I was once a warrior, red in tooth and in claw. I was once fearless. The pounding of our relentless feet against our foes still resonates with me. I still remember the scent of blood in the air, I yearn for it and despise it as a sailor yearns for and despises the sea. I remember the baying of the pack. My pack. Us. I remember the fell voices of my comrades, teeth bared. I remember the man’s gun, though I don’t understand it. The boar would always die upon hearing that terrible roar and smelling that foul scent. Sometimes with a cry, sometimes without. But we knew that when the gun again fell silent, the day’s wonderful and terrible battle would be over.
I was once a warrior.
I remember the cold of the moist ground between my toes, the way it would give just a little under my weight as I bounded through the trees. I remember the smell of the wet woods in autumn. I was alone when I found the sow, laying on her side, her young all about her, some suckling, some sleeping. She let out a cry and stood immediately to her feet. The cry was met with a long howling bark from away in the trees. My pack would soon arrive and we would kill the sow and we would go home and get extra dinner and maybe some head pats.
The sow, of course, knew of our intentions, knew that we were all killers. But she too, was a warrior, red in tusk and in hoof. The baying approached. The sow bent low her head. My teeth bared, my fur upon my neck and back stood on end. I didn’t want to fight alone. I’d seen what a sow protecting her young could do. But if she had to charged, I would have to fight. She bellowed a guttural, low growl. Her young, blindly rooting at her feet, still searching for a teat. A momentary glance to the squeaker was all it took, one fraction of a second of divided attention, and the sow charged.
The pain was unlike anything I’d experienced. I caught the scent of blood. The shrieks and moans from the sow deafened me, I couldn’t hear my own cries of pain and terror, anger and agony. She had gored me. Kicked me. I hadn’t had time to fight back. I began to feel very tired, I tried and tried to fight. I grabbed some thick fur in my mouth, but didn’t get through to the flesh beneath. It became dark and I became more tired. I had fallen somehow. The sow continued to trample and gore my side as I lay dying. I fell asleep then.
I dreamed of pain, and my pack barking and killing. Of the man’s gun and of a boar’s death cry. I dreamed of my pack, lapping at the blood from my side. I dreamed of being nuzzled by my friend, as if I was sick. I dreamed of my man, the truck and the bumpy road. I dreamed of a white light and of darkness.
When I awoke, I was at a place I thought I knew. It was no longer the forest. It was quiet and dark, though the scent of blood and chemicals and medicine permeated through the blackness. My side and my chest hurt. I tried to stand, but my legs could not hold. I fell again. I was vaguely aware of a familiar sound, a man talking. Not my man, though. This was the other man, the one with the treats and medicine.
There was a pinch on my back leg, I yelped, more in surprise than pain. Then the man said something, it sounded good. Like I was a good girl. I couldn’t tell though, the sound was muffled, as if I were submerged beneath meters of thick water. I became heavy and the pain went away. I could have died then. I could have gone quietly away, like the others. I could have accepted death then as my fate: felled in battle.
Fear overtook me then. I tried to stand, to run. But I could not. My muscles all failed. There was another sound by the man, deeper and farther away. In fear, I succumbed to the blackness. A warrior I was no more.
It's because in America, the word for autumn is fall.