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On July 16, 2019, I moved into Graham Priory after the last coats of varnish dried from the bannisters. Restoring the ancient monastery had taken long hours by legions of workers with a large budget, to prop it up and make it livable after centuries as an abandoned wreck, but those same long centuries compelled me to complete the work. It was deserted during the exile of Charles II, after a night of bloodshed and terror in which the baron, four of his heirs, and many of his servants were butchered in the night. The surviving heir, his fourth son and my ancestor, fled before daybreak, and the estate passed into the care of the Protectorate. Quaking with religious ecstasy, and renouncing his forebears’ sinful ways, Miles de Gaignon, ninth Baron Graham, ventured to Plymouth Colony to start a new family, taking the name Graham to tie himself to the godlier part of his history.

Graham Priory gained a sinister reputation as it decayed, but if it was of little use as a domicile for its granted owners, the Newtons of Gloucestershire, it was intensely exciting as an historical artifact. The foundations of the house dated back to the Roman Empire, perhaps earlier, and subsequent cultures simply built on the existing structures, with Saxon stonemasonry and Gothic spires. The foundation arguably predated civilization, as it was built in a clearing of the Forest of Dean, the surrounding woods left untouched by the villagers of Lydney to the east. Archaeologists and anthropologists found much to be interested in with this patchwork structure, but none of the local villagers wanted to know anything about it. It was a familiar place to them even when it was inhabited, but disconnected from their daily lives, and even more so after its abandonment. My first thought, after a day in the village, was of how distant it was from the fast pace and ruthless competition of modernity. And now that I have returned it to its former purpose, that indifference will allow our worship to continue for centuries more, with none of them the wiser.

I knew little of my heritage, other than the inauspicious flight of my ancestor. Miles Graham had all the asceticism of his Puritan neighbors and more, and was, in my view, vainly proud of his humility as expressed to his fellow colonists, as well as his family. In this, we were similar to our zealous neighbors, devoted to God and to a new life beyond the reach of the fallen world across the ocean; all history was Biblical, save for the sealed envelope passed by each sire to his eldest scion, to be opened only at his inheritance. Instead, my family was proud of its accomplishments in the present, in piety, charity, and prosperity, if not in worldly renown.

This tradition continued for eleven generations but was snuffed out by the flames from Notre Dame de Lourdes in 1982, flames which consumed our home in Fall River. The only life it took was my grandfather’s, whose crippled legs and weakened lungs could not carry him through it, nor could any of his papers be saved, including the envelope which contained the explanation that was my birthright. I recall clearly the sight of the fire climbing through the steeples, firemen struggling to contain the blaze that was fanned by strong winds, carpenters rushing out of the church with its ledgers and tools of the Eucharist, and at last the smoldering, granite shell surrounded by the rubble of hundreds of lives, including my family’s. My father was in Boston for a business trip, and we drove there to join him for a time. With nothing left to keep us in the North, we moved with my mother to be near her parents in Raleigh, and it is there that I grew up and built my fortune. I asked my father what was in the envelope, but he knew as little as I did, and so I dwelt on the present as my ancestors had done and ignored the past. How blind I was to what wonders they had left behind, and that I and my line can develop once more!

My father died in 2005, leaving me with a longing to have known him better, if only for my son’s sake. Sergio was eight at the time, his mother long gone, but he was in some ways a comforting link to the past. He began studying history in college and studied abroad at the University of Cambridge in 2017. While there, he researched the family legend, aided by a new friend of his, Roger Newton, a graduate student who claimed a distant relation to the famed physicist of that name. Apparently, his home was in Gloucestershire near the Priory, and he told my son about some of the rumors and jokes about it that would be too bawdy for a stuffy aristocrat to originate. Newton thought they were fun to relay to a descendant of the de Gaignons, and he, in turn, could scarcely hold back his laughter in telling me about them over Skype. Amusing though the rumors were, they gave me an idea for a project upon my retirement; I would regain the house and surrounding land for my home in my twilight years. Newton’s involvement made this elementary, as he showed my son the ruined house and offered to get it for him very cheaply, since his uncle was the owner and wanted nothing to do with it.

I bought Graham Priory in 2018 but chose not to begin my plans of restoration until Sergio’s graduation, so he could join me in the work. Upon his return to the United States, he continued his studies with a renewed vigor, though he never shared the details with me. For his final semester, he traveled to Duxbury, Massachusetts to research his thesis on law and religion in the Plymouth Colony. During this time, I heard nothing from him, but I can understand his being buried in his work. It wasn’t until April, when he handed in his thesis and returned home, that I knew anything of him. The experience, it seems, had matured him, made him happier and more confident. There was a joie de vivre in him that had always been lacking, and it seemed that everyone he met took an instant liking to him. His charisma even seemed to extend beyond our own species, to dogs especially; essentially, if it breathed and had warm blood, it was fond of him the moment it laid eyes on him. When I asked what happened to him, he shrugged it off as a result of diet and exercise, but whatever it was made my son so cheerful that I decided not to press the matter.

After some months at home, we visited Gloucestershire, and were hosted by Newton, now a young professor of history. He had gathered plans and legends to help with the restoration, and then showed me the ruins. They fascinated me; decrepit though they were, we could see the remnants of the medieval monastery, with its towers and stone walls standing in the middle of the dense forest and cleaned out of everything recognizable in the internal structure. The work was slow going, requiring experts in medieval stonemasonry, woodworking, and art restoration. Many of the locals considered the project laughable, given the spot’s bizarre history, and more than a few laborers resigned upon hearing about the history of the place, as described by its over imaginative chroniclers through the centuries. Both the place itself and its caretakers had a poor reputation, especially among the more devout and conservative members of the community.

My son had said that he often caught locals pointing at him and laughing, their eyes averted, as they whispered jibes in each other’s ears. Now I saw this for myself, not so much a dislike of our family as a disbelief that it still existed and would be returning after what had happened. Most of what I learned of our history then came from Sergio and Roger’s prior research. Maybe they laughed because I had come to restore a place in which seemed so obscene to them, as they viewed as the site of demonic worship and blood orgies, however outlandish this might have been.

From the tales I was given, as well as the papers of several different academics who had investigated the ruins, I gathered that Graham Priory was once the site of a pagan temple, of Welsh Druidic traditions or perhaps more ancient forms of animism, around the same time as Stonehenge. No descriptions of the rites performed there survived, but it was clear that they transitioned smoothly from simple animism to worship of a local god of beasts, Nodens, when Boudica’s revolt drove the pagan traditions underground. Votive figurines excavated there show men and beasts in a tangled pile of bodies, showing their devotion to a being called a demon in later centuries. The town of Lydney, nearby, was the site of a promontory fort at the time of the revolt, and it was said that before battle, Boudica’s troops had performed various ceremonies praying for victory in bloodshed. Though the revolt was quenched, the orgies in the temple went on as before, simply in the names of other gods through the same rites. In the same way, the end of the Roman empire did not end the temple, as seen in later Saxon additions which were left mostly unchanged in shape afterwards. Around 800 AD, an abbot recording local events noted the existence of a great stone priory with a strange and reclusive monastic order and surrounded by forests full of wild game which the surrounding peasants refused to go near, even in times of famine. It was left untouched by Viking and Norman conquerors as well, though with the rise of Christianity it must have declined in numbers and influence; when Henry the Third granted the place to my ancestor, Lucien de Gaignon, in 1269.

My family was little mentioned before that time, other than their arrival from Normandy some time before. Once they moved to the Priory, however, rumors began to circulate about their “unnatural” ways; religious leaders accused them of heresy, though of course nothing could be proven, and the local legends spoke of odd rituals and beasts of burden acting strangely around it. It was said to be a place of debauchery, whose inhabitants were always accompanied by their faithful hounds, and which drew to it large dogs from throughout the land, especially in the middle of summer.

The rumors were especially bizarre about the barons and their heirs, and the animal companions for which they earned their reputations. If an heir was less inclined to the raising of dogs and more to the maidens of other villages, it is said they would be given the funds to make their own way in the world and then cut off from the family line, to make way for another more typical successor. Unusually for a noble line, they seemed to accept new family members on the basis of actions rather than blood. For instance, Matilda von Schwerin married into the family in 1348, the match accompanied by a trade of hounds between the two houses. A tawdry ballad still repeated in Gloucester concerns her and her favorite mastiff, Hornig. Another ballad illustrates the wedding of Baron Guilbert de Gaignon, with a procession of beasts and nobles as the bridesmaids and groomsmen.

These myths intrigued me, crude as they were; they were certainly odd, but too numerous and persistent not to have some small amount of truth to them. The actions they described reminded me of an ill-fated cousin of mine, young Lorenzo Graham, who was found in flagrante delicto with a pit bull bitch, then panicked, threatened violence, and fled into the woods naked.

Other rumors were less clear in their meaning, and less interesting to me; the sounds of moaning and grunting in the night around the druid circle; of the scent of sweat and linden trees after the spring rains; of the great, brown beast which pursued Sir Rainard and his horse one midsummer’s night; and of the itinerant priest who forswore the Christian God and joined them after seeing one of their night’s rituals. These legends were fascinating, but ridiculous, and I could not possibly believe them. The accounts of dogs approaching the place were harder to dismiss; their former owners were turned away many times without answers, and those few who entered rarely wanted to leave.

Some of the tales were incredibly vivid and might have made more sense to me if I had been more informed on the occult. For example, there were those who accused the inhabitants of witchcraft, and the practice of osculum infame. There was talk of rituals to summon demons, which might explain the many hunting traps found in the surrounding forests for rabbits and deer. And, most memorable, there was the tale of the abandoned dogs – scores of them were said to have fled into the forests, and they and their descendants were said to take a keen interest in the surrounding farmers, and in all their livestock, especially in the spring. These passionate pooches spawned their own myths, and in these myths attempted to sire pups with nearly anything that moved.

Such were the stories that surrounded my son and me as we devoted ourselves to rebuilding our estates. But, of course, these rumors were merely a passing fancy compared to the work itself, aided by Professor Newton and the conservators who assisted in the project. When all was finished, it was a marvel of grand rooms, oak-paneled walls, high ceilings, arched windows, and wide staircases, well worth the expense. It had the feel of a Medieval castle, with modern amenities blended perfectly in style with the Old-World surroundings. It was, in all senses of the word, my home at last, and I looked forward to continuing in the grand traditions that had existed before, proving that a de Gaignon (my legal name, now) could once more be an asset to the community.

As I said earlier, I moved in on July 16, 2019. Besides myself and my son, we had seven servants and nine dogs, for which Sergio and I are particularly fond. The oldest of these, Token, was a five-year-old Labrador retriever, who came with us from our home in Raleigh; the others we had taken in from nearby shelters during the reconstruction. For five days we lived quietly, as I spent my time reading and reconciling some of the family legends. Newton had found some accounts of the night of terror which had all but ended our prior line, with the exception of Miles de Gaignon. This was most likely the secret passed from sire to son until its destruction at Notre Dame de Lourdes. My ancestor was accused, with good reason, of murdering everyone else in the household except for a few co-conspirators, in their sleep, about two weeks after a religious awakening which had changed his whole attitude toward his family. He confessed it in open court, claiming that it was a house of demon worship and witchcraft, and asked for mercy by way of exile, which the Protectorate granted.

The wholesale slaughter, including his parents, three brothers, and two sisters, was condoned by the villagers in public and celebrated in private; they felt he had saved the souls of generations to come. But I did not see the sense in it; he must have known of his family’s reputation for years, so they could not have spurred such violence. Had his newfound salvation shown him, in his eyes, the den of sinners in which he had lived? Before his conversion, he was seen as a quiet, gentle soul, but in the colonies he was far more outspoken about the dangers of hell and temptation.

On July 22, we had our first incident which might, in hindsight, be called strange or wondrous when seen in light of what was to come. I barely even noticed it at the time, but Token, who I knew quite well, was remarkably affectionate, following me from room to room and sniffing constantly at my body, and my genitals especially. Of course, this would not be notable at all, but it sticks in my mind even so.

The next day, one of the servants complained that all the dogs in the house were rowdy and full of energy. He came up to my study on the second floor, with its oak bookshelves, arched alcoves, and a Gothic window overlooking the forest; as he told me about the other dogs, Token begged for my attention by pawing at my legs and sniffing at me. I told the man that perhaps the dogs smelled something interesting in the forest and were excited to find it. This was the most sensible explanation to me at the time, and yet when pressed for suggestions my answers of deer or rabbits in heat were not satisfying, given how focused they were on playing with each other and with their human caretakers. I asked Sergio about them, and he assured me that it was perfectly normal, this time of year, for dogs to be more curious about each other and the people they love.

That night I went to my bedroom in the west wing, in a tower directly above my study , accessibly by a narrow spiral staircase. The room was circular and cozy, hung with tapestries I had commissioned for the occasion in London. Token at my heels, I shut the Gothic door and lay in bed reading the news on my phone, the noble dog laying by my side. The sunset was visible out the window, orange and pink hues blended behind the forest like a garden of flowers.

At some point I must have fallen asleep, since I remember being woken from strange and pleasant dreams, but I felt a warm weight on my legs as Token shifted beside me. I saw her silhouette against the starry sky, head leaned forward toward me, forelegs on my thighs. She was looking intensely at a point below me, and I could feel her warm breath on my crotch. As I watched, I got the feeling that she was looking there with definite purpose. As she did, I swear I could hear a low, distant howling of wolves. In a moment, the dog had dived down to my pajama pants, licking them, and damping them with her saliva. She held my legs down with her paws, her tongue lapping up and down around my crotch, seemingly trying to insert her tongue between the layers of fabric. She found what she was after, and it was a rough and pleasant moment, but after a time she returned wearily to my side and lay down to sleep. I did not move, but nor did I sleep again that night.

In the morning, I asked everyone in the household, but none of them had noticed anything, with the exception of the gardener, who kept one of the dogs in her room at night. She said the dog had climbed into bed with her at some hour of the night, awaking her and sniffing her much as Token had with me. She refused to tell me more but assured me that she went to sleep soon after and felt none the worse for it. I napped at noon, and in the afternoon asked Sergio about it, who became quite interested in what I told him. He said that his evening with his dog, Buddy, had been normal, but these incidents appealed to his sense of the bizarre, and he enthusiastically told me about similar historical incidents from local court records. He suggested I try changing my pajamas in case something in them was the cause of Token’s behavior, and I relayed his suggestion to the servants.

I went to bed early, to catch up on my sleep, but my dreams were incredibly vivid and involving. I was in a forest clearing, surrounded by humans and their dogs, kneeling in the grass, as a golden dog with wings flew in the air and shone a light upon us all. Then as the dog hovered in the air and watched over us, the dogs turned upon their humans and climbed all over them until it was impossible to tell the difference between dog from man.

From this wondrous sight I was awoken by Token, who had been sleeping by my side as usual. This time there was no question what she wanted, what she drooled over, and the longing that made her lean over my thighs; for from the forest arose the sound of a pack of feral dogs, howling and rutting and wrestling each other. The moonless night offered no chance to see what was out there making the noise, so I turned on the lights.

As the room was illuminated, I saw Token licking at my now exposed penis, which was throbbing and hard at her attention. The moment I could see her, Token stopped licking, and the sound stopped with her. Tucking my cock into my pants, I moved to the window to see what had been in the forest, but there was nothing but the night sky and the scent of coming rains. Other than the irregular, dark stain on my bedsheets, no trace remained of what had happened.

Further sleep was impossible now, so, using my phone’s flashlight, I opened the door and went down to my study, Token following at my heels. As we reached the stairs, however, Token raced ahead of me and down the spiral stairs. As I followed her, I heard sounds coming from the woods outside, sounds whose nature was easy to discern. The howls of the dogs vibrated through the great oak doors to the forest courtyard, as Token scratched and barked at the door, eager to greet them. I looked out the window to find the pack which made the noise, but saw nothing; still, the hounds bayed, frenzied and excited, and definitely from the woods to the west. I almost felt as if they called to me, begging me to join them, even as Token begged me to let her.

At that moment, two servants approached us from a nearby corridor. They were looking for a reason why all the dogs in the house had run to the doors and howled to be let out to the western woods at the same time. I asked if they heard the howls from the forest, but they did not; as I turned to point out the source of the noise, it suddenly stopped. The servants and I walked out to the border of the grounds, but found nothing, and our dogs had gone back to their beds. I determined that I should make a further examination of those woods in the daylight and went back to my study, ruminating on the different legends I had heard about the priory.

I used the late morning to catch up on my sleep in a recliner in my study. Then I took Sergio with me to help explore the forest grove, alongside Token and Buddy. It all appeared ordinary, although we were able to find the remains of a stone circle, possibly a ceremonial structure of the druids. This was not an imitation by Saxon conquerors, but a genuine Romano-Celtic temple, and the stone still held inscriptions like “NOD… DEO P…STAT…VIRI…” and “DONA NO… POTESTA… …NES ..ASYA-LABOL...”

Sergio giggled at the latter inscription; when asked, he explained to me that he had read the Lesser Key of Solomon, of the demon Glasya-Labolas, to whom worshippers of Nodens turned in times of war. Sergio and I examined the symbols on the rough, stone columns and crude altars, but they were unfamiliar even to him. One repeated pattern, of sunlight emanating from a central, winged figure, suggested pre-Roman origins. The white stains on top of one of the altars were a curiosity, though. At the center of the circle grew an ancient tree, further suggesting the place as a site of nature-worship.

These were the sights in that grove which had howled the previous night, so as an experiment, Sergio and I agreed to spend the night there with our dogs. Sleeping bags were brought out by the servants, who were told not to mind what the dogs did during the night. Buddy and Token were with us for their assistance as much as for our protection and comfort. As the sun set upon the circle, we went to sleep with electric lights still lit nearby.

The grove was deep in the woods outside the priory, and certainly far from the village below. That the howling of prior nights was meant to guide us here I had to admit, though I still did not know the reason. As we lay there, waiting for what was to come, my exhaustion gave me fuzzy dreams interrupted by the motion of the dog at my side. The dreams were peculiar, like the one from the night before. I saw once more the forest clearing, the golden, winged dog surrounded by his attendants on two legs and four, and as I looked at them, their features became clearer to me. In particular, the features of the two nearest to me struck me as familiar and comforting and lulled me into easy sleep again. I know not whether Sergio had similar dreams, or even the same one, but if so, it was certainly a pleasant experience.

Sergio shook me from my slumber as the dogs began to act strangely. We could hear howling from the inside of the house, while our two dogs ignored both the noise and our gaze, wrestling and nuzzling each other on the mouths and ears, as the same howling and rutting from the night before resounded around me.

There was a great wonder within me now, for these oddities could not be easily dismissed by way of explanation. If those howls were not hallucinations shared between me and the dogs, must be coming from further into the dense woods. But if so, why did Sergio not acknowledge the noise? Why did he prompt me to watch the dogs, to listen to the commotion from the house, and why was his attention so focused on the mating pair?

By the time I had pointed out, in a stammering and uncertain way, what howls rang in my ears, I got the impression that they had travelled still further into the woods, far away from the path until it seemed the trees themselves were filled with mating hounds. Sergio was bemused by my agitation but did not doubt what I heard. He pointed out that the dogs in the house were now silent, while Token and Buddy had separated and sniffed the air toward the part of the woods where I heard it.

At this point, my curiosity was piqued. Something bizarre had happened, and my son, a better educated and more generally jaded man than I, was affected as much as I was—possibly because he was so familiar with the legends surrounding our estate. At the moment, we did nothing but stand looking into the woods as the noise faded and the dogs whimpered in desire to follow it.

We spent the rest of the night back in my study, fervently discussing our next steps. The discovery of the ancient ritual ground, and the suspicion of further discoveries which lay behind it, would have been exciting even without the curious incident of the dogs in the night-time. As it was,, we wondered whether it might be better to simply leave the place and avoid further grotesqueries, or to venture further into the woods and gratify our curiosity. By morning, we elected to go forward, but cautiously, going to London to gather experts to assist in making sense of what we had seen.

We started with Newton, Sergio’s professor friend and an expert in Celtic legendry. He recommended to us four more experts, trustworthy both as scholars and as men and women of maturity and discretion. Most of them were eager to examine the grounds, out of both inquisitiveness and sympathy for our aims. Their names matter little, with the exception of Catherine Hills, who hosted the series “The Blood of the British” a decade ago. As the scholars arrived in Gloucestershire, I felt close to exciting revelations, of both my family’s past and my future.

On the evening of August 7, the last of my guests at the priory and prepared for our task. The servants told me that the dogs, even Token, had been entirely calm, the nights silent. We would head out to the forest in the morning, as my guests rested in their prepared rooms and I in my tower chamber, Token by my side. I was asleep in an instant, consumed by beautiful dreams. There was imagery of a Roman orgy like those reported of Caligula, its central figures covered in fur. Then came the recurrent bit with the golden dog and his servants in the forest grove. But when I woke up, it was morning, and all was quiet. There was no howling during the night, and Token was still asleep beside me. Downstairs, I found that the same quiet was experienced by the rest of the household. One of my servants, a girl named Phillips who believed in the supernatural, guessed that it was because I was already doing what the spirits of the house wanted.

We were prepared, and at 11 o’clock our party of seven, carrying scanning equipment and digging tools, went out to the forest and past the ritual circle. We took the dogs with us, hoping their noses and instincts would point us in the right direction. We pointed out the Latin inscriptions and Welsh pictographs briefly, as they were familiar to everyone assembled there. Examining the central altar, Dr. Hills noted that its symbols were oriented toward the direction of the sun at noon, then noticed a faded path in that direction, which we then followed.

After a brief walk, we emerged in a circular forest clearing, bordered by mossy stones with the faint remains of inscriptions. These appeared to be burial markers, but some of the plots were closer together than normally found in ancient cemeteries, and many had the inscriptions of bones or of canine figures, set beside human ones. It was clearly a place of mourning, but there was a calm about it, a sort of peace and familiarity heightened by the cool breeze.

My recollection of events after this is strange, so forgive me if my speech is unclear or absurd.

After walking a few steps into the clearing, we saw that there was light ahead; besides the daylight streaming down from above us, as if reflected from a pond some distance away. A few steps more, and our astonishment stole our breath away; Phillips jumped up and down in excitement, Sergio beamed with delight, while I stood mouth agape, eyes wide, taking in what I saw. Of the seven of us, only Dr, Hill retained her composure, a credit to her professionalism and experience.

Before us lay the charred remains of a small village, the foundations of houses and farms stretched out before us surrounding the central pond. The ruins spoke of a history of several thousand years, from Celtic tribes to Roman soldiers to Saxon raiders to early English settlers. But if our amazement was silent, the same could not be said of the dogs with us, who dashed about the clearing in excitement, digging for bones and what must have been dog toys lost many generations ago.

Sergio knelt to the ground, feeling the dirt beneath his fingers. He invited me to join him there, and upon squatting, I noticed that the houses were unusually designed. They were only four feet high, the doorways wide, windows open to the air. We went into some of the sounder structures, and found the remains of men and dogs, apparently killed in a struggle. Many of them were intermingled canine and human remains, sometimes with one attempting to shield the other, sometimes in the midst of coitus. This was difficult to deny, especially from the sight of a large baculum stuck through a human pelvis among the bones.

Wonder piled on wonder as we interpreted the remains. The buildings were evidently meant to serve as homes for men and hounds equally, for there was nothing to suggest surfaces higher than our knees, and any bedding was low to the ground and shared between them. Bowls made of clay and wood littered the ground, some with water, others with the remnants of meat and grain. What struck me most oddly was that, although clearly dogs lived here with people, there were no restraints to be found; neither pens nor ropes nor fences were erected, and the dogs must have been free to wander much as ours currently were.

I ventured to enter a low Saxon building, within which I found the floors lined with soft earth and grass. On the back walls of this building, there was a mural in the Roman style, featuring a man crouched behind a great mastiff, fully naked, embracing her closely. The expressions on both of their faces were ecstatic, and I could recognize in the shape of the man’s face that this could well be an ancestor of mine. Through all this digging into the past, the dogs came in and out, and I could swear I saw a glint of recognition in Token’s eyes and wondered what she could discover from the scents of the ruins around us. Buddy came up to Sergio licking his face, and Sergio lay down beside him, returning his kisses and taking off his now muddy shirt.

I stepped out into the sunlight in a daze and recognized it as the very clearing from my dreams. Looking into the distance, I could see my companions similarly bewildered, as the dog’s approached them slowly, licking their lips and panting. The way the sunlight shone through the summer leaves, reflected from the pond and onto their coats, I found a small piece of heaven there in the clearing, and so too did my companions. But after such hard labor, I needed a rest; I sat in the grass, and Token trotted up to me, pawing at my legs.

As the shining sunlight warmed me, I froze to the spot. I heard voices, men and beasts, moans and grunts and screams, but above everything the beating of my own heart with newly awakened desire, desire for Token. The most beautiful creature I had ever seen; I'd never felt this way before, like a volcano erupting inside of me... like hot lava rising higher and higher under tropical mountains by a white beach and sparkling blue ocean. She pushed against me- she was so furry and firmly toned. My sweet Token, the luscious, delicious, insatiable companion that comforted me on both sides of the Atlantic... Why shouldn't she love a de Gaignon as a de Gaignon loves her kind?... her kind love my boy, after all... and the flames of Notre Dame de Lourdes destroyed the last remnants of shame, as they destroyed the lies passed down of old... Yes, yes, I tell you, I am that radiant breeder in the sunlit clearing! It was my son’s handsome face on that elated creature beneath the great hound! I am, at last, a de Gaignon! My father died, but my boy yet lives!... Shall a Newton know new life as a de Gaignon?... It's white witchcraft, I tell you... that gorgeous cloven tuft... Bless you, Newton, I'll teach you to join in what my family do!... Within thine own bud buriest thy content... As houndes do after a byches, whan she is Joly... Glasya-Labolas! Glasya-Labolas!... Nodens... Cymerwch fy meddwl a fy nghorff ... ac efallai mai bywyd o lawenydd yw ein un ni ... Pleser a chariad tuag atom ni a'n un ni!... Ungh... ungh... Rrrr... Awoooooooooo...!

This is what Sergio tells me I said as I bent down to Token and consummated our marriage (for what else could I call it now) for the first time. Newton was shocked at the display, but a pair of retriever mutts had coaxed him down to join us in our lovemaking. Sergio, meanwhile, was on all fours with Buddy knotted behind him, and all the rest of our companions took part in that most sacred of rites with one or two of the dogs in the middle of nature’s splendor. What happened all the rest of that evening was a blur, with such smells and feelings and tastes as none of us had ever experienced. By the time the sun had set and then risen again, I had felt the pleasures of the flesh with all of the dogs and more than half of the guests. We agreed that, due to the scandal this might excite among their colleagues, none of us would speak a word of what we had done. And yet, a bond was formed that night, one which I feel mankind shall one day see as a blessing. Though for now we must keep this secret from the world, it is by no means a shame to myself or any of my party from that day; indeed, now and then one of them will visit the house, or introduce a trusted friend to our new way of life. In fact, Phillips is in the next room over with her fiancé, introducing him to her other lovers. We will slowly, carefully, show the rest of the world that what we do here at the priory is a lovely thing. But they must know that this was not our doing. It was what the dogs wanted, needed, told us to do with them, those beautiful best friends of ours, the rutting, drooling, howling curs, the curs in the courtyard.