"Thinking takes time. At least it does for me," Digger admits in "The Worst Day of My Life." He appears to spend an unusually long stretch pondering the motives of the dogs that seem to shadow his every step. Digger is a man who cherishes tranquility, relishing the luxury to deliberate over his tasks with care. He favors the intimacy of a shovel over the cold efficiency of machinery, believing that the meticulous touch honors the ground where someone will find eternal repose.

While Digger lags in understanding the true nature of the dogs, his audience likely won't share his oblivion. Observations like, "There was something comforting about having these dogs around...; almost thirty years? How can any dog be that old?" and "He [the lead wolf] only had three legs," echo Alan Allan's missing limb and are hints seasoned horror enthusiasts are quick to decipher. These signs suggest Digger is more than meets the eye, and it's clear that no amount of attempted shoveling will drive these supernatural canines away. When Miriam declares that "Some don't die" from the dogs' bites, she unveils an awareness of their true identity. Digger's indifference to his own minor injuries starkly hints to werewolf aficionados about his impending transformation.

These foreshadowings might seem to dilute the suspense of "Footprints in the Snow" and "Digger's Good-bye," but instead, they intensify the tension. The looming mystery of what Digger is becoming, and the uncertainty of when it will unfold, amplify the drama. The snowy walk is a staple scene in horror literature, where the snow betrays the transformation of man to beast. As a wolf, Digger embodies raw hunger and fury; once his tracks change from human shoes to animal paws, so too does his temperament shift. The passive, defeated man who once fled from his troubles morphs into a savage predator, casting aside the restraints of civility.

This internal battle drives the conflict in "Digger's Good-bye." Digger observes, "I felt a lot better than usual, full of energy," feeling rejuvenated by three decades, even as his wrinkles vanish. Yet, the grim realization strikes: "I'd been a werewolf out hunting for food," a thought accompanied by remorse: "Those people hadn't done anything to me." How should he act upon these revelations? A sliver of his former sardonic humor surfaces as he imagines turning himself in to the authorities, confessing to his dual nature in the park's tragic scene. He muses, "I thought about turning myself in, but I decided against doing it that day."

The narrative thus dances between two natures: one driven by social conscience, the other by sheer self-interest. This duality is a familiar theme in horror, reminiscent of H.G. Wells's The Invisible Man, where footprints in the snow reveal the unseen. In Wells's tale, the protagonist's self-serving ambitions spiral into madness, driven by delusions of power. The townspeople, meanwhile, view him more as a nuisance than a terror. In "Digger's Good-bye," however, the protagonist maintains a firmer grip on reality; aware of his transformation, he understands the necessity of choosing between his dual identities, the man and the beast.

"It wasn't long before I was back to my old decrepit self and not very happy," Digger laments, his anger now mingling with the aches of advancing age. Homeless and restless, he's wandered through life, and finds Garrison as inhospitable as it was in his youth. Rationalization creeps in, as his slow, deliberate thinking leads him toward decision. "It's perfectly natural, I told myself. Wolves have to hunt for food like any other animal. And if that food happens to be humans..."...