I am in a large white house as I write these words. The weather outside is a limp gray, threatening to rain but content to hold over for days, indecisive. And, that’s how I feel. English setters drape the furniture and sprawl out on the floors. We are all comfortable and uncomfortable. Somehow, freedom from pain or danger softens our edges so that, should we dare to go outside and leisurely run or exercise, it is only in the way that spares energy. And it makes me think of the wolves in the Arctic. It makes me think of the loping, hungry gait and predatory eyes of a creature for whom remorse is a luxury. The exact wolf in my mind is a lone white wolf spotted by the pilot ahead of us in her super cub a few weeks ago.
It took me a few seconds to adjust my eyes to see it, and at the same moment, it looked up at me, flying overhead in a small plane. Does the wolf wonder what alien machine flies overhead? Does it know there’s life strapped into a seat and riding above the earth for the thrill of looking out a window? Part of me went out to the wolf in an attempt to understand the nomadic life of an animal living unhindered and without remorse for killing caribou calves or anything. And, part of me felt romantic and ridiculous for staring out from confinement at a living being as an emblem of freedom when I’d be back to work in a week.
The comparison between dogs and wolves is as farfetched as the comparison of me to a wolf. Wolves are wolves – the wild spirit of the land, the monstrous mother who nurtures and destroys. The rightful inheritor of the planet. Sometimes, it’s a comfort to think that when human-caused destruction of the world is done – when our thoughts and actions have finally run out the life course of existence, the earth might heal and recover. Maybe our race will have moved on to another planet, and slowly, out of age-old rock or ice, new life will emerge. It may take a million years to reverse the extinctions but something like a wolf will be born and live and range again.
My first dog, a German Shepard named Sheba slept next to me on the floor at night. An uncle kept an animal he said was a “real live wolf, I swear to God” – a mangy black Shepard-looking dog with green eyes and a sloppy grin. Both “dogs” jumped into the bed of his truck, and he drove down the highway with them at 60-miles-per-hour when the wolf jumped out and landed, running. Sheba followed, and she died instantly upon hitting the pavement. It was difficult not to hate the wolf, although nothing was its fault. Easier to hate the uncle. But, nothing is anybody’s fault as much as it is a thing that happened. The lesson, in my mind then, was not to follow anyone over any edge, but to pay attention to my boundaries.
One of the setters, Hugo, sits down beside me as I write. He waits for attention (rather than beg for it as the Labs do). I finally look at him – he’s drenched from being outside in the yard. While the rest of the setters have lounged and napped, Hugo is lit up by the rain. I scratch his wet ears and look into his amber eyes. He wants me to come along and see it. There are birds feasting on the worms called out by rain. There is a throbbing pulse to the showers and sudden light from the sun when the rain stops. There are things to do, Hugo seems to say, rather than sit in pajamas and stare into flat screens.
Instead of following him outside, I step over one, two, four, English setters – his littermates – on the way to the coffee pot for a refill. I don’t know what to say for myself. I crave adventure, but there is always a warm house waiting for me to return. Hugo can run 30 miles in the mountains – I’ve counted his miles on the GPS. It’s not something a wolf would do – run a marathon for nothing but sport. All my miles, all my journeys, as much as I love to go and look at open country to purify my mind; sort out the notes of murmuring water and bird sounds in the mountains; smell the faint hint of petals mixed in with the heavier scented greens; taste the cold white water purified over rocks, and lay on a bed of lichen, which seems to grow against your back as a testament to the ever-living mountain, it is only as a visitor, hindered by a requirement to return home.
I sit down with my new cup of coffee, and Hugo appears next to me again. He’s the only dog in the family running in and out the dog door on a rainy day. “What is it?” I say in the annoying rhetorical way of human-dog relations (“who’s a good boy?!”). His tail wags, and he looks at me, insistent. I start to feel like the dumb townspeople when Lassie attempts to report a child fallen down a well. “What?” I say. “Do you want me to follow you?” (Great, I am the dumb townspeople, I think).
I get up in my pajama pants and wool socks to go out on the porch. I am slightly annoyed, as I am trying to bemoan my domesticated existence in the face of having returned from one of the last wild places on earth and an encounter with a “real live wolf, I swear to God.” Heavy rain has pooled on the boards of the deck soaking my socks and water runs off the roof and down the back of my neck. I look over at Hugo, his tail wagging.
“Isn’t it wonderful?” he seems to say in the rhetorical dog-human way.
And it is wonderful.