There ARE Canadian Werewolves In Our Barley Field

     After a long, long, long day in the field yesterday, my 7-year-old and I came home to spit-shine the house and make dinner before The Boss and hired hands came in for the evening. It was 7:00 and I had just started the salad and made myself a drink when I heard the combine drivers bantering back and forth about the pack of coyotes who were following along behind the combine tires attempting to catch the field mice that were scurrying out of their burrows. Jack had been playing with his new airplane at the counter while I started the taco meat. I was smiling at the light banter wafting over the hum of combines. After the difficult days we have had this harvest, it was very nice to hear the men and women just chatting with one another about such a normal event. Jack had just laid his head on the counter to watch the pilot flying his styrofoam plane when one of the combine drivers caught his attention. 

     "They were werewolves," he said. 

     I looked at Jack, who picked his head up and turned quickly to the radio. I practically spit my drink on the counter as I rushed over to the radio and pressed the call button to silence the driver. I was concerned that this was going to cause a night of terror and one little boy squishing me in my bed. 

     "You did it now," I said lightly to the driver, hoping to convey the problem. "Jack heard you." 

     "Oops," the driver said. "Sorry about that."

     Jack quickly walked over to the radio and I asked if he could talk to the driver, so I handed him the radio in hopes that the driver would let him know that he was joking. 

     "Jack to 37," he professionally called. 

     "Yeah, Jack," he said. "This is 37." 

     "What did he look like? Was he brown of grey?" 

     As the combine driver calmly explained that he was brown, and not real big, Jack was nodding his head and thinking as hard as his little brain could go.

     "Okay," Jack said. "What you have there is a Canadian Werewolf. They can be scary and can be mean." 

     "I thought so," the combine driver continued. "That was why I stayed in my combine." 

     "That's good," Jack said. "Did you see yellow eyes?" 

      Holy Hell, I thought. 

     "Nope," the hand said. "No yellow eyes, but I didn't get real close either." 

     "That's good," Jack said. "You better stay in your combine though just to be safe." 

     "Copy that," the driver said. 

     "Okay," Jack said. "Jack out." 

     When Jack got off the radio, he calmly walked back to the counter and picked up his plane, resuming his concentration on the pilot. 

     "Boy," he said. "It's a good thing I talked to him. Canadian Werewolves are the worst."