BLUE DOG BY KAREN HULENE BARTELL

“Can’t see a thing…” I squinted through the downpour. Wipers going full speed, I swiped at the 

windshield’s condensation. 

When the cold front met the Gulf’s humid air, the skies erupted. What had been a sunny afternoon when I left Lafayette was now a white-knuckle nightmare. I turned on the lights and defroster, but neither helped visibility, and I slowed to twenty-five miles an hour. 

“Great…” Muttering, I focused on the road’s center line and cleared a peephole through the fogged 

windshield. Slowing to twenty miles an hour, I fumed at the pace. I’d gotten a late start thanks to an ad hoc meeting with the department chair. Now this…hope Kim doesn’t worry…she has enough on her mind. 

My favorite aunt had torn a tendon playing tennis. Though fiercely independent—solo ager, she called herself—she needed help after her rotator cuff operation. The good news? With my summer break just starting, I could lend a hand while finishing my dissertation. 

Finishing? I sniffed. Not only haven’t I started it, but I don’t have a topic. 

Thanks to Kirk…the jerk. If only he hadn’t—“Gah! Why did he have to come to mind?” Struggling to see, I smeared the dripping condensation, wishing I could wipe him from my thoughts as easily. If I could just— 

A jolt through the steering wheel raced up my arms, knocking my teeth together. “What was that?” I swerved off the road and checked my rearview mirror. Did I hit a log? An animal? A pothole? Looking through the dense rain was like looking into sleet—a total whiteout. 

A loud, low-pitched rumble shook the air, startling me. 

My focus switched to my face while the background blurred. Panicked hazel eyes stared back above high cheekbones, framed by a shock of blonde, chin-length hair. 

The air vibrated with another louder, powerful thrum. Even through the closed windows, the sound 

juddered off my ribcage. 

“Rolling thunder?” I cracked the window to listen. 

A third bellow resonated through the rain. 

“Is that a bull snorting?” I shifted into reverse and inched backward, checking to make sure I hadn’t injured an animal. But after finding nothing, I rolled to a stop. 

A deafening bolt of lightning struck nearby, blinding me as it split a live oak tree and curled the hairs on my left arm. 

Then a dark figure dashed across my bumper, bellowing as it fled into the downpour. 

Adrenaline coursed through my veins as my pulse beat in time with the windshield wipers. I floored the gas, fishtailing as I sped past the vertically split tree toward Creve Coeur, Louisiana. 

**** 

Minutes later, as I pulled into my aunt’s drive, the rain stopped as quickly as it had begun. My heart still thumped like a flat tire at high speed, but I pasted a smile on my face. No need to add to her stress. 

Kim was chatting with a tall, attractive man on the front porch. Beside him stood a massive dog with a huge head and broad chest. 

“Hey, there.” I waved as I stepped from the car. The next thing I knew, two enormous, muddy paws pushed me off balance, and I tumbled backward into the driver’s seat. 

“Blue, no! No!” The dark-haired man leashed the enormous dog, then turned toward me. “I am so sorry. He’s a rescue that obviously needs socializing. I’ll pay for the cleaning or a new outfit. I do apologize!” 

All I could do was laugh. After the tension of driving two hours in the beating rain, then the scare with the…whatever it was, the release was cathartic. 

“Are you all right?” His charcoal-blue eyes appraised me.

Hypnotized by his penetrating gaze, I took a deep breath as my laughter trickled to a chuckle. “I’m fine, and these jeans will be good as new once I throw them in the wash.” I shrugged. “No damage done.” 

“Appreciate it. This incorrigible runaway is Blue, short for Blue Dog. I’m reclaiming him after his self

guided tour of the neighborhood.” 

“What breed is he?” I ruffled the fur on the dog’s massive head, each shaggy ear as big as my hand. 

“Not sure, but I’m guessing a combination of Blue Heeler, Catahoula Leopard, Pit Bull, and heaven knows what else.” He switched the leash to his left hand and held out his right. “Incidentally, I’m Clay Landry.” 

As we shook, I grinned at his obvious affection for the overgrown escape artist. Then my heartbeat 

quickening, time paused as his gaze locked onto mine. Can he feel my pulse through my fingers? 

“And this speechless young lady is my favorite niece, Deirdre Doyle—” 

“Call me Dare—” 

“If you dare.” Kim cackled. “Family joke.” 

“Kim’s talked of you so often, I feel I almost know you.” He gave a parting smile before removing his hand from mine to pet Blue. “What does Deirdre mean?” 

Our connection broken, an odd emptiness rattled inside my chest. Strange… “She was a tragic Celtic heroine, the ‘Juliet’ of Tír na nÓg, who struggled between fate and free will.” 

“Speaking of fate,” Kim half turned toward me with a private wink. “Clay was a student of mine a few years back.” 

“You don’t say?” Synchronicity? “You studied Environmental Geography?” 

He nodded. “With an emphasis on hazard analysis and management, specifically saltwater intrusion and land subsidence.” 

“Really?” Warming to the topic, I stepped closer. “I went in for the more anthropological approach to cultures and customs, but what I really like is GIS.” 

“You’re kidding.” Blinking, he pulled back his head as if studying me. “GIS is my specialty.” 

“Nothing like Geographic Information Systems to bring two people together.” Aunt Kim sported a crooked grin. 

“That has a cynical ring.” I searched her face. 

“It should.” Kim sniffed. “I hate GIS!” 

“I never knew that, and I followed in your footsteps. You’re the reason I went into geography.” 

“The human experience is what’s always intrigued me, our cultural heritage viewed through an 

anthropological lens.” Kim’s smile soured. “Geography shouldn’t be reduced to dots on maps. It’s a living cultural heritage where the land first influences, then reflects human traditions. People initially adapt to, then transform their environment. The land and people are what make geography unique, not geospatial analysis.” 

Taking her comment personally, I bristled. “But you can’t deny GIS is a valuable tool for managing resources and assessing environmental impact.” 

Clay joined in. “It helps us understand our world.” 

“I’d rather interact with people to understand our world, not chart dot density.” She squared her jaw. 

Taking the hint, Clay changed the subject as he turned toward me. “How long will you be staying in 

Creve Coeur?” 

“As long as my favorite aunt needs me.” Difference of opinion resolved, Kim and I exchanged a smile. 

She slipped her arm about my waist, pulling me into a side hug. “I hope Dare can stay through the summer. Recuperation will take six to eight weeks.” 

“Not a problem.” Leaning into her, I returned the squeeze. “And if your recovery goes past the summer, I can split my time between here and Lafayette.” 

Kim turned toward Clay. “Dare just finished her first semester as an adjunct professor at the Marshall State University in Lafayette.” 

“Not exactly.” I winced. “I worked part time on a semester-by-semester basis. The Geography Department won’t hire me unless I complete and defend my dissertation by September thirtieth, which is less than three months away.” 

“But you’ve finished all your coursework and passed your exams. You’ll have no problem 

completing—” 

“And defending my dissertation. To be honest, I’m stumped. I don’t even have a topic.” My shoulders sank. “Until I do, I’m just spinning wheels.” 

Whining, Blue strained at his metal-link leash. 

“I’d better get this bad boy home and fed. We live just around the corner.” Clay nodded in the direction of his house. Then inclining his head toward me, he paused until our gazes connected. “Maybe tomorrow, I could help you brainstorm topics over a beer?” 

**** 

When Clay offered to pick me up, I didn’t expect a mud-spattered, high-clearance pickup truck in a camo wrap. Besides all-terrain tires and four-wheel drive, his customized vehicle sported aftermarket auxiliary lights and a winch. 

Blue rode shotgun, his colossal head lolling out the open window, but when he saw me, he whined until I reached through and scratched behind his ears. 

“He likes you.” Coming around the front of the oversized truck, Clay opened the door while Blue 

jumped in back. “Your chariot awaits, milady.” 

Seriously? I couldn’t help but chuckle. “Are you taking me on a gator hunt?” 

“Sorry about the mud. Had another search and rescue this afternoon. Two kayakers got lost in the 

bayou. In case I didn’t mention it, I’m the Park Manager at the Brunet State Park.” Dimpling, he patted the hood. “Ol’ Bessie may not be a sleek sportscar, but she lets me navigate the back roads.” A sheepish grin played at his lips as he offered me his hand. “Hop up.” 

The truck sat so high off the ground, I had to step on the running board. Then pushing off from his palm, I hoisted myself onto the passenger seat. But once perched aloft, it was like sitting on a throne, surveying my realm far below. 

From the back, the immense dog wasted no time in sniffing, then licking my ear. 

His tongue tickled. Startled, I laughed out loud. “Blue, what are you doing?” 

Clay gave a sheepish chuckle. “That crazy dog has an ear fetish.” Half turning, he raised his voice. “Cut it out, Blue.” 

Though subdued, the overgrown canine continued to snuffle through my chin-length hair. 

“He definitely likes you.” 

“Lucky me.” I tried to sound stern, but Blue’s charm was so irresistible, I reached around to ruffle his fur. “Where did you get him?” 

“I found him several months ago alongside the road. He was a victim of hit-and-run, left for dead.” 

“Oh, no!” I nuzzled his huge snout. 

Clay side-glanced. “Yeah, his injuries were bad. The vet didn’t think he’d make it.” Clay spoke to the dog’s reflection in the rearview mirror. “But you did, didn’t you, Blue?” 

Tail wagging, tongue lolling, the dog panted his enthusiastic agreement. 

Still running my fingers through his thick fur, I chuckled at his reaction. “So you adopted him?” 

“Yeah, he grows on you.” 

“If he grows any more, he won’t fit in the truck. He’s big as a small bear.” 

“And just as intimidating, especially when he jumps the fence! I had him neutered, hoping that would end his prowling, but he’s a regular Houdini when he hears the ‘call of the wild.’ ” 

“I think he’s a great, big sweetie.” I fondled the dog’s muzzle as I surveyed the unfamiliar road. “Where are we going?” 

“A Cajun brewery full of local color and flavor.” A smile played at his lips. “And it’s dog friendly.” 

Ten minutes later, we were sitting at a picnic table beneath an aged live oak, relaxing in a sultry breeze. Blue had a bowl of water while we opted for local stout. 

“Cheers!” Clay clicked his icy mug against mine. “So, you’re having trouble choosing a dissertation 

topic?” 

“Yup.” I nodded as I licked the foam from my lips. “Like Kim said, I’m ABD—” 

“AB…what?” 

“I’ve completed ‘All But the Dissertation’ for my PhD.” I scrunched my nose. “I want to highlight the 

Atchafalaya Basin’s environmental issues, but I can’t decide on a core topic…can’t find my niche.” 

“I’d be happy to help with any hazard analysis, especially saltwater intrusion and land subsidence.” 

“I appreciate that, but—” 

“As I recall”—he dimpled—“you prefer a more cultural slant.” 

“Vive la différence.” I clinked my mug against his. “At least, we both like GIS, unlike some folks.” I 

chuckled thinking of Kim. 

He sipped absently, then stared into space as if thinking. “What about folklore?” 

“Folklore?” Did I mistake brawn for brains? Squinting, I reassessed his toned pecs, deeply tanned 

face with its well-defined jawline, five o’clock shadow, piercing gray-blue eyes, and thick shock of brown-black hair. “The topic has to be scholarly, something that builds on current knowledge yet leaves room for future investigation. It can’t be some fairy tale.” 

“Folklore isn’t the same as fairy tales.” 

Right…Biting back a smirk, I gave him the benefit of the doubt. “What’s the difference?” 

“Folktales acknowledge danger, fear, and moral consequence. But fairy tales are like cozy mysteries—anemic, diluted stories that comfort but don’t confront hazards.” 

“Semantics.” I brushed aside his argument with a dismissive wave. 

“I disagree. Folktales are complex truths, while fairy tales are shallow, reassuring entertainment without risk. When the concept of danger is removed, any ‘struggle’ is hollow.” 

“You’re saying fairy tales are light entertainment.” 

Reframing his position, I considered his logic. “While folktales are living histories—oral traditions with all their warts.” I nodded. “Okay, I see your point, but what does folklore have to do with the environment?” 

“Everything. They complement each other like salt and pepper.” He grinned as he slid the saltshaker and pepper mill my way. “Folklore represents generations of place-based knowledge about a community’s surroundings.” 

“For instance…” 

“You and Kim have Irish roots, right?” 

“Yeah…” Not following, I tilted my head. “So?” 

“Celtic folklore believed that the land, water, and people all share the same fate. Maintaining that the sacred resided in nature, they honored rivers and ash groves, making environmental stewardship a way of life. For Druids, oak trees were the connection between the 

physical and spiritual worlds.” 

“True, they believed protective spirits inhabited the trees.” I half smiled as I rapped the cedar picnic table three times. “Which is why we knock on wood for luck.” 

“And think about the festivals that celebrated the seasons. Celts were in sync with nature and the land.” 

“Yes.” I sipped my beer, recalling Kim’s tales when I was a child. “Imbolc, February first, marked the 

beginning of spring, and Beltane, May Day, announced summer. Lammas celebrated the beginning of the harvest season the first of August, and Samhain, November first, marked winter.” Ideas began clicking in an unexpected wave of inspiration. 

“By celebrating the seasons, Celts recognized their dependence on nature and renewed their relationship with the land. And not just the Celts, many cultures believed the land was their source of identity and spirituality, more than just a resource. Closer to home”— he spread his hands as he glanced about the surroundings—“the local Chitimacha, Houma, and Choctaw peoples had powerful connections with the bayous. Another thing…” He leaned across the picnic table. 

As his freshly mown grass scent wafted toward me, I caught my breath. Analyzing, I couldn’t quite pin down his fragrance…a faint whiff of crisp celery with a trace of sun-ripened honeydew. 

His nearness disturbed me at a fundamental level…not intimidating…stimulating. My glands and 

adrenals working overtime, my imagination ran rampant. How would those lips feel? Responding, I angled forward. “Yes…” 

“Consider the relationship between animals, people, and the environment. Again returning to your Irish heritage, the Werewolves of Ossory were mercenary werewolves, who—” 

“Werewolves? What?” My reveries shattered, I sat back. “Fantasy fiction is worlds apart from academic writing.” 

“I understand that.” His mouth quirked as if he were annoyed. “Hear me out.” 

My patience thinning, I forced a barely civil smile. 

“My point is…animals weren’t always portrayed as adversaries. Sometimes, they were allies and defenders. The Irish Faoladh, for instance, were known for protecting communities—” 

“No.” I shook my head. “Werewolves were/are fictional beings.” Doesn’t this guy get it? 

His smile stiff, he paused a beat. “Can I finish?” 

“Of course.” I sniffed as I crossed my ankles. 

“Celtic folklore reflected an inseparable bond between nature and people. Same for the Chitimacha, Houma, and Choctaw peoples in the Atchafalaya Basin. You could use GIS factors to illustrate how the environment shaped their stories, and how their oral traditions reflected their experience.” His eyebrow arched. “Basically, if they protected their environment, 

their environment protected them.” 

If they protected their environment, their environment protected them. I blinked as the concept 

took hold. 

“From my mother, I learned of the French loup garou, which roughly translates to wolf-man. But when the French Acadians—” 

“Cajuns?” 

He nodded. “When the Cajuns moved to Louisiana, their legends blended with the Native American 

skinwalker tales. The result? They conjured a creature unique to the bayous, the roug—” Lips pursed, he paused, then sat back as if thinking twice about sharing his next thought. 

“What?” Caught up in his story, I wanted to hear its conclusion. “What aren’t you saying?” 

“Rougarous.” He grimaced. “Though, you’d probably think rougarou stories are nothing but pulp 

fiction.” 

“Not necessarily.” I squirmed, sorry now for my previous remarks. “No, you’re giving me food for 

thought. I’m still digesting it, but I want to hear more.” 

“Okay…” He took a swig of beer. “The Houma Indians inhabited Louisiana long before the Spanish or French arrived. They tell of a shapeshifter that guards the natural world. He’s half man and half dog or wolf— ” 

“A werewolf?” 

“So some say…” 

“Some?” My imagination taking flight, I studied him. “What do you say?” 

“Growing up in Terrebonne Parish, I’ve heard rougarou tales all my life, and I take them with several grains of salt.” He rubbed his deepening five-o’clock shadow, then downed his beer. 

“Can I get you another?” Sporting a practiced smile, the waitress paused by our table. “Happy Hour’s just starting.” 

Eyebrow raised, Clay caught my gaze. 

“Sure.” I laughed, killed my beer, and handed her my mug. “Why not?” 

“Words to live by.” A smile tickled his full lips. 

When the waitress was out of hearing, I rephrased my question. “In this digital age of built-in cameras and zoom lenses, do you think a cryptid could survive unseen?” 

“Unseen?” He surveyed me from the corner of his eye. “Rougarou sightings have been reported since the 1800s.” 

“That’s my point.” Playing devil’s advocate, I questioned the probabilities. “With all the surveillance 

cameras, traffic cameras, and camera phones today, how could a cryptid go undetected?” 

“Supposedly, one was caught on tape in Houma in 2016.” 

“Really?” Adrenaline shot through my veins. “Is the video public? Do you have the link?” 

He shook his head. “For all I know, it was just another hoax or case of misidentification.” 

Disillusioned, I slumped, my cheek resting on my hand. 

“What? Do I detect disappointment?” A crooked grin pulled at the corner of his mouth. 

“You have to admit, you did build me up for a letdown.” 

“Make up your mind. Am I leading you on a snipe hunt or letting you down? Which is it?” 

“Neither.” Acknowledging the truth, I pursed my lips. “It’s me. My mind’s on overdrive.” 

“Can I get you anything else?” The waitress set the icy mugs before us. “Fried pickles? Boudin balls?” 

Again, Clay caught my glance. “How about fried pickles?” 

“Nothing like salt to work up a thirst.” I swallowed a grin as I met his gaze. “Why not?” 

He threw back his head, chuckling, his white teeth glistening, then held up his mug to toast me. “A woman after my own heart.” 

I searched his face as I clinked my frosty mug against his. Am I? 

**** 

The next day, my phone dinged with a message. 

Clay—Try these links about the environmental issues facing the Atchafalaya Basin, plus several 

resources for Cajun and Houma folklore.— 

A minute later, my phone dinged again. 

—Clay—Want to check out the bayou where the rougarou was supposedly spotted last month? <grin> Operative word: supposedly. Pick you up at 5:00 tonight? 

“Who said I wanted to pursue the folklore topic?” Muttering to myself, I texted back. 

—Dare—Can I let you know later? Kim’s having her rotator cuff surgery this afternoon. I have to be 

available if she needs my help. 

—Clay—Absolutely, give her a hug for me. 

**** 

With nothing to read in the hospital’s waiting room, I clicked the first of Clay’s links and skimmed its 

contents: Saltwater intrusion is the infiltration of saltwater into freshwater sources, which is caused by overpumping, stormwater surges from hurricanes, ill placed dams, levees, or man-made river channels. 

Land subsidence is the dropping level of land caused by groundwater extraction, sediment 

compaction, or the absence of new deposits of soil. 

Clicking the next link, I snickered at the title: “Rougarou Rumors.” 

Often told as morality tales to keep children in line, the legend of the rougarou is alive and well in the Atchafalaya Basin. It’s a Creolization of African, Cajun, Caribbean, Chitimacha, Choctaw, French Canadian, and Houma heritages and traditions. Not an assimilation into any dominant group, rather, the Southern Louisiana legend is a fusion of ethnic ingredients, a social gumbo 

that creates a unique cryptid. 

Most origin stories center around the idea that rougarou (pronounced roo-garoo) is simply the Cajun bastardization of the French werewolf, the loup-garou (pronounced loo-garoo), but that doesn’t hold water any more than some levees do. Though coyotes and dogs abound here, wolves haven’t inhabited the area for decades, if not centuries. Some stories suggest the creature can shapeshift into any form it chooses, but most contend it’s human with canine characteristics, 

such as a hairy face or body, and was either born with the affliction or cursed by a Vodou bokor. 

Recent theories suggest that three medical conditions could account for the rougarou legend. 

* Hypertrichosis, aka the werewolf syndrome, causes excessive hair growth. 

* Porphyria, a genetic blood disorder, also triggers excessive hair growth. 

* Clinical lycanthropy, a psychiatric syndrome, fosters the belief that people can transform into 

wolves. 

Variations of the rougarou legend abound. The tale mutates over time and distance, with each parish maintaining its own version. Depending on the source, rougarous can shapeshift into were-cows, were-bears, were-dogs, were-pigs, were-cranes, were-owls, and even were-chickens. Some versions claim the rougarou only roams at full moon. Others insist the creature wanders 

when and where it will, though it travels after dark. Most myths maintain the only ways to become a rougarou are to be born into that state or cursed by a sorcerer, witch, bokor, or the devil depending on the version. Most sources note a solitary rougarou, though a few argue that numerous creatures exist. 

Can the rougarou curse be transferred or reversed? Some claim a rougarou can transfer its curse simply by staring a person in the eye, while others contend a rougarou must draw blood through a bite or scratch to transmit the curse to its victim. Several insist the curse is non-transferable, while a few mention that drawing blood with inherited silver can counteract the curse, especially if it’s a familial curse. 

The stories feature a kaleidoscope of interpretations, but the two commonalities are these: the 

rougarou lurks in the bayous, and if you’re smart, you’ll steer clear of his turf after sundown. Cheers, cher! 

Intrigued as much by the facts as the fantasy, I followed one link to the next and the nex— 

“Ms. Doyle.” 

Flinching, I nearly dropped my phone. 

“Your aunt’s resting comfortably.” The doctor loomed over me, his dark silhouette and shadow vaguely threating. 

Recentering myself, I collected my purse. “Can I see her?” 

“No, we’re evaluating her condition.” 

“Okay, when can I see her?” 

“Check back later.” 

Though his smile was inscrutable, his vagueness put me on guard. I chewed my lip, debating how best to get a straight answer. “When can I take her home?” 

“The tear was larger than anticipated, so we’re going to monitor her overnight—” 

“Nothing’s wrong, is it?” I went numb. 

“Just a precaution.” 

“But this was an outpatient procedure, wasn’t it?” 

“Initially, but as mentioned, the tear was more substantial than expected.” 

My anxiety escalating, a dozen potential problems sprinted across my mind. “When can I see her?” 

“Since surgery required general anesthesia instead of a nerve block and partial sedation, the patient’s stable but can’t receive visitors for several hours.” 

A tension headache started at the back of my head. “I don’t mind wait—” 

“Come back tomorrow at nine.” With a perfunctory nod, he turned and walked away. 

At a loss as to how to help Kim, I debated my next move, when my phone dinged. 

—Clay—How’s Kim doing? 

—Dare—She’s out of surgery, but they’re keeping 

her overnight for observation. 

—Clay—I’m sure it’s just a precaution. 

—Dare—Hope so. 

—Clay—Don’t worry. Kim’s a trouper. So, are we on for tonight? 

I checked the time: four o’clock. Not wanting to sit around, stewing about her, I texted before I thought it through. 

—Dare—Y not? 

****