I’m still in trouble, and I need witnesses.

I blame Jennifer.

This is important… for the record, of course.

A small package arrived with no return address, which in our house means one of two things… either I ordered something late at night and forgot, or Jennifer ordered something and forgot to tell me. Both scenarios have historically ended with mild confusion and at least one dog judging us.

Inside the box was an amulet.

Not a cheap one, either.

It was a real, weighty thing with dials and markings that looked like it had been carved by someone a long time ago.

There was no note and no instructions.

Jennifer looked up at me from the couch and said, “I didn’t order that.”

I replied, “I definitely didn’t order that.”

Yeti sat down next to my leg.

That should have been my first clue.

Yeti sniffed the amulet, then looked up at me as if to say, “Well? You going to put it on or what?”

So naturally, I did.

The amulet clicked softly.

I ignored it, because ignoring strange noises has worked out great for humanity so far.

The RV lurched forward.

The walls dissolved and the earth spun.

I stumbled forward and immediately regretted every life choice that had led me there.

Then, the darkness slowly receded.

I shielded my eyes from the growing light.

Rough tents stretched out in uneven rows, stitched from heavy cloth and tied off with rope that looked hand twisted rather than bought.

Smoke drifted lazily from small cooking fires where pots hung over open flames, and the air buzzed with movement.

Armored medieval knights hauled crates, argued over barrels, sharpened blades that looked forged rather than stamped, and stepped around chickens that behaved as if they owned the place.

I tried to take a step forward, but the ground under my boots shifted the moment I put weight on it.

My foot sank just enough to make a quiet, undignified sound that no heroic story has ever included.

I froze there, half crouched, one leg committed, and the other reconsidering its life choices.

Somewhere close by, an animal snorted loudly, followed by a man’s deep voice shouting something in French that sounded angry, urgent, and possibly offended, followed by squawking chickens.

Something metal clanged nearby.

Then it clanged again.

Then it fell over.

I turned just in time to see a helmet roll past me, wobbling like a top.

It bumped into a barrel, bounced once, and came to rest against my boot.

I stared down at it.

A man ran past me.

On his way by, he tripped over a rope, and disappeared behind a stack of crates as hundreds of cabbages rolled this way and that.

That was when Yeti stepped up beside me.

She arrived calmly, as she always does, her white coat catching the firelight so brightly it made the whole place look diluted.

She glanced at the helmet, then at the cabbages, then back at me, and finally at the camp beyond, where several men had stopped what they were doing to stare at her like winter itself had wandered in uninvited.

Yeti sat.

Right on the helmet.

There was a sharp metallic crunch.

Somewhere behind us, someone gasped.

Yeti looked up at me, ears relaxed, expression pleased, as if to say the accommodations were acceptable, but the seating could use improvement.

The man reemerged from the wreckage of cabbages wearing half a crate like a crown.

He was long overdue for a shave and desperately overdue a bath.

Dented metal clung to his shoulders and chest, scratched and dulled as if it had been introduced to far too many bad ideas.

Beneath it hung a tunic that might once have been a respectable color, although now it leaned more toward whatever happens when dust, sweat, and time form an alliance.

Leather straps crossed his torso in no obvious order, some buckled, some clearly relying on hope.

One boot looked sturdier than the other, and both had seen better centuries.

He froze when he saw Yeti sitting on his helmet.

For a long moment, nobody moved.

Then he squared his shoulders with great effort, as if dignity were something that had slipped out of his grasp earlier that morning and he was attempting to pick it up without bending over too far.

He brushed cabbage leaves from his tunic, missed several, and stepped closer with the careful confidence of someone who had once been very good at not dying.

“That,” he said, pointing at Yeti with the seriousness of a man addressing fate, “is not mine.”

Yeti looked down at the helmet, then looked back at him.

She did not move, but instead her tongue rolled out to the side and a smile broadened on her face.

He sighed.

Deeply.

Like a man who had reached the end of a very long argument with the universe.

“Very well,” he waved his hand and turned his head away. “You may keep it.”

He rubbed his face, then noticed me properly for the first time.

His eyes sharpened, just a fraction.

His wobble vanished.

The man who had been chasing a helmet gave way to someone who measured distances and noticed details whether he wanted to or not.

“What are you?” he asked me, not unkindly, but not joking either.

I opened my mouth to answer and immediately realized I had no idea how.

Before I could embarrass myself further, the amulet grew hot against my chest, like it had suddenly remembered an appointment.

His attention drifted away from me and settled instead on my chest.

He stared at the amulet as if it had personally insulted him.

Slowly, with great seriousness, he made the sign of the cross.

His brow furrowed.

He lifted one finger, clearly preparing to say something important, possibly profound, and likely dangerous to my continued existence.

He opened his mouth.

Instead of a warning, a prayer, or a demand, he let out a long, wet belch that echoed slightly off the nearby crates.

At the same moment, the wine bag he had been clutching slipped from his hand and hit the ground with a sad, defeated thud.

His knees buckled.

His finger wavered once, as if reconsidering the speech he never gave, and then he collapsed into a heap at Yeti’s feet.

I took a step forward, instinctively reaching out to see if he was all right.

Before I could get there, he began to snore.

The kind of snore that gave me the impression it was part of his legacy.

Yeti looked down at him, then up at me.

That was when the amulet clicked.

The camp folded in on itself.

Firelight collapsed.

Mud gave way to carpet.

Cold winter air rushed in like an icy coat.

I stumbled back into the RV.

Yeti landed beside me, shook once, and steadied herself, as if we had merely stepped outside for a moment.

The amulet now lay quiet against my chest.

Outside, the wind moved across the snow with the patience of soWho Loves You More, Your Dog or Your Spouse?mething that had seen centuries come and go.

I sat there for a while, thinking about a man who had chased his helmet into cabbages, faced down a white beast without flinching, and told trouble to leave before it settled in.

Some people, I realized, carry their battles long after the armor comes off.

Jennifer was still on the couch, exactly where she had been, scrolling on her phone.

She did not look up.

She sniffed once and said, “I don’t know where you just went, but the smell came back before you did.”

You didn’t know I had a secret time-traveling amulet to help me with my story ideas, did you?

Well, now, the secret’s out.

I get all my story ideas by traveling to the past, except I don’t use a phone booth.

In all seriousness, I wish I could say that’s how all our stories are born, but the truth is a little less glamorous and a lot more meaningful.

The real magic comes from slowing down long enough to step outside the noise of the modern world and remember why these animals capture us so completely.

At the Dire Wolf Project, we do not just raise dogs, even though that work sits at the very heart of everything we do.

We also raise stories.

Through DireWolf Publishing™, we bring those stories to life in print, both fiction and non fiction, because this incredible breed deserves more than instructions and paperwork.

It deserves lore, context, history, and a place to belong.

A place where owners and enthusiasts can step into something larger than themselves and feel proud of the companion walking beside them.

That is what the Founder’s Circle is all about.

It is an invitation to be part of the legacy we are building, one that goes far beyond puppies and paperwork.

It is about preserving a vision, supporting the stories that shape this breed’s identity, and creating a space where people who love the American Dirus™ Dog can gather, learn, and enjoy the journey together.

If you have ever wanted to step outside the world for a while, find a quieter pace, and belong to something thoughtful, enduring, and a little bit magical… this is your invitation.

Join the Founder’s Circle

And as an added bonus for all Founder’s Circle members only, you’ll receive a signed copy of “Abbot and the Stone” by Gabriel Paulson when it comes out in print later this spring.

Jennifer Stoeckl is the co-founder of the Dire Wolf Project, founder of the DireWolf Guardians American Dirus Dog Training Program, and owner/operator of DireWolf Dogs of Vallecito. She lives in the beautiful inland northwest among the Ponderosa pine forests with her pack of American Dirus dogs.