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I hate having olives in my soup.

There, I said it. Nurse Whitley, if you're reading this while going through my possessions again, do me a favor and stop serving that dreadful vegetable. I don't care that the home wants me to stay healthy; at least keep olives away from any of my served meals. Especially my afternoon soups, alright?

Thank you.

I cannot believe I'm writing this, but Doctor Calley (that snarky canid) says this is a good way for me to get everything sorted together after all these months. I spend hours upon hours staring at the typewriter on my desk. I don't know how to make this seem less ridiculous. The best wolf Furren in New York to know my entire life story is me. Oh, and a couple others still walking. Still, I couldn't argue that I needed to sort things out, especially with time ticking by.

My senses are still keen at my age. I can feel the dry air on my greying fur that indicates it's mid-summer. Cheers from a house not too far away, followed by a boom that tells me Fourth of July celebrations are happening early for a couple cubs. Happy Early Birthday to me, since it's only mid-June.

From my door, I can barely hear the mindless chatter of a television playing in the lounge room, telling the story about a group of castaways stuck on an island. My wife is laughing at the program. I can't help but fall for her heavenly grace all over again, listening to the tinkle of her laughter.

A truck full of happy-go-lucky teenagers drives past our home with cheering howls. And from my open window, my poor eyes can still make out the silhouette of New York City's skyline several miles away on the blue horizon. I taste the whiff of cigarette smoke from someone on their break.

My mouth waters at the smell of the freshly baked muffins Ms. Dilligen made for her ailing grandmother in the opposite room. These days, most grandcubs and kits dislike the idea of visiting elders. They think people like us will stay forever. How foolish they are, that another year wouldn't change a single, damn thing.

Most people don't even think about how much a single year can impact a life.

Or save one.

No one stops playing their fancy radios, singing "Top of the World" or watching I Love Lucy on their colored televisions to ever be thankful for what's been given. Or is to be given. Nobody kneels down and thanks the Lord for how much a single year can impact who you are, who you have become, and who you love. No one even thanks Him that much anymore.

Truth be told, I was one of those Furren growing up. When I thought of a comfortable life, I pictured no set boundaries and a decent meal each day. I pictured open and limitless freedom from painful pasts and unknown futures. However, little did I know that one year, and a certain human boy with brown eyes and a stubborn knack of determined humor, would change everything. It began on January 1st with a sleeping cub the last year of the 19th century.

***

It was a quiet yet simple dream. I felt a soft bed underneath me, a warm fire heating the corner of the room, but had a sting on my muzzle. There was a tray next to the bed filled with a glass of milk, a roll of bread, and grapes. I lifted a paw toward the tray, my mouth watering and muzzle twitching. I was so hungry, I pounced.

Hitting the side of the wooden barrel woke me up, dazed and groaning. Instead of a roaring fire, I heard Manhattan's relentless, clanking banter. In the place of a blanket's warmth, frost covered my matted fur. And the food? My overturned barrel was bare.

"Good morning to me," I grumbled and rubbed my noggin'. "Ugh, gotta stop sneaking sweets, Peter..."

I crawled out from behind the wooden barrel to smell the different scents, from the musks of frozen soot to the hidden musks of random Furren. Placing my paws on the alley ground, I stretched and shook the frost from my tail, fur, and clothes. I was glad the barrel hadn't rolled away last night, and I still had a place to sleep.

Reaching inside my trousers, I sighed in wolfish relief at feeling my father's pocket watch. Part of me had been afraid it'd fall out or be stolen as I slept. Curious, I decided to check the time.

"E-Eight o' seven," I said aloud even though there was no one in the immediate vicinity to hear me. I jumped a foot at the sound of a grumbling noise in my stomach, tail shivering into a ball. "Better get breakfast soon." I widened my eyes at the rumbling, roaring louder. "And before my stomach eats me, too."

~*~*~*~*~

Are you interested in reading the rest? If this small excerpt convinces you, "The Adventures of Peter Gray" is now available on the Written Dreams Store here: https://t.co/4Lo40MyzIe

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