He isn’t a born a he; he is born a she.
A lone red puppy in a sea of monochrome, she opens vibrant green eyes last of her siblings. She is not the runt; she is the chosen.
Grandmother tries to teach her the art of nurture. She gnaws on a boar tusk and dreams of being a hunter.
Father tries to teach her the art of dominance. She stares off over the horizon and longs for adventure.
Mother tries to teach her the art of mates. She howls to the moon and confides to its bright face that she wants none.
Adolescence passes unappreciated; she leaves the pack.
She is almost killed by a rival. She fails to catch a meal and becomes a scavenger. She finds that she has no rage, submits meek to those who challenge her. She realizes under the moon that she is alone.
She goes home.
Siblings welcome her home with yelps of excitement. Grandmother laughs at her misfortunes and licks her fur until it shines. Father smiles indulgently at her ideals and concedes that she is not a leader. Mother…Mother stares and she is filled with shame. (“Mother hates me.” “She loves you.”)
Mother comes in her own time, “Are you ready to learn?”
“I can’t be you.”
Mother smiles, “I chose you to know, not to lead.”
The wolf learns the way of her pack. She becomes a mother. She has puppies of her own. She leads in support, in nurture.
Many years later, she dies.
He is not born a she; he is born a he.
A new life; a new body.
He is still a wolf. He remembers; misses their company.
He decides to find a pack; it is his heritage to honor.