He could have been, though he was not. He had never even seen a wolf—he had lived with his father and mother in a big white house with a bay window. But, had he been left in the woods—though they would never have left him anywhere, and never went in the woods—wolves could have found him, and instead of thrashing him about until he was only gnarled meat, they could have taken him in as one of their own, though, of course, this is not what happened.
Though had it happened, he would never have had to suffer his father’s senseless midnight rages, nor his anxious morning silence, as though the day had been hunting him all night, nor his mother’s bitter stare, all of which he did suffer, swaddled in a silence of his own. But he could have learned to detect the unfamiliar scent of an intruder in the woods, or the well-known odor of an enemy, to distinguish predator from prey by the rustling of the leaves. Though what would prey on a wolf?
Of course, he never had to answer that question, for he was safe in his house, where even the walls cast shadows and the floors groaned to mark the slow passing of his long childhood years.
But he could have run with the pack—perhaps he could have even led it, were he able to tame his fellow wolves by filling their hearts with fear, which they deeply love, for fear brings order to their wild lives, tells them where to go, what to do. For he did know that those whom he most feared, and those whom he tried to make most afraid, were the ones whose love he most deeply needed—wolves are not alone in their love of fear.