Root Beer transformed along the bank of the Woonasquatucket, where a tired eddy washed ashore all sorts of disparate lineages– here, in the early dawn, a dog limped– containing its surroundings, its history, and its hunger. A being, beautiful and terrible, a map running through her skin, a Memory Beast, deserving of love and evocative of fear, rejoicing in the carnage of revenge, a lost dog who has forgotten how to be human, refuses to be human: hunter, hunted, our precious baby, just an animal goddamnit. Lycanthropy can be a disease, a gift, a tragedy or just a truth (a mythological beauty, transformation and transition, the empowering nature of being horrific, unsightly, and unknowable).