. In the water of the stream, singing until they saw him watching and then they were still and quiet.

He told them his name and inched towards the water, head low to show he was in no mood to bight and run. One of them, the smallest came up from the water, the other two making quick movements behind her to stop her, but missing her. She let out a hand and he tasted the wetness on her fingers and then she rubbed his mane and he was hers. He did not go back to the pack then, but went along with them and lived until the little one was grown. It was her who changed his name to John Smith and she loved him and to smell his paws. He loved to lick her face and practice her name sometimes at night when he knew she couldn't hear. "M-maggie," he would say softly in the night, curled up on the rug beside her bed.

She left when the time came. Her schooling demanded it, for she was not so little anymore. And after her departure, and being told he couldn't go, he ran away and decided to try the change.

"Hey, Johnny."

He shook suddenly and looked up into Maggie's face. "Hey," he said, smiling his broad smile. "I about gave up on you."

She sat and put her bag beside the chair. It was one of the outdoor cafes she liked. "You looked a million miles away," she said, flagging a waiter. "Dreaming of long lost loves, I take it?"

"How well you read my face."

"It's a nice face, easy to read." She took his tea and sipped. "You always take it so black," her face was a grimace as she sipped again. "Why?"

"I like harsh flavors," he said. "Shocks the palate, wakes me up."

"You're never going to be a morning person are you?"

"For you, I'd be any kind of person."

"Flatterer."

He smiled as they brought her something strong and laced with mint. "Seems I already know so much about you and we've only been together a few weeks. How you take your tea, and that you like to walk around at night. You know, you even talk in your sleep."

"What do I say?"

"My name, usually. Sometimes it's almost like you're awake."

He nodded. "Perhaps part of me is?"

She was leaning in and looking into his eyes.

"You're staring again."

"I can't help it, they're just so arresting. It's like I've looked into them before. Isn't that odd?"

He sipped his tea, trying not to look into her eyes again, afraid to let her know. "Do I say anything else... When I'm asleep that is?"

"No... You make noises, though." She looked down into her cup. "Sad noises, as if you'd lost something..."

"Haven't lost anything, love. Must just be odd dreams."

***

At night, married, living with her in a flat, smelling the smell of her mingled with his, feeling her curled against him, neither sleeping.

"You alright, John?"

"Fine, love."

"Thinking?"

"Trying not to, actually."

"What?"

"...to think. I can't seem to stop."

"I know, I can't stop thinking either. What names do you like?"

"Oh, I don't know," he sifted slightly onto his side, facing her. "There are so many."

She snuggled up closer, pressing her face to his chest. "I love how warm you are. And the sound of your breathing..."

"Next you'll be asking to smell my paws..."

"What?"

He looked down at her. "Nothing..."

Sleep came and went and in the morning she was gone and a note was beside him on the table a little blue book beneath it. "I had a dog with your name once, a wolf. I used to smell his paws. This was our book of poems."

In the mirror, the lather up, scrapping the blade over his chin, needing another haircut, he goes over his agenda at the office.

"You there, Smitty?"

"W-what?"

"Legal said the briefs could be done by one o'clock, a late luncheon alright with you to review?"

"Y-Yeah. See you in a bit, Harvey."

"You alright, mate? You sound funny."

"Just..." Looking in the mirror, the face is so alien. "Thinking about baby names."

"Congratulations again, mate," a sound of papers shuffling on the other end of the line. "You ringing off?"

"Y-Yeah," shaking his head. "Sorry, just a bit muddled. Care to pop 'round with Laura after work, have some wine?"

"Mags'll be there?"

"Yes."

"We've got us a foursome, then. A bit, right?"

"Yeah." Ending the man's call, looking at the man's face, listening to the man's voice. Maybe the haircuts can wait...

In the bedroom, socks, underwear, trousers, shoes, shirt, tie, vest, jacket, watch, cufflinks, spectacles... and then the book in his hand and open and he reads aloud in the voice that is the only one he recalls knowing.

"Now, do I remember the name but have forgotten the flower."

Smitty... He was Smitty. The rest... was forgotten, the rest never was. There was nothing wild to cry out for the death. The man straightened his tie, brushed away lint, and left to catch the tube.