The Cub

by JLS

Rated: G

This little vignette should fit into nearly anyone's scenario of Ben's
future--those who's see him with Meg, or those who'd see him with
someone else, since I never really specify Mrs. Fraser. Enjoy!

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There were two of them playing and frolicking in the warm spring
sunshine by the park bench, the adult wolf and the cub. Though a rare
enough sight in Chicago, the wolf looked like any other you'd
see--fluffy white fur and brown eyes.

The cub, however, looked most unlike any other wolf cub you would see in
National Geographic. For one thing, most wolf cubs are furry all
over--they don't have hair merely on top of their heads. And wolf cubs,
as a rule, do not wear pink overalls. And the barking of this particular
cub had a peculiarly human timbre to it. But the adult wolf behaved
around her as he would have around any youngster of his own species,
yapping and roughhousing with her--gently, of course--beneath the
watchful eye of the handsome, trim man in the red uniform on the park
bench.

The young woman passing by paused to look at the wolves' antics with a
puzzled frown.

"Sir," she inquired, "what kind of dog is that?"

"They're wolves, ma'am," Benton Fraser replied. "Both of them." The
woman caught the twinkle in his eye and decided to play along. "The big
one is Diefenbaker, and the cub's name is Emily...Emily Caroline."

"Well, hello to both of you," the woman said amiably, reaching down to
pat them, her hand lingering a little longer on the cub's tumbled black
mop. "And how old is this little cub?"

"Tell the nice lady how old you are, Emily," Ben coaxed. She looked up
and barked twice. "That's right--two years! And three months," he added
for the sake of truthfulness.

"Your...cub?" the lady asked, though it seemed obvious enough where the
cub had gotten that coal-black hair and those merry blue eyes from.

"Oh, yes, ma'am," Ben answered. "Though I must say Dief seems to think
she's *his* cub. Her mother and I had more trouble when she was a
newborn...he stood by that crib and protected it with his life, and
growled if anyone but my wife or myself came near it. And when we'd put
her down on her floor mat, he'd get on eye level with her and touch
noses with her." He smiled at the memory, preserved in many photos and
videos.

"I bet you're not the slightest bit proud of her," the woman said with a
smile, thinking back to her own husband's swift capitulation to their
own she-cub. She was willing to bet this man, like her own husband, had
made the requisite noises about A Son To Carry On The Name, then melted
with surprising alacrity as soon as the tiny, delicate pink bundle was
placed in his arms.

"Oh, no, ma'am, not the slightest bit," Ben replied gently, his eyes
brimming with love and pride as he watched the cub scamper on all fours
around the woman's feet, thinking that there were few wolf cubs as
pretty as a little porcelain doll.

"Well, all my best to both of you...my alpha male and our cub are
waiting," the woman said, giving the cub a last pat.

"Thank you kindly, ma'am," Ben called after her. Then, grinning, he
reached down and scooped up the cub, who shrieked and giggled as he
tickled her. "Come here, you! You my cub? Huh? Are you my wolf cub?"

Emily responded by licking Daddy's face. He held her off. "Human kisses,
please," he admonished mildly. She obeyed, covering his face with
enthusiastic little-girl kisses. "When's Mommy gonna get here?" she
asked, forgetting for a moment that wolves do not talk.

"I see her now," Ben told her, his heart leaping at the sight of his
wife's familiar form headed for them across the park. "And when she gets
here, we'll all go over Uncle Ray's for dinner."

"Which Uncle Ray? The one with hair?"

"No, the other one," Ben laughed.

The cub sobered. "Is Gramma Vecchio gonna cook?" she asked, using the
honorific that came to her as easily as "Uncle" Ray did.

"Yes, princess," Ben answered, stifling a laugh. Ray was a pretty good
cook, but his repertoire was a trifle inventive for the two-year-old
palate. "I suppose wolves like lasagna?"

The cub barked her enthusiastic assent.

E-mail the author: sg963r5z@post.drexel.edu

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