Sitting erect before a vast dormant meadow in the throes of winter, the Irish wolfhound restlessly sniffed the cold air for a scent that teased its olfactory senses. Once consumed, the hound, with a couple of swift wags of his tail, set off in hot pursuit, every fiber of his being driving him towards the barn. The mad dash had startled the herd of sheep – split down the middle and scooted to the side in a frenzy, expecting to be shepherded. But the herd was far from his mind at this moment, as he cleared the fence with tremendous velocity, spooking the rooster that had stood majestically atop the post, ushering in the morning rays. The rooster now fluttered violently in mid-air, as it panicked to regain composure.
Halting at the door, his paws coated black from the mud, the hound panted vigorously, raising his nose once more to catch a whiff of the air. And then, he snuck past the narrow opening in persistent pursuit of this enigmatic elixir – the only thing that stood between him and pure satisfaction. Leaving muddy footprints across the concrete, he frantically paced the barn, halting now and then to locate the source of the odor, which intensified as he approached the cabinets in the corner. Clamping the handle between his jaws, he yanked at the drawer, which rolled out immediately. Rummaging through the tools at the top, his paws landed on a tin box which was instantly flung to the floor. The contents now scattered everywhere; it seemed the hound had located the source of its mania. Gorging on the mounds of green cannabis rolls, he licked the floor until it was cleared of the mystical drug. Fully conscious of his guilt, he darted out of there as soon as the deed was done, past the meadow, across the cornfields; he disappeared into the woods.
Later that afternoon, on his way to the stables, Kylian stopped by the barn to gather fresh fodder for the horses. In his hurried state, he failed to notice the paw prints until he saw the cabinets. The drawer where he had stowed his stash of marijuana was open. His gait transitioned to a jog, gripped by apprehension at the thought of his father discovering what he had carefully hidden. Father never goes through those drawers. But doubt had already set in. I leave all my tools there. What would make him go through it? He wondered. The tin box rested in the corner. He picked it up – empty. And then...he noticed the prints across the floor. Immediately relieved, he realized who the culprit was.
"HANNIBAL?"
He stood at the door and cried out, peering into the distance; but the hound was nowhere to be seen.
"HANNIBAL? HANNIBAL?"
Strolling further out into the barnyard, he cried out repeatedly, still no sign.
"Aargh...this fuckin' mutt! Took off with all of it...all of it...gone!"
He lamented the loss, irritated at the thought.
Meanwhile, Hannibal had meandered through the woods, his legs buckling from the drug-induced stupor, his canine being in the grips of an unprecedented sensation. His snout sniffed at a scent that penetrated the tree lines. Past the infantry of white birches, his addled eyes peered out in the direction of the scent. He craned his neck to get a better sense of where his legs would carry him next. His paw pressed on a twig beneath the foliage. It snapped which set him off bolting past the thickets and out towards civilization. The slate grey gravel road stretched before him now as he sniffed again. It seemed close, whatever he sought, no matter how far. In this inevitable state of confusion, his erect disposition exuded renewed confidence from the singular objective that he now embarked upon – finding the source of the odor. He ambled across the road which swathed through hilly plains, farmlands traversing on either side. He approached closer to town as the serpentine terrain descended towards a flock of humble establishments. Before the township was a trailer park, where he wandered now. A cluster of dilapidated mobile homes lined the entrance. Hannibal rounded the corner past the abandoned structures. It reeked of privation. He came upon a row of tumbled trash cans. His paws rummaged through the heaps of rubbish and discovered half-eaten buns and patties. This was lunch – a meal to satiate his growling tummy.
He set off once more, the township on the horizon as he passed more weather-beaten trailers. His furry head anxiously craned from side to side, peering at the hustle and bustle that ensued. He passed strangers, their personalities wafting from the musk concealed within their coats and jackets. Some shot him odd glances, couples whispered to each other, younger children scooted to the side in restrained apprehension. The amalgamation of odors allowed him to sense their fears, their mirth, their despair. Clerks at local shops, groceries, pharmacies and gas stations picked up their heads, peeked through windows curiously and then resumed working as customers stormed in. He sensed their glances, whether blatant or surreptitious, as he sniffed the hectic air. A few bikers zoomed past him on the walkways as he bobbed his head nervously, startled by the ringing bells. They passed several cars and then occupied an entire lane before a que of disgruntled drivers. Hannibal sensed he was closer now to the source of his earlier motivation that had drawn him all the way out here. He crossed the street only to be met by screeching tires and profanities like – "Dang mutt!" or "Whose friggin' pup is this?" – before arriving in front of an alley. The stench grew stronger. His paws pressed against the cold cobblestone as he sauntered through the dingy alleyway, the lofty buildings on either side stifling the afternoon light. He approached the rusty dumpster with his tail tucked between his legs, sensing a presence on the other side. He heard a jangling. It heightened his hearing, elevated his posture. It came again, forcing a growl. Baring his teeth, he rounded the dumpster. A man was sitting there, his frail and slender figure shivering inside a mucky jacket. He leaned against the wall, his tattered slacks damp from the puddles that hugged the ground. The derelict's skeletal fingers held out a dixy cup which he jerked. The coins jangled again.
"Change?" came the man's weary voice as he drew back his lips, baring his tobacco-stained teeth. Hannibal sensed his vulnerability and whimpered. "Come here, boy..." the man whispered and waved, an encouraging gesture that coaxed Hannibal out of his shell. His tail wagged with amiability at the stranger's invitation. He licked at the man's outstretched finger and then nuzzled closer to him, burying his head into the man's chest. Intoxicated by the familiarity of the scent in his breast pocket, Hannibal dug his snout into his shirt. The man's laughter echoed. He assumed the hound was being playful. It couldn't be further from the truth. Hannibal clawed at his chest now, hoping to find the same elixir that he had found at the barn. "Stop it, boy..." came the man's protests, but the dog's drive was unrelenting. His delight quickly turned to dread as Hannibal retrieved the pouch of marijuana from his pocket. The man clung onto the pouch with waning strength as Hannibal wrenched his jaws to shake it loose. He held on with dear life, crying, "That's mine, you stupid dog! Lit go...". It was clear, Hannibal wouldn't let go, ensnared by the scent of cannabis. The man kicked at him, driving his boot into Hannibal's ribs. This only served to aggravate him. Hannibal unclamped his jaws to release the pouch and then with vicious intent, lunged at the man's face. Wide-eyed and terrified, the man could only observe the hound's fangs close around his cheeks. He thrashed his legs and flailed his arms as Hannibal engaged in a fierce feeding frenzy, reducing his face to ribbons of pulpy flesh, shredded skin and splattered blood. The thrashing stopped, his body now overcome by violent throbs, gradually withering under Hannibal's weight. Hannibal retrieved the pouch from his unclenched hand and bolted.
In the town, a blue wrangler drove around, stopping at each block. Kylian got out each time, enquiring about his lost dog. Several witnesses recounted seeing the hound making his way across the street. Daylight withered now, ushering in nightfall. Kylian wandered the streets, crying out the dog's name. An exuberant bark caused him to sharply turn on his heels. Hannibal stood before him, smacking his tongue around. Elated and relieved, Kylian charged towards the dog. Hannibal licked his face as he knelt. For a moment, Kylian withdrew, smelling the coppery scent of blood in his breath. And then he saw his jaws, caked scarlet, questioning what Hannibal had been up to. The dying light beckoned him to return home. Hannibal capered into the car, occupying the back seat, panting as if nothing had occurred as Kylian drove off.
