Sharon and I looked at each other. I saw deep sympathy in her eyes, but at that moment, although I was angry over the spiteful shooting of the wolf, I wasn’t prepared to accept the responsibility that wolf-keeping entails. Instead of replying to Pete’s question, I suggested that having the animals killed painlessly might be the kindest thing to do. This got me in trouble with Sharon and caused Pete to exclaim loudly, “ No way, man! No bloody way!” Since my wife was looking at me crossly and because Pete, fuelled by rye whiskey, was becoming very agitated, I compromised by asking him to lead us to his cabin so I could look at Elsa and the two surviving pups, to see what could be done for the mother and to try to judge the condition of the cubs.
We followed Pete’s dilapidated car to the Carcross area, which is about forty miles from Whitehorse, and we saw the wolves. Elsa’s wounds were badly infected and she appeared to be suffering from mastitis – inflammation of her breasts caused by the fact that she was still lactating, but had no way of eliminating the milk. The wolf, docile and friendly despite her injuries, allowed me to examine her, but would not let me touch her nipples to try to relieve the pressure. Each dug was red and swollen and pockmarked by birdshot. Her leg was very badly festered. After I had finished examining the wolf, Pete led us into his rather bleak little dwelling and showed us the two pups.
One, a female, was brown; the other was a black male with a white star on his chest. They reminded us of Shawano and Denali. Both had the blue eyes of very young wolves, and their ears were not yet fully erect. When Pete uncovered the rather stained and messy cardboard box he had been using as a nursery, the female was sucking on the male’s left foot and he was sucking on her groin, both of them mouthing avidly as they sought to nurse. When I picked them up, holding them against my chest, they mouthed at my hands, searching desperately for milk. Well, that did it! My reluctance vanished! With its departure came decision. I agreed to take the pups and I gave Pete enough money to take Elsa to a vet and have her properly looked after. Then, before we left, I asked Pete what he had been feeding the pups, and how. He produced two eight-ounce feeding bottles equipped with nipples, which were adequate, but he had been giving the wolflings full-strength cow’s milk four times a day. As patiently as I could, I explained to him that cow’s milk is no proper substitute for wolf’s milk, and furthermore, very young pups must be fed every four hours, not four times a day. Indeed, it seemed like a miracle that the survivors had lasted as long as they had!
In our hotel room that night, we did the best we could for the pups, using cow’s milk because we had nothing else and there were no drugstores open where we could buy prepared human infant formula at that time of night. But we diluted the milk by 50 percent, using boiled water that I scrounged from the kitchen on the excuse that I wanted to make myself instant coffee.
That turned out to be quite a night! Half-starved as they were, and because the diluted milk could not sustain them for long, we had to feed those two little howlers every two hours, hoping that nobody in the hotel would want to investigate the strange sounds coming from our room.
In the morning, Sharon went to breakfast alone while I wolf-sat; when she came to relieve me, I had a quick meal, then went out to buy baby formula, some lactose to add to it, two more bottles, and a large vacuum jug. I also got a bottle of multiple vitamins. By ten o’clock we were on our way, the pups now housed in a clean cardboard box that we had scrounged from the grocery store in which Sharon had bought a huge box of disposable diapers and four rolls of paper towels. By the time we had travelled one hundred miles, the pups had screamed for food three times, meanwhile wetting copiously and, during the second and third food stops, producing some very thin, yellowish diarrhea.
When we had fed the two waifs the third time and they were again settled in their box, which we kept on the back seat, we had a cup of coffee from our own vacuum flask and started off again, thinking that the pups could not possibly survive and wondering when they would actually die. Some four hours later, as we were preparing to stop for something to eat at Rancheria, a tiny community thirty-five miles from Watson Lake, the pups were still silent after their last feeding. We were reluctant to open the box to look at them, fearing that they were dead. But no . . . as soon as the box was moved, the whelps began to whimper. We fed them, cleaned them off with a sponge dampened in warm water, waited till each had urinated and defecated on our paper-towel-covered laps, and then put them back in their newly diapered bedroom, whereupon they immediately went to sleep. Now we felt better, convinced that the two would survive. During a brief lunch, we discussed names for them and settled on Tundra for the male and Taiga for the female.
Those who have read my books Secret Go the Wolves and The Zoo That Never Was will doubtless recall that I had a wonderful Alaskan malamute called Tundra, but although I was happy that the little male wolf would bear the name of the dog, it was not chosen especially in his honour, but rather because it represents the treeless tundra region of the north, just as the word taiga (pronounced “tie-gah”) has been given to the broad band of evergreen forests that almost ring the northern parts of North America, Europe, and Asia. We felt that the two wolf-lings fully represented these habitats; besides, we liked the alliteration!
Back in the car, Tundra and Taiga were still fast asleep. From then on, the only stops until we reached home were made in order to feed the pups or ourselves. Since Sharon was acting as chief nursemaid, I drove all the way, mile after mile of gravel and mud and rain and pot-holes, until at last we reached the blessed asphalt one hundred miles from Dawson Creek. Then it was blacktop, wide expressways, and buffering truck transports, a day-and-night marathon of driving punctuated by periodic, fifteen-minute catnaps. Two days later, exhausted, but triumphant because by now we had two very healthy and vigorous pups, we marched into our home and surprised our house-sitter, Murray Palmer, a young graduate biologist who is also an excellent photographer. Murray’s camera went into immediate action as Sharon and I sat on the floor of my study and fed Tundra and Taiga. That date was May 20.
For the next five days, Tundra and Taiga continued to occupy their cardboard-box den, partly because I had no better accommodation for them and partly because I felt that they might react negatively if they were forced to acquaint themselves with yet another nursery before they had an opportunity to get used to us. At night we took pups and box upstairs to our bedroom, to make it easier for us to feed them every four hours as well as to be near enough to them to hear their cries, should they become distressed for any reason. Their days were spent in my office, where, between feedings, they slept soundly despite the clacking of my typewriter and the frequent ringing of the telephone that was, of course, followed by the sound of my voice.
Although the pups did not appear to react badly to the noises I had to make during the course of my work, I worried about them, wondering if they were being disturbed at the subconscious level; but since there was no help for it, I tried to ignore my concerns. In fact, as we would learn later, they were affected by the experience in good ways, the exposure to the normal sounds and odours of our home becoming imprinted on them and causing them to feel comfortable in our surroundings as well as to respond positively to my voice.
By May 25, the pups had settled nicely. They had gained weight and size, measuring seventeen inches overall, their tails being four inches long. And their teeth were just starting to grow, showing as tiny, needle-sharp points that barely protruded from gums which were rather inflamed and red. On contact with our fingers, the minute fangs hurt! In order to ease the discomfort of teething, I took the two thigh bones of some chicken we’d had for supper, to which bits of meat and gelatin still adhered, and put them in the nesting box. By morning, the porous ends of the bones had been chewed off and the harder parts were devoid of even the smallest bit of meat. From then on, Tundra and Taiga were given cooked chicken bones every second day, the offerings containing a little more meat each time. This helped ease t
he pain caused by the sprouting teeth, gave them some extra nourishment, and amused them, for after the meat had been eaten off the bones, the pups continued to chew for hours, occasionally fighting over one of the pieces amid much baby growling and whining when one or the other was bitten too hard.
At this stage, Tundra and Taiga were already starting to look more like wolves and less like the little bear cubs they had originally resembled. Their ears were beginning to straighten, and although their eyes continued to have a somewhat unfocused look, their vision had greatly improved; so had heir hearing and sense of smell. They were now twenty-eight days old and taking six ounces of formula every four hours. Feeding times, however, were somewhat chaotic. Tundra, who from the beginning had been a difficult customer, invariably losing the nipple and spattering formula over himself and whoever was holding him, continued to display the same lack of coordination, but to this trait he had added a worrisome habit: he often refused to feed entirely. Taiga, conversely, was a frantic feeder. She scrabbled with all four paws, scratching her handler with cat-sharp nails, lunging, grasping the nipple with tenacity, and sucking like a small pump, often breathing and swallowing at the same time and actually squirting formula out her nostrils. She had an enormous appetite, and because she invariably finished before Tundra, she would then seek to push him away from his own bottle so as to get a second helping. Tundra, showing even then the calm and generous disposition he was to demonstrate later, would often relinquish his bottle in his sister’s favour, but we would not allow her to overeat.
Although both pups appeared to be in excellent condition, I continued to be concerned about Tundra. Whereas Taiga moved her bowels regularly and the condition of her stools was always good, Tundra alternated between constipation and diarrhea. He also whined a great deal, although he played a lot with his sister and displayed a good deal of energy. Taiga was clearly a very high-strung animal, bursting with energy, self-confident, and at that stage, appearing to dominate her larger sibling. She growled at Tundra a great deal during play, wrinkled the upper part of her muzzle in a seemingly ferocious manner, baring her little teeth, and would never pass up a chance to bite our fingers playfully. The trouble was that her minute fangs, now about an eighth of an inch long, were astonishingly sharp and could cut our flesh on contact. We started wearing leather gloves when playing with either of them.
On May 30 we began to take the two outside, allowing them to play in the grass near the house for ten to fifteen minutes, but unable to let them linger much longer because the blackflies, those tiny, ferocious, blood-sucking pests common to many areas of the north during the spring of the year, vectored on them by the dozen, biting each pup in the groin and ears, and also biting their human companions. To protect them from the flies, I now began to “mantle” them – to crouch on all fours and so cover them with my body – and to lick them and nibble their ears and necks. Both responded to these mouthings by remaining under my body and pushing their noses into my face, sometimes licking me, at other times nicking my skin with their scalpel-like fangs, especially Tundra, who seemed to enjoy play-fighting with me and nibbling in his uncontrolled way at my chin, neck, cheeks, and lips. Taiga, of course, always tried to push her way in, but in these instances Tundra became dominant, using his greater weight and strength to push her out of the way. At about this time I made a mental note to end the practice when their teeth grew longer.
When the pups had been in our care for eight days, their Yukon box was both too small to hold them and too soiled to endure in our bedroom, so, on May 29, I went shopping for lumber and artificial turf to make a good den and a collapsible playpen for them, tasks that were completed by late afternoon of that same day. The den, made of pine lumber, was twenty-four inches square by sixteen inches high. It had a removable lid and an entrance hole large enough to allow for their future growth. The pen was six feet long, four feet wide, and two feet high, each of its four sections fastened to the others by hooks and eyes. The synthetic turf served as a floor, its grass-like surface rough enough to allow the pups to have good traction and its waterproof backing preventing their urine from staining the floor of my office, where they were to be kept from now on. We were still feeding them every four hours and would have to get up and go downstairs during the night, but because they continued to be active after dark, we felt it would be better for their development to have the space in which to romp. Then, too, we hoped that they would soil outside of their den rather than in it, as they were forced to do when confined by the cardboard box.
The inside of their new den was lined with disposable diapers, as their box had been, three of them being needed to cover the entire area. Before transferring the pups into their nursery, I collected some small logs and finger-thick, green branches six inches long on which they could chew. We also bought a small dog-food bowl that we filled with water.
Tundra and Taiga became immediately apprehensive when we placed them on the artificial turf, but because I had put one of their soiled diapers inside the den, they quickly scented it and took refuge in the boxlike structure. From there, hesitantly, they made short forays to the outside, each time advancing a little farther, checking the objects near them, then scurrying back when some new scent, sight, or sound alarmed them. By the next morning, however, they had become accustomed to their surroundings and were dearly enjoying the space and the “toys” we had put in for them. And we were pleased to note that although they wet inside the den, they had moved their bowels outside of it.
At five-thirty in the morning of June 2, Tundra and Taiga awakened us by howling, their calls louder and more wolf-like than before. Our initial reaction was to believe that they were hungry, although their next feeding was not due until 6:00am, but on going downstairs we found that they were merely having a singsong, standing in the centre of the pen, heads close together and muzzles uplifted, howling in earnest. When we approached the pen, they turned to look at us and wagged their tails in greeting, but they continued to call until we leaned over and picked them up, Taiga in Sharon’s arms and Tundra in mine. After we had caressed them for a time and they had licked us in customary fashion, I held them both in my lap while Sharon went to get their formula, now strengthened with Pablum.
They fed as usual, Tundra spilling a good deal, Taiga sucking like a small and frantic pump while scrabbling on Sharon’s leg with her back feet and leaving a series of scratches on her flesh, a painful experience, but one to which Sharon had become quite accustomed, although her legs, from ankle to knee, were by now looking as though she had been walking through brambles. Before this I had offered to feed both pups, to save my wife’s legs, but she would not relinquish the intense pleasure that she derived from feeding Taiga, whom she preferred to handle over Tundra at this stage because, despite her ebullience and extreme enthusiasm, the female pup was easier to feed and always finished before her brother, who, in any case, also scrabbled with his back feet.
At noon of that same day we offered the cubs some cooked chicken meat, shredded, which they thoroughly enjoyed. Afterwards they spent some moments licking themselves clean. Tundra confined his attention to his front paws, lips, and lower chest, but Taiga tried to lick herself all over, a laudable attempt that caused her to fall down repeatedly, especially when she tried to reach the inguinal areas.
Although both were still quite wobbly, their coordination was improving daily, even if they often missed a target when seeking to play. And their ears were now fully erect. Both could move them, pricking them forward, from side to side, or up and down. Their eyes continued to be blue and myopic and could not focus properly on any object that was more than six feet away. This caused them to exercise considerable caution, even within the by now fully explored area of their pen. If one of them moved a stick, or pushed the water dish away from its accustomed place, the other would immediately back up, stop, sniff, then advance cautiously, ready to retreat on the instant, but continuing forward nonetheless. When satisfied that th
e object was familiar, they would immediately relax and ignore it.
At noon on June 3, we took them out of the pen and allowed them to explore the downstairs part of our house, a big event in their lives! At first they stayed close to us, their little bodies held erect, their bottle-brush tails tucked between their legs, but step by step they advanced, most often side by side, but at times separating as each became interested in some particular object. If one of them became startled and stumbled back toward us, the other would react in the same way, and since I was moving along the floor on hands and knees, they would get beneath me, whereupon I would caress them and lick their heads. Seconds later they would go again, explore a little, come back to the shelter of my body, and so on. It took them an hour and a half to explore the entire living room and to determine that a good place to go and hide when they became nervous was under the couch, a low-slung affair with a high back that stood against one wall. Within this always-shadowy hiding place, the pups felt secure while they assessed the situation, seeking to understand the sound, movement, or object that had made them nervous.
Watching them as they explored, retreated, advanced, and sniffed and mouthed things, I was fascinated by the total commitment that each displayed and by the speed with which they learned. Sharon, who had spent sixteen years teaching young children, became greatly intrigued when she noted many similarities between the behaviour of the pups and that of kindergarten tots during their first day in the classroom. Like our two young wolves, first-day-at-school human children showed themselves to be apprehensive and interested at the same time; some even took to hiding, and Sharon had soon learned that it was best to allow such youngsters to emerge in their own time, coaxed out of concealment by an intense, inherent need to know and to explore.
Day by day the little wolves became more confident, playful, and affectionate toward us. On one occasion, while I was talking with a visitor, Sharon mothered the pups on her own, discovering that each wanted to have her undivided attention, a fact that they advertised by fighting, the one that was getting petted being attacked by the other. When Sharon tried to caress both of them at once, the fighting persisted, each trying to drive the other away, a clear display of sibling rivalry that was accompanied by much growling and whining as each sought to dominate the other without success, although the biting was controlled and bloodless. Hitherto we had each played with one pup, alternating between them haphazardly so that each was given a turn with Sharon and with me, this arrangement tending to prevent them from individually imprinting too strongly on one or the other of us.
In Praise of Wolves Page 18