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"We are not savages."

That is what my father always told me. You see, my loving parents were always of the "enlightened" opinion that meat, of any form, was beneath a being of higher intelligence. A mere cultural throwback to the days in which our society walked upon four legs and not two. Any member of our society wishing to think ourselves above such savagery should cut away this last, vestigial tie to a world we have outgrown. Luckily, Biology permitted us this choice as a family of Maned Wolves. Technically, and with the right choices of fruit, we could all live happy, ethical lives as herbivores. When I came into this overdrawn world, furs scrambled beyond my door trying to scrape up bits of meat and scraps of food, and my own birth was a laudable act. As soon as possible, I was roughly weaned from my mother's nature-gifted sustenance and put on plants. Not even milk was allowed, as nothing could be derived from one of our fellow friends.

They'd even begun a little business in the basement, Organic Produce.

Tomatoes. Lettuce. Carrots. And a treat for my long-legged kind, thick green Wolf Apples. Rows and rows of crops under lights, hydroponics hooked up to a home water filter. We could survive without a single bite of anything with a pulse.

As a pup, while the other canines tore and gnawed at lumps of savory meat from the bone with the sharp, gleaming teeth nature gave them, I sat alone at lunchtime and nibbled at my Wolf apple. The vaguely sweet taste was one I came to endure, as the scents of cooked flesh with tangs of blood upon the air assaulted me. Years of torture, with my own genetic code yanking at me. A private hell worthy of Dante.

I recall making the mistake once of trying to steal a little tidbit from the tray of a "proper" predator, a large Doberman male. One glance at my paw reaching for his leftovers and I had his paw to my throat. I was a skinny pup living on fruit, I couldn't have been half his weight. He hit me, again and again. He used his claws. I fought back too, my long, starved limbs clattering off his muscled sides like broken glass. All the while, he barked over and over how I was a disgrace to my species, and if I wouldn't use my canines, he'd rid me of them. And he focused on my face and muzzle, each punch trying to loosen my jaw. He was about to use his own well-used teeth when his friends pulled him off me and left me laying on the floor, bleeding on myself. Had I been a real herbivore, there's little doubt he'd have been expelled. But before a Timberwolf as grizzled as my principal, I was the one at fault. He pointed at the teeth protruding from my still-bleeding gums and told me that dog was right. I was a canine. I should act it.

And then, when my loving mother and father pulled me from school, and poured dusty-tasting soy ice cream down my maw, they reprimanded me over and over again. Not for fighting back, but for trying to eat meat. They were trying to raise me right, and I go trying to undo everything they did for me. Never mind the dog ready to tear out my throat for nothing, I was the savage. As the world outside grew hungrier and hungrier, we would survive.

So, they pulled me out of my mixed school, and the rest of my days I was surrounded by herbivores in a lush private school. I'm sure they thought they were doing me a favor, but it was just as bad. Tossing a potential predator among a herd of entitled, skittish beasts, clamoring together in their coats of navy blue...I'd never been more visible. If not the teeth in my maw, they could smell the background. Soil under my claws from digging in the garden, the scent of oil trapped in my fur from the bus. They cut diluted superiority with doses of fear. Every eye was always on me, waiting for the chance to snap and charge, put down the mad dog before he bites.

Meanwhile, back home, my parents and their radical lifestyle choice seemed to treat them well. Their little basement project grew more expansive, and our vegetables had herbivores from all over the neighborhood knocking at our door. While the meat-chewers picked at scraps, the herbivores delighted in their full bellies and smug superiority, the gift of my family to theirs. Soon, few even recalled the sharp teeth still hiding uselessly in our muzzles, and we were hailed as heroes. We had done it, we actually were herbivores.

We had chosen the most opportune time. Meat was becoming dangerously scarce, and those few not lucky enough to survive from the earth grew restless. As the thick mist of hunger spread across my city ever thicker, many were unfortunately unable to tame themselves. New stories flashed across the screen every time we flicked the TV on, with higher resolution and crisper clarity rendering each bloodstain more visceral than the last. That housecat, who took to his girlfriend with a frying pan, kitchen knife, and shotgun in a dispute over a few cans of fish. In that order. That family of vampire bats that mobbed the pedestrian, of which police only jailed one. The rest ended up in bags. Hell, I remember the nightmare that came when I read about the coyote caught in the meat processing plant not trying to steal from the livestock, just chomping off bites of a still-bellowing steer.

The scariest were the warehouse fires. For the last few months, an organized group of predators had raised hell across the city, making our already dire shortages worse. Raiding shipping stores, making off with huge stores of canned meat and synthetic flesh...hell, they even attacked plasma shipments. Each time, their manifesto left out for all to see. The Children of Romulus, a self-proclaimed Canine Supremacy militia. Rumor had it, they were redistributing precious food across the city outside of state regulation. Sounds nice, doesn't it? Save that only canines got their handouts. Food that was supposed to be divvied up equally, from grocery stores to charities and elementary schools, now was in their control. It truly was this dire, and whispers of rioting were passed around at my school like ghost stories. But that was of no concern to a family as enlightened as ours.

As time wore on, however, it became clearer my parents' activism was less the product of their own hearts, and more of their wallets. We grew more and more affluent, soon abandoning our charmingly integrated community for the rich, upscale neighborhoods of the city's elite, where the grasses were as lush and green as the dinner on everyone's plates. A modest little manor, furnished with exquisite gifts from my family's many new friends and customers, always smelling of crisp greens and steamed leaves from our many delightful dinner parties. As I grew older I grew accustomed to these little affairs in these lavish mansions of the social elite. All of whom, I may add, only chewed leaves. Often my parents would dress me up nice and parade me in front of them all, showing off their proud, strong son to carry on the good message. I learned how to smile and nod the way that makes rich folk clap the loudest. With each event, we'd leave more and more rich, fat herbivores with full bellies, and my parents grew more and more connected. Powerful. Soon they wielded more influence in the city than most of my classmates' parents. I later found out that fancy school of mine just a favor they cashed in. Politicians, CEOs...everyone wanted a taste of our food. All of this was thanks to the basement, with its rows and rows of greens all enticing those spoiled beasts to our door.

I see now that this was Mother and Father's real motivation. Try as they might to convince themselves they were fighting the good fight, they were no different from the real wolves fighting for scraps. No different from the savage who had attacked me in school trying to assert his dominance. They too were trying to climb to the top of the hill, scrape and claw their way to the Alpha rank. They just chose a more disciplined approach. And I reaped the rewards, a good diploma from a private institute followed by a full ride at University...it was perfect.

---

But then it all went wrong.

The Children of Romulus grew bolder. Not satisfied with playing Robin Hood, they started venting their frustrations on the herbivores as well, and three of our warehouses and two large-scale farms went up in flames in a matter of days. Not comfortable being the only ones to starve, they brought the food shortage to us as well. And our little utopia grew more and more hectic. Those stately, proper friends of ours soon grew testy, now that their dinners started losing their number of courses. They began turning to our basement to sate their hunger. But we were just one vendor, we couldn't feed the 5000 with a basket of carrots. Their demand was too great, and in their haste to meet demand and maintain reputation, my parents bartered away our entire crop. When I found out, I was livid. How could they be so foolish?! No chance to cycle the crops. No time for the sprouts to mature. We didn't even have new fucking medium for them to grow in! They didn't care, all they could do was try to figure out how to make more, how to keep their friends happy. They soon lost the ability to farm, all they could do was yell and argue as I worked our family's meal ticket alone. They had tasted the good life, far sweeter than any fucking wolf apple they could grow. They were backed into a corner, and like rodents they were trying to wriggle their way free.

Finally, I lost it one night. They'd been arguing for hours, their loud words bouncing off the concrete walls and echoing deep within my skull. The same thing, over and over. We need more! My maw opened wide and I roared in the way my species alone knew. I tore into them, for their greedy, selfish desires that had gotten us all into this mess and had the entire neighborhood tearing at our door. That they had dragged their son into their crusade, used me for their own ends.

At that, they had enough, and my father tried to slap me. With arms like his, I barely felt it. Nevertheless, I left them behind to fester, tramping out into the night.

It was the middle of the night, and I could have easily been robbed by some meat-starved near-feral and killed. Then again, I'm sure I looked no better, how thin I was. I didn't have anywhere to go, so I just walked into the city, drifting from street to street, meandering between buildings and under bridges. I barely even looked where I was going, I was so hungry. The lights in front of me were growing hazy, I couldn't see where anything began or ended. There was a sound, coming close. Where was it? It sounded like a horn, why would there be-

A yank at my back, and a bus materialized in front of me, zooming past with an angry blare. Had I just wandered into traffic? I was on the curb...with a scruffy dingo hovering over me. He waved, and a mohawked vixen came into focus as well. Both bore piercings and brands into their fur, burnt white flesh lovingly patterned into skulls and pro-canine mantras. They tittered back and forth about "found another one" and "getting worse." They dragged me upright and led me away, my dizzy mind still unsure as to where I was, and I was bustled into some dingy little apartment. Somewhere a TV was blaring, I could smell beer and someone's blunt on the air, and a bunch of voices were all talking at once. My ears couldn't take it, I was about to pass out, and they forced me into a chair. A little splash of water woke me up, and my vision cleared enough to face my rescuers.

Five were in front of me, including the two who found me on the street. All canines, with fangs glistening between their lips. All wearing thick, leather jackets with a golden eagle emblazoned on the chest, bearing a canine head. Children of Romulus, the wolf of Rome. I'd been rescued by terrorists, by the ones who were costing my family our life.

I felt my hackles rise, and I started to snarl, but one of them approached me with a little plate in paw, something warm and steaming setting my senses on fire. I looked down, wide eyed, as he set it in my lap.

Chicken. Microwaved right out of the can. For the first time in my life, I had meat on my plate. I tremulously reached down and picked up a lump. So soft in my paw, and it smelled so good. I took one little bite, and that was all she wrote. I snapped and gulped it down, savory, salty flavors hitting my tongue in ways I'd never had before. Too quickly, it was gone, and the Children watched in shock as I licked the plate clean, whimpering with need. It tasted too good, and even moments after it slipped down my maw, I felt energy arise like I had not known in years. They got me up and moving, appalled by how "malnourished" I was, and they gave me enough cans of meat to get me through a week. The dingo even gave me his number, and I was invited to come to their meetings, see if I wanted to aid in "our fight". I had no love for their politics...but for a few bites of meat, I might be convinced.

I wanted to save them, but I couldn't help myself, I inhaled one after the other and left the cans littered in the street like Hansel and Gretel all the way home. I worked my way to strength with each bite, and as I tasted rich muscle, I swear I could feel it adding to my frame. By the time I meandered back to those perfect green lawns, I had a truly full belly. Every step felt lighter, as if the atmosphere itself was cast off my shoulders. I had broken free, I was a canine again. I wanted to rub it in mother and father's faces, show them that their stupid rules didn't apply to me anymore.

But when my house came into view, my face fell. Something was wrong. The door was wide open, even hanging off its hinges. I bounded forward, my starved muscles now full of life, and I vaulted inside. The room was in shambles, furniture upended and torn every which way as if from a stampede. All the wonderful trinkets and tokens of appreciation my parents had drooled over were smashed to bits. A crash from downstairs, and I made for the basement.

It was revolting. Six dinner guests, all of whom we fed dutifully. A bull, the head of city management, had his face over our sprouting lettuce. He didn't even use his paws, jut had his face in the damn dirt. Grazing. An Elk, partner at one of the biggest civil attorney offices in the state, was cleaning our tomato bushes of anything remotely green, didn't matter if it was ripe or not. He even was chewing up the stems. A husband and wife pair of beavers, both Mayor's aides, were gnawing our sapling apple trees to twigs. And two bucks. The Headmaster of my old High School, ripping up carrots and shoving them into his maw, green and all...with his oldest son next to him doing the same. I grew up with him, went to the same schools as him. We even played ball together once.

I was enraged. They were ruining everything, and for what?! Had they no sense? Destroying the garden, they were only making it worse! How could my parents-

I realized too late that there were hoof prints all over the floor. The same wet shade of red.

And then I finally saw them, kicked away like refuse, the beasts tracking their blood around. Father had a pair of deep, thick holes in his chest. The bull must have hit him first. Mother lay right next to him, neck and spine twisted every way, the elk must have trampled her when she rushed to father's aid. Like ferals in the fucking street. Had our friends grown tired of us dodging their calls? Had they smashed in the door, bellies screaming and lungs bellowing...my parents couldn't deny them. Even if they wanted. Maybe father realized I was right, maybe he spoke up as they robbed us. Maybe they'd fought back, and were put down for their trouble.

Or...maybe they'd just taken too long showing them the food, and they couldn't wait. They were entitled to it, after all. My parents had to deliver. They had the honor, they had the success. What mattered more? Maintaining their quality of life...or the lives of two starved, helpless canines who only wanted to join them?

Savages.

With tears clouding my eyes, I swear my sight turned red. The meat in my belly made me strong, I felt fervor behind my eyes and strength in my limbs. Something was tearing in me, clawing the inside of my chest, something feral aching to be let out.

And for the first time in my life, I opened my maw and roar-barked like a true Maned Wolf, strong enough to make the lights above flicker.

They all just froze. All of them, looking at me with big eyes and great slack-jaws. Drool, dirt, and horror dribbled from twisted muzzles. They didn't know what to do. The fight or flight instinct that had kept them alive for so long had been bred out of them long ago, hidden too deep under balloonish layers of fat and prestige. In that moment, their wealth did not matter. Nor did their morals. Or their families. They were great lumps of meat ripe for the slaughter, before a real predator.

And that's what I did. I slaughtered them. I grabbed the nearest object, a pair of gardening shears, and I tore them all open. None of them even moved, they just sat there screaming and bleating until I opened up their throats. My paws stomped and splattered in a mixture of my parents and their murderers, and every plant left alive got a warm little treat. I tore them apart, the screams and snarls coming from my maw bearing no enlightenment. Only hunger.

---

The bodies were never found. They never left the basement. I emptied our plots and shoved them in, and as time went on, they did a wonderful job fertilizing the next crop. Meanwhile, a select few of my new friends in the city got to try some of the finest cuts of meat they'd ever tasted. So fatty and rich, their maws never stopped watering. They kept asking where I got it, and I'd always just say "a little farm uptown".

Through my new product, I fed the six back to their neighbors. Soon my family house filled once again with lavish parties, with an interesting undercurrent of fear about the recent disappearances in the community. It only pushed them together into their little herds, all of whom came to me to buy from a family they could trust. On that note, they'd ask me about my parents, and I would have to lie and say they were out of town, or on a cruise. They weren't hard to convince, they didn't quite care. And while I cultivated my parent's garden, I built one of my own with the Children. I gave them targets, mostly notoriously obnoxious dinner guests of mine, and inside information to their affairs only a herbivore would know. I even made an offer to provide fertilizer for their more...extravagant activates, an offer that made them drool more than the meat they ate. My only price? A steady supply of the meat they've been pilfering. Enough to sate my palate. I have a nice stockpile by now, between the cans and my garden. Father was right, I would survive the shortages.

I know they'll take me up on it soon. All it will take is giving them the tools for a nice, big boom...pointing them at the right house in my community with the old, stripped remains of several missing members of the local herbivore elite just so happening to be inside...along with two innocent bystanders of their own kind...

Yes, I would do it. Don't tell me I can't. They're no better than those cattle I hunted. No better than my own parents. Without the strength to do it on their own, they band together, use trickery and cheating to climb their way to the top. They're not heroes, they never were, just a pack of scared dogs offering me scraps. The Children of Romulus would have dug themselves a hole they couldn't escape eventually, and with my help, the sins of my past will end up dragged down with them. Even if they try to turn on me, I have enough on them to ensure their graves are dig deep, which I will happily hand over to the authorities once I've been fed enough. My goal is to work my way to the top, and I will take that fate into my own paw with the sacrifice of my parents and all the backs I have to stand upon. Or the necks I have to stomp upon

That Doberman was right. My principal was right. I was born a canine. I was raised as prey. Now I'm finally the predator.

There's only one problem...

When I was exacting my revenge, more than a few splatters of blood landed upon my tongue. Warm, fresh, breathing...

I've been eating more and more meat along with my plants, and I've been growing stronger and stronger. The food the Children of Romulus have been giving me is good...but the meat on my plate has never tasted as good as it did that first night. I keep replaying that evening in my head. I can imagine sinking the metal blades into that young deer's neck...the face no older than mine twisted in fear and light fading from his eyes. I feel blood gush from the wounds, splattering all over me, filling my maw, slipping down my throat. And I sink my fangs into his still-warm body, yanking chunks of him as he continues to twitch. I no longer kneel on two limbs, I stand over him on four. I yank great strips from him and swallow whole. I gorge myself on this childhood acquaintance...and when I have torn all I can from his bones...I turn to his father. And then the rest of them.

It scares me, I worry I might soon get too curious. That I'll wonder too much about the prey walking down the sidewalk next to me...on the subway...at my dinner table. I think I went too far, broke too much of myself open, now I'm growing feral. I know I'll have to see for myself. I'll have to hunt again. I'm a canine, aren't I? Isn't that what we do?

So no, Father. I am not a savage.

But it's only a matter of time.