Greyhound Books

T

weeter stared at the sky, frustrated. Wind had been playing silly games with her all day long and she was just about tired of it. Clouds, mist, fog—Wind couldn’t seem to make up its mind just what sort of weather was appropriate to the day and as a result, it was simply running through the whole gamut of its capabilities. It was what Tweeter thought of as a wobbly day, one that never really seemed to find its own rhythm.

Tweeter understood indecision. She herself had days that she couldn’t decide  whether to start off the day with a swim, a nap or a little nibbley of some sort. Life was like that, not always entirely predictable. It was just something you dealt with.

But it was one thing to have a wobbly day, another entirely to take on capriciousness as a whole life style. At some point, whether you were a Greyhound or the wind, you had to get down to some sort of sense of what mattered. That was her real issue with the wind, its lack of commitment to the larger community of beings on the planet.

Normally, it was no big deal. The weather was simply something you dealt with and a few wobbly days were to be expected.

Except today. Today was different.

It wasn’t so much to ask for, was it? A nice day,  a little sunshine with a light breeze—how hard was that to pull off? Nothing complicated, nothing exotic. Just some sun and a breeze.

It wasn’t like she hadn’t give Wind enough notice, either. Wind had known since last year just what the deal was.

It was Tweeter’s Gotcha Day. The day she’d come to live at the farm, the day Nancy Brubaker had made the commitment to be Tweeter’s person and the day that Tweeter had committed to being Alpha of Tweeter’s pack.

Tweeter was a retired racing Greyhound of illustrious lineage. She could trace her ancestry back into the ancient mists of time, back through the days when knights ruled England to the ancient days of Egypt when Greyhounds were rightfully revered as divine. The memories of her ancestors were written in her bones and carried in her genes. The more recent ones were easily accessible while the ancient ones were sometimes foggy or blurred by time.

This particular wind was also of ancient lineage, but it was taking it far more seriously than Tweeter did. (Or at least so it seemed to Tweeter. It would be rude to imply that she might be less than completely objective. Although it would not be entirely inaccurate.)  But as it turned out, the wind (or its ancestors, and Tweeter was not entirely sure how a wind had ancestors) had known Tweeter’s ancestors well. Tweeter’s ancestors had races against the Wind’s.

Well, not really raced. Tweeter’s ancestors were faster than his. Despite his ancient lineage, none of his ancestors had ever exceeded 32 miles per hours, while Tweeter’s routinely did.

Tweeter stopped, letting Wind catch up with her and ruffle her ears. Did their shared past have anything to do with Wind’s current capriciousness? Was Wind getting even for some supposed or imagined slight centuries earlier? Did it have anything to do with that incident involving the nomadic ruler, his concubine and the fig tree? Because as Tweeter remembered the story through her ancestors, the Greyhound really hadn’t intended to pee into the wind. In fact, it had been Wind who’d created the whole problem by shift around so much.. Just like it was right now, although admittedly there was a big difference between fouling up a Gotcha Day party and starting a rivalry that eventually brought down an empire. Still, it just went to show….

A Gotcha Day was an important event in a racer’s life. It marked the transition from one life to another, from a track to a home, from a crate to a couch. It was almost like a birthday except for one big difference: a lot of racers never got one, never made it off the farm or the track to a family and a home.

Wind whuffled at her again. She snapped at it, irritated. It wasn’t as though snapping would actually affect Wind, but it made Tweeter feel better.

You know what they’re planning, Wind whispered. Don’t you?

Of course I do, she said, her tone of voice just as snappy as her jaws had been.. anybody with half a brain would know.

I don’t have a brain, Wind answered, just the slightest bit insulted. Of course, it had never taken much for Wind to get insulted.

Other people, Tweeter said, knowing how he would take it. Wind reacted as he always did, with a whiffle of satisfaction, immediately mollified. Wind so liked being considered a people, though he was less of one that even Tweeter and her pack.

So you know about the party, Wind said.

Of course. Tweeter refrained from going into detail but couldn’t keep the slightest bit of smugness out of her voice.

Wind never really understood how very little happened without her knowing about it. She’d known from the moment Boca first started planning it that there was going to be a surprise party on her Gotcha Day. In fact, by her subtle hints and off hand commands, she’d very definitely steered the party in the right direction. If they were determined to have one, then it might as well be something she’d enjoy.

Not that Tweeter was particularly picky. It was just that some things were simply not cool

Balloons, for instance. Yes, she knew they were traditional and that many Greyhounds found them amusing. Wind, in particular (although obviously not a Greyhound) was particularly fond of balloons, delighting in how easily he could manipulate them. For a rather lightweight wind like Wind, it was a rare experience. Pieces of paper, small branches—okay, all well and good, but there was something particularly satisfying about balloons.

Intellectually, Tweeter understood Wind’s position. It had something to do with the fact that his ancestors had never exceeded 32 miles an hour and Wind’s standing in the hierarchy of the entire wind world. Not surprisingly, the  workings of the wind community were completely beyond the understanding of any non-wind being. For starters, every member of the community was named Wind, so how they even told each other apart was a mystery. Tweeter suspected that they actually didn’t know one from another, that in some way they intermixed and intertwined while still managing to retain some bit of their own identities.

At any rate, if she couldn’t understand how they told each other apart, she was not likely to understand the nuances of why this particular Wind (who she was starting to think of as Ted for some reasons) liked balloons, other than the obvious power and control bit.

Conversely, while Wind put up a good front, he didn’t really understand what was involved in a Gotcha Day party. Even with the basic discontinuities in their undersatndins of the world, Wind and Tweeter managed to find a common ground and it was based on mutual need and appreciation that no one else particularly understood.

Tweeter told Wind jokes. Wind laughed at them. Wind was, in fact, the only one who ever laughed at Tweeter’s jokes. Tweeter fancied herself quite amusing, Wind was the only other being that agreed with her.

For his part, Wind prided himself on his ability to bring Tweeter the most interesting smells in the world. Tweeter wasn’t clear on how Wind understood what were interesting smells, given that Wind didn’t have a nose. But then again, he didn’t have a brain either, not in the way that Greyhounds had them, and yet he still managed to think. But without a brain, Wind still thought. Without a nose, he still knew what would constitute an interesting smell, not only to him and those of his ilk but to a Greyhound as well.

Gotcha something, Wind whispered, interrupting her train of thought—or reading it, she was never entirely sure which. Sometimes it seemed that he could creep into her mind through her ears or through her fur as he ruffled it. For your Gotcha Day. A tiny rill of wind ruffled the hairs in her ears, a movement that Tweeter had come to interpret as a laugh. Or at least it was his reaction to her jokes. Gotcha for Gotcha Day, Wind said, giggling a bit.

What is it? Tweeter asked.

Here. Immediately an intriguing scent swirled around her. She inhaled deeply, letting the scent fill her. It was animal, pungently carnivore but not canine or even a close relative. She closed her eyes and left the memory traces bubble up through her mind.

One of the advantages of having such a cleanly unbroken lineage as Tweeter did was the ability to identify scents from around the world. For eons, Tweeter’s relatives have been among the most prized of all Greyhounds, treasured for their perfect conformation built for speed, their bright, intelligent approach to life and their speed. Her genes had circulated around the world and come back to here, bringing with them memories of countless cultures and times in a range and depth possessed by few Greyhounds.

This extensive database meant that Tweeter could recognize countless scents that other lines had never encountered,. This wasn’t merely an interesting party trick, although Tweeter certainly had done her share of party tricks. Having an extensive data base of scents meant that she was able to recognize danger from unusual sources, more so than other Greyhounds.

This scent was no exception. She couldn’t immediately place it but she could feel the depths of her memory pinging with a sort of recognition. If she gave it a few minutes, she would be able to identify not only what animal produce it but the circumstances under which one of her lineage had last detected it as well as a detailed threat analysis.

Wind stilled momentarily, enjoying something like anticipation as he waited for her response. Over the years that she’d known him, he’d developed into a bit of a show boat when it came to scent presentation.

He let her clear her scent palate with a sneeze, then brought her another blast of it, stronger this time with more grace notes and undertones to the scent. It evoked an even stronger chime of recognition this time and Tweeter felt a thrill run through her. This wasn’t just any scent—it was something very very interesting.

Hyena. The word popped into her mind along with a detailed picture of a grey animal with black spots. Smaller than a Greyhound, not nearly as elegant. The snout was a good deal more rounded than hers was, although that could be said of almost any animal in the world except for perhaps an ant eater. The ears stood upright, as did some Greyhound ears. The fur was longer and coarser and appeared to be slightly greasy.

Despite some superficial resemblance to a canine, Tweeter also knew that taxonomically, the animal was not a canine at all. Instead, it was a member of the Family Hyaenidae family and was much more closely related to Mongooses (Family Herpestidae and civets (Family Viverridae). Its resemblance to canines was limited to the fact that it filled a similar ecological niche and ate ungulates.

“It’s a hyena,â€

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