COOL QUICK STORY ABOUT WOLVES/LIFE

If you have 10 minutes of free time, I would recommend reading this story...





                                              WOLVES BOYS AND OTHER THINGS 

THAT MIGHT KILL ME

SUMMER SCHOOL

WOLVES DON’T ACTUALLY howl at the moon. Mostly they howl at each other. I’m a girl, so I

get that.

When I hear the first howl, I’m standing knee-deep in Yellowstone meadow grass,

loaded up like a packhorse, being assaulted by the first shards of an August hailstorm,

listening to the couple we are guiding argue. Over the rumbling clouds and upperclass

bickering I hear the wolf’s howl. It is low and kind of whiny. The call of the bothered. I get

that, too.

I’m out in front of our foursome. My dad calls from the back, “KJ, go left, to the trees.” I

take a few steps and then hear him call loudly, “Your other left.”

I stop walking and let the couple pass me. Dad holds out his hand as he walks past.

“How’s that left doing? Maybe you should tie a string around your finger.” This might be

funny if I hadn’t been hearing it my whole life. The man and his stuck-up wife turn and hear

my dad’s big joke. The woman looks down her pointy nose at me. I turn away and look out

into Hayden Valley. I search the weather-bent grass. If I get to see a wolf today I can put up

with some harassment.

I hear more howling. Competing wails. Then barks. The tourists, both doctors with

advanced degrees in know-it-all-ness, freeze in their tracks.

“I heard something,” says the woman.

“No kidding,” says her husband.

“I thought these things only howled at night.”

My dad clears his throat. “Canids howl when they need to. This sounds like a discussion

about territory.”

The afternoon sky has gone dark in that sullen, angry way it does in the Yellowstone

caldera. The hail and the heavy sky make it difficult to see. But poor visibility usually means

more wildlife. I don’t use my binoculars so I can scan for movement.

After a moment I make out two coyotes. Then I see the wolf. The hail lessens and I see he wolf is three times the size of the coyotes, light gray to their tan and orange outlines. We

are less than a hundred yards away. I whip out my binoculars and focus until they look like

they are practically at my feet.

“What is it? Is it a wolf?” the woman says. Her two-hundred-dollar hat is soaked. She

waves her manicured hand at me. “Get out the scope.”

“Where do you see it?” her husband says, lifting his binoculars into the freezing hail. I

stop watching the wolf so I can put up their scope. That is what I’m here for, after all. To be

the Girly Sherpa. The maid in hiking boots.

The woman explained to me before we left the shop that she was “outdoorsy” and that

she could handle her own equipment. Apparently her idea of outdoorsy means she takes a

guided fishing trip once a year, and her idea of handling her own equipment is having my

dad and me carry the cameras, the scope, the tackle, and the lunches so she can carry her

featherweight, collapsible graphite rod without messing up her hair. The woman grabs her

scope and starts swinging it around trying to sight the wolf.

Dad knows more about the wildlife in this country than most people know about their

own children, but he says nothing.

We stand there like that for a minute and then the yapping of the coyotes fills the valley.

I blow into my hands, listening, trying to keep warm. The sounds come from two places, one

in the meadow and one higher up in the trees.

Finally Dad says, “They have a den.”

I say, “But it’s so late in the year.”

“Yep,” he says.

“Where?” the woman says, salivating. “Wolves or coyotes? I can’t see a thing in this hail.”

“If you’d be quiet maybe Samuel would tell us,” her husband says.

“I’ll be quiet when I want to be quiet.”

“Let me know when that happens.”

The wolf moves in and out of the coyotes’ nips. I think for sure the wolf will tear into one

of the little runts, but it doesn’t. Instead the wolf spins and runs, reaching back with its teeth

to defend itself, but not chasing the coyotes off.

I say, “How come it doesn’t go after them?”

The woman snaps at me. “I’d like to know where the hell you’re even looking.”

Dad raises his eyebrows and then points for the woman. She goes obediently back to her

scope.

The man follows Dad’s finger with his binoculars. “Oh. Oh,” he says. “He’s huge. Can’t

you see him, honey? He’s right there. And the coyotes are biting him. This is very exciting.”

I guess doctors miss blood when they’re away from the office.he woman swings her scope more violently. “I still can’t see them.”

Dad’s voice is low. “That’s because you need to calm down.”

Why can’t my dad act like the rest of the guides and just suck up to his clients? His tip is

in the toilet now for sure.

“I’m perfectly calm.” Her head shakes when she says this.

Her husband looks like Dad just slapped his wife. “I think she can manage.”

“Good,” says Dad. “Now how about I line up that lens so you can both get a good look?”

I go back to watching the wolf and coyotes. My eyes strain to catch every detail of the

animals. Through the spattering hail I see the coyotes working the tag team defense. The

pups go silent, but their parents keep up the bursts of barking. I can’t believe we’re seeing

this. People think it’s so easy to see a wild wolf now that they’ve been back in the park a few

years, like they’re big fat grazing buffalo or something. But just because you can buy a Tshirt with a wolf on it doesn’t mean I’ve seen many of them.

Then things happen fast. The hail stops, like someone has flipped a switch. The air

seems to freeze and everything goes silent. Five other wolves appear out of the grass, like

they just grew there. Without two seconds passing, the coyotes disappear into the trees,

leaving the solitary wolf alone with the new pack. It seems to me that the wolves have saved

their friend from harassment; maybe they have even come to help him kill the coyotes and

rout the den. But that is not what happens.

The biggest wolf, black with huge feet, leads out to the solitary wolf. He stands out front

for a few seconds without moving. I think they are locking into each other somehow, and

then the solitary wolf steps backward and drops down on its back. The man whispers to his

wife, “It’s submitting to them. I’ve seen that on television.”

I hear Dad breathe funny, and I know something bad is about to happen.

The man starts to say something else, and my dad holds up his hand and shhs him. The

woman doesn’t say anything for a change. The four other wolves step behind the big black.

The big black lunges at the wolf lying down. I can’t see what is happening except that the

wolves swarm and make tearing sounds that I feel down in my stomach muscles. The wolf

being killed yelps four times. In the emptiness left by the storm I can hear everything. I don’t

know how to describe the sound, except it’s sharp and pitiful. We just stand there, staring. I

think I’m going to throw up, but I don’t.

Then the hail comes back like a wave, pelting us and the ground and the wolves. The

pack stands erect in the weather, heads up. Then they just circle the dead wolf once in a line

and trot off.

The woman grabs her husband’s arm. “Oh, I can’t believe it.”

Her husband says, “That was disgusting.” whirl around. “Dad, they killed him.”

Dad’s face is hard and flat. “Yes, they sure did. And don’t you forget it.”

Don’t you forget it? I let that boil for about ten seconds.

I say, “Gee thanks, Dad. I’ll just put some more string around my finger.”

He eyeballs me. This look probably scares some people. “That’s not what I meant, KJ.

The minute that wolf backed down it was all over.”

Classic Samuel Manning Carson. It was the wolf’s fault for being outnumbered,

ambushed, and then ripped to Alpo. It’s a dog-eat-dog world out there, little missy, and you

better get used to it. Lessons from Life. Spare me.

We scowl at each other and then look away. The couple stays silent on the way back to

the van. Dad needs to report the wolf death since Fish and Wildlife are out counting noses

all the time. The hail has ruined the fishing for today. So what, I think. My tip was in the toilet anyway