"I should be back soon," Mom says as she pulls on a coat. "I just need to make sure we have plenty of food in case the storm keeps us inside for a few days." She reaches down as if to pat me on the head only to freeze with her hand an inch above my fur as she stares at the dried blood on my muzzle.

"I'll be okay," I say, ducking my head. 

She nods, her eyes still fixed on the blood, and walks out the door. The car's engine starts soon after. 

I watch Mom drive off through the window. Dark grey clouds blanket the sky, hiding the sun from view. The wind shakes leaves off the trees, adding to the layer of autumn's usual debris that's already on the ground. 

The gloomy weather makes it impossible for me to resist yawning. I've been feeling more tired than usual ever since October started. The urge to curl into a ball and sleep is hard to ignore, but I manage to keep it at bay by nudging the screen door open and walking into the yard. I take in a deep breath, trying to see if I can smell any mushrooms nearby, and start my daily foraging trip by heading to the edge of the woods.

Since berries are scarce this time of year, I focus on searching for mushrooms in the undergrowth. Squirrels flee when they here me coming, chattering warning to each other as they scurry to the trees. A wave of nausea rolls through my stomach as I remember the fawn I killed yesterday. 

"What is wrong with me?" I whisper as the squirrels' fearful response to my approach sends birds screeching as they fly from the trees they were perched in. How could I possibly explain that it wasn't my fault the deer had died? Hearing voices and losing consciousness isn't exactly a normal thing to experience. 

A smell that reminds me of apricots drags my attention away from what happened the day before. Sniffing around a rotten log, I spot yellowish orange mushrooms poking out from the leaf litter: chanterelles.

Dad loved cooking with those. They're really rare, but he always said they were worth looking for because of how delicious they can be. As someone who has eaten plenty of his famous omelettes, I completely agree.

By the time I finish eating the chanterelles, rain has started falling. Water soaks my fur and turns the dirt into mud within minutes. Lightning claws through the clouds on the horizon, accompanied by thunder. As much as I'd love to see if there are any other mushrooms nearby, I trot back to the house to avoid being completely drenched. Besides, more mushrooms always pop up after a good, long shower.

Once I reach the kitchen, I rear up on my hind paws and try to pull the screen door shut behind me. My paw slips, tearing a huge hole in the screen. Mom is going to kill me when she sees it! I manage to pull the screen shut on the second try, but there is nothing I can do to fix the tear. The wind is already blowing sheets of water into the kitchen as the rain keeps pouring outside.

I can't avoid leaving muddy paw prints behind me as I walk through the kitchen until I reach like a water bowl. Drinking from it makes me feel like a dog, but at least I can wash my paws in this thing. At least, my front paws are easy to clean. My back paws knock the water bowl over when I try to wash them off, sending muddy water all over the tile floor. I pull a towel onto the floor, wipe my paws dry, and do my best to make the kitchen less of a pigsty before walking toward Mom's bedroom.

Since my old bed is way too small to support my weight, I'm usually stuck sleeping on a pile of blankets on the floor. Since Mom's still out getting groceries, I figure I might as well try to sleep through the rest of the storm comfortably.

Thunder booms right outside the house and lightning illuminates the whole room as I walk into Mom's bedroom. Her bed looks much shorter than I remember. Then again, so does everything else these days. Reaching up and grabbing the sheets with my front paws, I try to drag myself onto the bed.

I make it halfway up after making my arm muscles scream in pain before a clap of thunder shakes the house. 

"Shoot!" My paws slip, making me loose my grip as I accidentally pull the covers free. My back bangs against Mom's nightstand, toppling it over as blankets fly on top of me.

After catching my breath, I poke my head out of my admittedly warm and cozy prison to examine the chaos.

All of the sheets are on and around me. Mom's pillow lays behind me. The mattress has several large rips in it where my claws slipped. The lamp from the nightstand lays next to me, thankfully unbroken. 

The nightstand's contents make me jump free of the blankets, shaking like a leaf.

Bullets are sprinkled around me; a gun and a can of bear spray lay close by.

"I can't even leave you alone for fifteen minutes, can I?"

The sound of Mom's voice makes me jump. My claws drag the blankets after me, still caught in the fabric. I turn to face her, still shaking.

Mom stands in the doorway with her hands on her hips, soaking wet from head to toe. Her eyes widen when she sees the gun and the other equipment scattered around the room. "You weren't supposed to see that," she mutters.

I can't stop my voice from quivering as I ask, "You aren't going to shoot me are you?"

Mom sighs, pinching the bridge of her nose between her fingers. "Of course not. That gun was your father's. He used to carry it when he was at work."

"And the bear spray?"

"Well, you still think like a human now, but someday, if this transformation keeps getting worse, you might..." Her voice trails off. She takes a handkerchief out of her pocket and dabs at her eyes. "Can we not talk about that, please?"

"Sure." I free my paws from the blankets, making sure my claws don't have any threads stuck around them before walking over and rubbing my head against Mom's leg. "Don't worry, I'm still fighting it."

She sighs. "You sure are. Just please don't kill anything again, okay? You just about scared me to death yesterday."

I look down at my paws. "That was an accident." I try to change the topic. "Hey, if Dad had a gun, then why didn't he just shoot the bear?"

"I don't know, Bernard." She runs her fingers through my fur. "I guess he just couldn't bring himself to orphan her cubs."

"Too bad he did anyway," the voice in my head says with a growl.

I ignore it. "Is there anything I can do to help you clean this mess up?"

"I can handle it myself. We should dry your fur off though. Wet bears smell even worse than wet dogs." We both laugh, but I can't resist taking one last look at the gun over my shoulder as I head to the bathroom. 

It was loaded.