THE WEREWOLF OF WINDING HILLS PARK
Some dogs turn heads. Some dogs stop people in their tracks. Shamrock... Shamrock once caused a full werewolf panic.
It was a perfect autumn afternoon—crisp air, golden light, the kind of day made for running woodland paths. The Shawangunk Mountains have a way of making you believe old legends might still be wandering the ridges. Ancient rock formations, steep trails, thick woods, heavy underbrush, and quiet valleys where the light filters through the trees just enough to make your imagination work overtime.
Just a few minutes earlier, we'd come across a box turtle wedged on his side between two large rocks. We freed the little traveler, tucked him safely back into the underbrush, and waited to make sure he was moving again.
Before we continued, Shamrock leaned down to offer one reassuring goodbye lick. The turtle immediately... turtled.
Unfortunately, Shamrock's enormous head was already committed to the mission. The lick landed... squarely on the dirt where the little turtle's head had been a second earlier. Shamrock picked up his massive head, tongue sticking out—leaves, dirt, and twigs stuck to it.
There was a pause. Then... WHUMP. One enormous Wolfhound foot landed on the forest floor. Not an angry stomp. Just the mildly offended protest of someone whose perfectly reasonable act of kindness had been declined.
He looked up at me with sad eyes and a mouth full of Earth. I gave him a reassuring pat on the head. “I know, buddy. The NERVE of him, not allowing you to give medical aid.” Then Shamrock threw back his head and howled. I howled back. Shamrock's tail started to wag again. Crisis over.
Satisfied the turtle was upright and moving again, I continued down the trail. Shamrock, however, wasn't quite finished. He remained behind, quietly standing watch until the little traveler disappeared safely into a patch of dense scrub bushes. Apparently satisfied his patient was finally out of danger, his work there was done.
A moment later, I heard him. Leaves scattered. Branches rustled. Then 210 pounds of Irish Wolfhound came charging down the steep mountainside to catch up with me. Long, powerful legs devoured the trail, effortlessly weaving around boulders, tree stumps, and roots. His shaggy gray coat caught the autumn sunlight as he galloped through the ancient forest with the easy grace of something half myth, half memory.
To me... he was simply catching up after completing turtle rescue duty. To anyone else... it looked as though something ancient had just burst from the forest.
Rounding a bend, I noticed two men standing on the trail. I had no idea where they'd come from, but between the hyper-city clothes, immaculate snow-white sneakers that had absolutely no business being on a mountain trail, and enough gold jewelry to stock a pawn shop, I figured they had to be from New York City. I later learned... I was absolutely right.
They were enjoying the scenery— until one of them noticed Shamrock barreling down the hill. His eyes went wide.
“WEREWOLF! IT'S GOING TO EAT ME!”
He spun to run. Unfortunately, panic and nature trails do not mix well. He bolted— straight into a tree. Hard. Out cold.
His friend looked from the unconscious man... to Shamrock... back to the unconscious man... apparently did some very quick risk assessment... and took off running like he planned to use the sun's gravity to slingshot himself all the way back to New York City.
“Sir!” I yelled. “Your friend is okay! Help is on the way!”
He never stopped. He did glance back at me for a split second. It was all it took. When he spun around, several of his necklaces flew out just far enough to get caught on tree branches.
He tried to keep running. The branches disagreed. He was jerked backward. Without saying anything, he danced around the branches, desperately trying to free the trapped jewelry. When that failed, he grabbed the necklaces, pulled as hard as he could in one motion, broke them, and finally freed himself.
Then he took off again— this time running completely off the trail and straight into the densely forested mountain. As he disappeared into the woods, one enormous curse word bounced around the Shawangunks. Some days, I think I can still hear it.
I was beside the injured man almost immediately. Pulse. Breathing. Good. There was already a lump forming on his forehead, but otherwise he appeared okay. The only thing I was now worried about—besides the unconscious man at my feet—was the one who had just disappeared into the Shawangunks.
I stepped back just far enough to call 911. Cell reception in the mountains was terrible. The call connected, but only barely. Words disappeared. Sentences broke apart. Sometimes I could hear the dispatcher perfectly. Other times I caught only pieces. Unfortunately, the same thing was happening to her.
I explained that I was hiking with my dog when a man saw him, thought he was a werewolf, tried to run away, ran straight into a tree, and knocked himself unconscious. At least... I thought I explained that. There was a pause.
“He thought there was a werewolf?”
“Yes. He's an Irish Wolfhound. He's huge, and he was running down the mountain and—”
The call crackled. I looked down at the injured man. Shamrock quietly stepped in. First came the inspection. One slow, deliberate sniff from head to boots.
Apparently satisfied the fallen hiker was still alive, he assumed responsibility. He planted all four enormous feet around the prone man, lowered his great shaggy head, and stood watch directly over him like an ancient woodland guardian protecting an injured traveler until help arrived.
It was an incredibly noble gesture. Unfortunately... it was also absolutely terrifying. A few moments later, the man groaned. His eyes slowly fluttered open.
The very first thing he saw... was approximately 210 pounds of Irish Wolfhound standing directly over him. Long legs. Massive shoulders. A shaggy gray face looking quietly down at him. Amber eyes studying him with obvious concern.
To me... it looked like compassion. To the man lying flat on the forest floor... it looked very much like the last thing he would ever see.
“WEREWOLF!!!!!!!!!!”
The dispatcher heard that. Clearly.
“No! That's my dog, Shamrock!”
The phone crackled again. Apparently, the only useful part of that sentence to make it through the mountains was: Shamrock. There was a pause on the other end.
“Wait. The werewolf has a name?”
“What?”
“How do you know its name?”
“No. Shamrock is my—”
Static.
“You need to get away from the werewolf.”
I sighed. A huge sigh.
“He’s Shamrock.”
“I don't care what its name is. You need to get away from it.”
I stared at the phone.
“No. Shamrock is my—”
The connection broke up again.
“I can’t get away from him, I’m his ride home.”
Why are you giving a werewolf a ride home?”
“Because he lives with me.”
Silence. A long silence. Meanwhile, the injured man was still panicking. And Shamrock had already spent part of his afternoon trying to comfort one creature in obvious distress. His instincts hadn't changed. Here was another. Clearly... comfort was required.
The man's scream became one long, wide-open expression of panic. Unfortunately... Shamrock interpreted this as an invitation.
Before I could react... in went one very long... very enthusiastic... very wet Wolfhound tongue. Right into the man's open mouth.
It wasn't a bite. It wasn't an attack. It was simply Shamrock's version of a reassuring “get well soon” kiss.
The man achieved a feat of athleticism I still cannot explain. One second he was lying flat on the trail. The next... he was somehow upright.
He screamed again, stumbled backward, attempted to flee the werewolf for a second time... tripped... fell spectacularly... and this time broke his wrist.
The turtle had escaped by disappearing into his shell. Unfortunately... humans do not turtle nearly as efficiently. Shamrock simply stood there looking genuinely puzzled. This was now the second patient that afternoon to react very poorly to his attempts at comfort.
Even in legend, few werewolves have ever been so polite. The man continued yelling and moving around, clutching his wrist. Shamrock finally sat down and watched him.
I tried to explain what had just happened to the dispatcher. Between the terrible reception, the yelling, and the fact that Shamrock had just put his tongue into the mouth of the man who had screamed “WEREWOLF” loudly enough for her to hear, I was not making much progress.
Then the man discovered another emergency.
“My sneaker!”
I looked at him.
“Where's my sneaker?! Why is my sneaker missing? Who has my sneaker?”
I spotted it.
“It's next to Shamrock.”
The phone crackled. Apparently the dispatcher heard two words: Sneaker. And: Shamrock.
“There’s a missing shoe?”
The man was still yelling about it.
“My sneaker! Where's my sneaker?”
Before I could answer, she asked:
“Who is wearing sneakers?”
A pause.
“The werewolf?”
At this point, I had had enough.
“Yes. How else could he be running around the mountains?”
Silence. Again. Eventually, somewhere in the distance, I heard something wonderful. Sirens.
“I can hear EMS coming.”
“Oh, good,” she said, sounding relieved. “That should scare away the werewolf.”
I looked at Shamrock. He looked at me. I was worried the sirens were going to hurt his ears. She was apparently worried they might not frighten him enough. Neither of us seemed to understand the other's priorities.
I told her that since I could hear EMS approaching, I was going to end the call. She had one final question.
“Is it still around?”
“Yes, Shamrock is.”
“Okay. I'll let them know the werewolf named Shamrock is still in the area.”
“OH, FOR PETE’S SAKE!”
The call disconnected. By the time the paramedics reached us, Shamrock was still sitting quietly beside the trail. The injured man was still complaining about his wrist, his head, his sneaker, and, presumably, the state of his future humanity.
The paramedics came toward us. One of them looked at me.
“Is that him?”
“Yes,” I said. “His friend is still out there somewhere.”
He shook his head. “No. Not him.” He pointed.
“HIM.”
At Shamrock. I stared at him.
“That's my dog, Shamrock. He's not a werewolf. He's an Irish Wolfhound, and he was just trying to help.”
His partner started laughing and walked over to tend to the injured man. The other paramedic reached into his jacket. He pulled out a cookie. Then he walked straight over to Shamrock. Shamrock remained exactly where he was.
The paramedic handed him the cookie, told him what a good boy he was, bent down... and kissed him. Shamrock kissed him right back.
From behind us came an alarmed voice.
“HE'S GOING TO GET TURNED NOW TOO!”
The paramedic treating the injured man looked at him.
“Just be quiet.”
The other paramedic was still petting Shamrock when he looked at me.
“We heard the whole call.”
I stared at him. His partner started laughing.
“Best call ever. Best werewolf story I've ever heard.”
Eventually we made our way back toward the parking lot. The injured man was placed on a gurney and was being loaded into the ambulance when movement appeared near the trail. His friend had returned.
The parking lot was only about two and a half miles away from where he'd abandoned his friend. Somehow... he had run nearly four. He had done exactly what I'd been afraid he'd done. He'd gotten lost.
And because apparently the Shawangunks were determined to make this story even more ridiculous, somewhere during his wilderness odyssey he had fallen into a foul-smelling bog. He came staggering toward us wet, exhausted, covered in mud, leaves, and pieces of the mountain itself. The injured man saw him. His entire expression changed.
“YOU LEFT ME TO GET EATEN!”
Before anyone could stop him, he jumped off the gurney. Broken wrist and all. He stormed over to his friend and, using his good hand... punched him directly in the face.
“YOU LEFT ME TO GET EATEN BY A WEREWOLF!”
Eventually, the paramedics managed to get their patient back onto the gurney. His friend remained behind—wet, muddy, smelly, and now punched.
Shamrock watched all of this quietly. After all, none of it had anything to do with him. He had simply gone for a run. Rescued a turtle. Attempted to provide medical aid. And received a cookie.
As the ambulance doors were closing, I heard the injured man say something to one of the paramedics.
“Well, if I do get turned, tell everyone it's because it kissed me.”
The ambulance doors closed. The next day, the paramedic sent me a screen shot of the 911 call as well as the following meme:
