It was not surprising, anymore, that the wolf slept in his natural form upon the back porch, right in front of the door. The farm hands had grown used to the massive creature – who stood six feet at the shoulder – being around, and it seemed that the well loved, sun-bleached planks of the wood was his favorite place to nap. He didn’t bother anything, and the boys never got close enough to bother him.
For now, he lay out on his side, sleeping on his head, the contented sprawl of a beloved dog. He did not much look like the imposing guardian wolf that once stood at Valhalla’s door, save for the shock of his pure white fur and utterly massive size. Softly grunted, a snore drifted from him on his breaths, punctuated by the occasional lazy kick of one foot, or a deeper sigh.
Upon the porch swing, a worn in pair of washed-out jeans lay, neatly folded, as well as a black t-shirt, faded charcoal gray by age and sunlight; Clothes, if the wolf should decide he would rather be human for a while.