Wolves | November 18, 2009
She was born one half the size of the others in her litter. She was so weak and little she couldn’t hold her head up. She was a wiggling little sausage that looked like a Cucumber, and so, Cucumber she became … though sometimes we called her Cutecumber. Her brothers and sisters, so much bigger and stronger, were pushing her out of the way at feeding time. But she was a child of love between Cloud and Moonbeam, so instead of letting nature take its course, Moonbeam nursed her with gentle care to give her a chance at life and we were blessed with her care. She grew up into a half-size wolf – a miniature. But not in spirit!!! She has a special zest for life and a strong spirit. She has great courage and spunk. She was our only wolf, ever, who lept off the top of the waterfall in the Wildlife Garden into the pool below. She dominated wolves twice her size. She personally thought she needed to be with our biggest wolf, Wild Presence. She selected him as her companion. She barely came up to his shoulder. Two years ago, at age seven, Cucumber became very ill. She was losing weight rapidly. Our vet did test after test with no clear result except that she had an infection. Powerful antibiotics did not help. She was down to less than half her weight and shaking. The vet on call was Summer, who said the last resort was an exploratory operation to see what was wrong, but that she was probably too weak to survive it. Since she was going to die anyway, and she was wolf, and she was Cucumber wolf with extra spirit, we decided to try it. We sat with her as she was prepared for the operation. We told her how important she was. We sat outside the operating room door through the several hours of the operation, sending energy and love and prayers. She had severe peritonitis – but why? And why had the antibiotics not worked? Then the vet found it – one part of her intestine had slipped inside the other and created a blockage so no food could go through. It had become infected and died. Summer cut her intestine in two and removed the dead portion. A huge operation for a little wolf who was already so weak and had such a big infection. Summer kept looking anxiously at the monitor, expecting her life sign to stop. 
But they didn’t. She made it through the operation. And she made it through the critical 24 hours. And the next 24 hours. We brought her home as soon as possible, and into our cabin for round-the-clock nursing care. It was the dead of winter and with her shaved belly she needed the warmth so she could use all her strength to recover. We monitored her anxiously; followed a precise regimen of various medications every couple of hours. We hovered. She began to gain weight – her intestines working!!!!! Food was going through (a mixed blessing). It was a couple of months before she began to regain her strength. We took her out for walks but she was eager to get back into the cabin. She slowly recovered, but she really liked being in the house. But as winter rolled into spring, and she stabilized, we felt the house was no place for a wolf and put her back out with her companions. She wasn’t happy about it – she looked often and longingly at the cabin door, but we were resolute — a wolf needed to be with other wolves, not in a cabin. One day two years later, something called me over to her. She was looking at me, shaking, mutely asking for help. Back to the vet. With great reluctance, Summer said we needed another exploratory operation. This time, based on tests, Summer cut open her stomach. Again she had to come back in the cabin for recovery – it was the dead of winter. She was weak. Her belly was shaved. We made her delicious chicken soup and tried to get her to drink a little every two hours. She really liked the attention. She really liked being petted and told how important she was. She really liked being back in the cabin. This time she recovered more quickly, even though she was nine. But it was winter and her belly was still exposed. So we let her stay. And stay. Eventually we tried to put her out only to hear heartrending howls. Back in she would come. Happiness. Out – tragedy. In – happiness. All the months she had been in the house, two years ago and now, we had the issue of overactive intestines and the ensuing result. We would put her out after each “accident” while we cleaned, then back in she would come. We had in our mind that as soon as the weather warmed, she would move back out. As she recovered however, to our utter amazement, it began to dawn on us that she had housetrained herself. With tremendous racket, she let us know that she had to go and despite her overactive intestine, managed to control herself until we could let her out. (Unfortunately, for us, that was a couple of times a night.) It was as if she had made the connection that if she was not housebroken, we would not let her stay. She, a nine-year-old wolf, a species that cannot be housebroken, has housebroken herself. We can’t say for sure how or why. All we know is that she did it. She also no longer jumps on the counters, shreds curtains or otherwise indulges in typical wolfly pastimes. She behaves, mostly, like a model canine. We were, and are, astounded. What should we do? She has tried so hard. Put her out — tragedy. Let her in — a laughing, smiling wolf happily pacing her personally claimed territory (our cabin). Her frequent requests for affection alternate between unutterably sweet, or wild exuberance (wolf joy is dog joy intensified times ten). Pretty hard to resist. There is glee in her eyes when she races in and a bounce in her step in the cabin. Do we put her back out??? For now we have reached a compromise – in at night for dinner, attention and sleep. Breakfast. Then out for the day. Not good enough for her. She still gives heartrending howls upon being put out; rushes into the cabin at full speed, paces around laughing and happy. She has made her decision. Against all odds, she is a contradiction in terms, a house wolf. Right now she is lying next to me, very pleased with herself, very pleased with life. The little wolf that barely made it has demanded and broken down our defenses and our principles. That determined little thing has won. And knows it. Her coat is glossy and she is back to normal weight.
Wolves | November 18, 2009
Lupine is a very small arctic wolf with a very big appetite for life — and domination. She lost her leg in an accident but it has barely slowed her down. She runs, leaps and dominates with equal lust. Patch was born with a terrible lesion on his eye. He needed an operation at two weeks old, too young for anesthesia. He was very brave. He had to wear a patch for a long time and take drops in his eye several times a day. The operation left him blind on his right side but he healed well. In this picture he is submitting adoringly to Lupine. Most of our wolves do. As per wolf language he is making himself appear as small as possible. In her opinion this is just how it should be.
Wolves | November 18, 2009
Anyone who has spent real time with wolves is struck, not only by their absolute passion for living, but by their deep love of family that is in every fiber of their body. The joy at greeting each other after an absence is the same joy our dogs show when they greet us – but intensified because everything a wolf does is more intense, perhaps because life is so much more precarious for them. The adoration of puppies is complete by mother, father and the rest of the pack. When babies are born, the excitement ripples through like lightening. Babies! Babies! They vie among themselves for the privilege of feeding them and taking care of them. And when there is a loss in the family there is profound grief.
A wolf called Moonbeam, a delicate free spirit, was chosen by the huge stunning white wolf called Cloud to be his mate. Their delight in each other was obvious and mutual. She became pregnant. He watched over her the night she gave birth. All three pups were born dead.
She grieved and grieved. Eventually she laid two of them to the side. The third she could not part with. She carried it around gently, laid it down, licked it, carried it for one day, two days, three days, four days, five. The person looking after her went to take it from her on the evening of day six but she hid it from him, panic stricken. Distressed at her pain, he tried to communicate to her that she could have it one more night to say goodbye. In the morning he would have to come and take it.
When he returned in the morning it was gone.
Moonbeam, free spirit, sank into the depths of severe depression. The caretaker worried for her life. For days she did not eat and barely moved. Cloud was distraught. Eventually she began eating, just enough for survival. It took her months to recover.
When we shoot a wolf we shoot a family member. If we do it, at least we should be aware of the additional suffering we cause and not do it lightly.
Wolves | November 18, 2009
He was an exceptionally shy wolf. Most wolves are extremely shy. Those of us who are scientifically oriented might say because we killed thousands of wolves over the centuries, only the ones so skittish that they panicked at the very sight of a leaf in the wind, survived. The more mythically inclined of us might say they have carried the terror of the persecution of generations. But even among shy wolves, he stood out. We named him Timber because he was the lovely silver-gray of a timber wolf, and because he was so tall, magnificent and stately.
Timber had an unusually sensitive stomach, perhaps because he took things so hard. We varied his food, each new diet working for a while, until he reached his seventh year. One morning during early rounds we found him standing in the back of his enclosure trembling, looking at us, mutely asking for help. We rushed him to the vet. He was in acute crisis, but they didn’t know why. If we wanted to save him we would have to take him to a teaching hospital.
What do you do if an animal looks at you asking for help? There was no question. We gave him an intravenous drip, packed several bags of IV fluids to help him survive the long journey and drove through the night to Colorado State University for emergency exploratory surgery. They found that one section of his intestine had slipped inside the other, blocking food from passing. Against all odds Timber survived the surgery. He went into intensive care while the doctors ran more tests and we drove back through the second night to care for our 59 other animals. It was wrenching, leaving an ill and terrified wild animal in a strange place, to be handled by strangers, unable to explain we would be back.
Five days later we brought him home, a weak but living wolf. The diagnosis was severe progressive Inflammatory Bowel Disease (IBD) possibly due to an allergic reaction. They estimated his chance of recovery as poor.
The animal I saw bore little resemblance to Timber. There was no wolf-light in his eyes. But he raised his head feebly in recognition. We carried him into the living room and gently placed him on the warm heated floor padded to ease his bony frame. He was shaved on his front legs, shaved on his back legs, shaved on his belly and shaved on his side, where various tubes had been inserted. Around his middle he had a large white bandage out of which protruded a stomach tube through which we were to pump liquid food and medicine every two hours. He was on three antibiotics, intestinal motility drugs, antacids, and massive doses of prednisone.
I made a bed for myself on the floor next to him, wanting to sense any changes, hoping that caring energy would tip the balance. He was too weak to stand, meekly letting us do whatever we needed to. Meek is not good in a wolf.
With stomach feedings and time he gained a bit of strength and a little light returned to his eye. We got him off antibiotics after a month, hoping that would help with his digestion. But a few evenings later around 10pm we walked into the living room and gasped … he was lying on his side, his stomach so distended it looked like it would pop. A rush to an on-call vet – a very confused vet when the x-rays kept turning out black, until she realized she was x-raying air. We spent the early morning hours watching a wolf deflate as she inserted a needle into his abdomen, pumping out the air, and the equivalent of a wolf smile appeared on Timber’s face.
Another exploratory surgery and she found the problem – a hole in his stomach where the stomach tube had been. The next day there was wolf light in his wonderful yellow eyes. Now that he was over the crisis, we began to research how to heal him. The prognosis from all the vets he had seen were pessimistic. But he had asked to live, had fought so hard, had survived so much. We had to leave no stone unturned.
We had been told not to allow him to touch any food he had ever been exposed to, as the diagnosis was IBD secondary to allergy. We tried specially-prepared veterinary diets: whitefish and rice, duck and potato (he turned up his nose in disgust), salmon and rice, venison and rice. The rice passed right through and the rest just kept him at starvation weight. Some days he would eat and throw up, some days he wouldn’t eat at all, and his stools were not objects of health and beauty.
We did what we could to ease any inter-wolf stress. An animal of commanding presence and dignity, Timber was a natural alpha wolf, yet he also had that exceptionally sensitive personality – a difficult combination to manage within oneself. He had the additional stress of not feeling well yet having to put up a good front – other wolves are not forgiving of weakness. So he lived in our cabin at nights, soaking up tender loving care and spent his days in the Wildlife Garden with Scamper-Who-Lived, a female wolf, for companionship.
We found a nutritionist who specialized in IBD in canids. With hope, we consulted at length, giving him Timber’s history. He said he had healed animals on the brink of death from IBD through diet. He believed the cause of IBD is often cooked food and recommended a purely raw diet. However there were few sources of protein Timber had not been exposed to, limiting possibilities. It had also been suggested that we keep some foods in reserve in case he became allergic to each new food over time, leaving him with nothing he could eat. We were currently keeping him alive on canned tuna and fresh organic eggs donated by our chickens.
Following the recommendations we tried a diet of raw, finely ground organic buffalo, bone meal and vegetables. To our delight Timber fairly lept upon the new food. He began to gain weight.
It has been a delicate balancing act over the last 16 months, charting every few hours what we feed him, how much, how often, what temperature, what probiotics, what supplements, what the results are out of either end. He has some days of nausea and indigestion, but most days he is just fine. Often his stools are absolutely gorgeous — something that was never supposed to be possible. We e-mailed pictures to his vets. They took it well.
We are not yet satisfied and continue to experiment with nutritional and energetic approaches. But Timber is, in all important ways, a healthy wolf. He has zest for life, an excellent appetite, and is once again a vibrant gorgeous animal with a properly wolfly sense of mischief. It has been a long, arduous journey, and he has fought for his life all along the way. He has earned every joyous moment of it.
Wolves | November 18, 2009
Wamaka arrived as a pup with a major jaw defect that prevented him from eating properly. We had three options: to put him down; try to align his teeth through surgery that would involve breaking his jaw, cutting and then resetting bone with no guarantee of success; or let him live as best he could making sure he got enough to eat. We chose to help him live as best he could, but it was hard to keep weight on him. For a while he was losing weight no matter how much we fed him, so we took him into the cabin for observation. We put him in a temporary kennel, left for ten minutes, and above are the result of 10 minutes of wolf-joy. Jean is wooing him into allowing himself to be picked up before he leaps over Jean’s shoulder onto the next table for more joyous destruction.
Wolves | November 18, 2009
Stardance is a wolf, black, with yellow piercing eyes. She is the epitome of our mental picture of evil.
In actual fact she is a charming clown. When you approach, she flops on her back, paws waving, belly up for the scratching. Should you want her to go somewhere or stop something at your request she resists by flopping again, going completely limp so whatever part of her you try to touch eludes your grasp. She delights and excels in this. The only recourse is to pick her up wholesale and fling her, limp, tongue lolling in good humor, across your shoulders to carry her back to wherever you want her to go – or out of whatever mischief you have found her in. It is impossible to get mad. As you put her down she gently grasps your hand in her mouth, asking you not to leave. She could also have been named Flopover.
But she is both – an exquisite creature and wolf, and a “flopover”. Wolves, or any creature, is not well-served by a simplified, two-dimensional caricature of their ”nature”, or an application of unreasoned prejudice about black animals or piercing eyes. That should belong to the past, to medieval times of primeval fears about the nature of evil, before we had the possibility of good education that encourages careful reasoning. Facts are now available from the relatively new field of science to help us add reason and perspective to emotion. And in this case, knowledge of a specific wolf to modulate our picture.
We are particularly prone to apply prejudice when we know little about or have little direct experience of another being, in this case wolves. Even biologists, who study a species rather than an individual, may miss some crucial aspects of an animal or accord them little importance. They may not realize what a species is capable of, as expressed through an individual because that is not what they are looking at. The question determines the data found; and may give only a partial picture or a distorted view.
Wolves | November 18, 2009
Piddle Paddle, a young white wolf, was once named Mariah because she ran like the wind. Suddenly at age 2, in the blink of an eye, she was a paraplegic. Experts were baffled. They could offer no hope. The vet compassionately suggested we end her life – at best she could only drag herself around; we would have to diaper her (hence Piddle Paddle); give her intensive nursing care for life; there would be other problems. She was so young; had such a zest for life, we couldn’t bear her vibrant young life being unlived, and took her home. She went into a deep depression, lying unmoving on our bed, eyes dull. Paralysis is a horrible death sentence to a wild animal. Paralysis means no hope.
For nine days she lay, getting thinner and thinner, a white wraith fading away into nothingness. We begged her not to give up. We tried everything traditional and alternative medical could offer. We promised if she lived we would never give up until she could run again. We promised to make a special place where she could run free like the wind. We pictured it in our mind over and over, trying to get the message across to her – if you live you will run in green pastures, like the wind.
On the tenth day she began to take an interest in food and other things of wolfly interest. Two weeks later we thought we saw a tiny twitch in one of her hind legs. For two years she struggled against all odds with astounding will and determination. And now, though not exactly with grace anymore, she can run like the wind, with such a zest for life, in a special place we built for her …
Energy Healing Wolf
Wildlife as a Whole
