Rescued in 2013, Hope “looked like a wolf,” which made local residents nervous. If they had looked closer, they would have seen more German Shepherd and Malamute than wolf. Instead, they feared him. That sweet, misunderstood being was going to be shot.
He had nobody. No pack, no human contact. But luckily, one of the homeowners felt his “lurking presence” was from loneliness. She felt that he wanted to play with her dogs—to connect with them, not hurt them—so she called Susan and Jean for help. They drove out and safely captured Hope, bringing him with them to Earthfire, where he could live in peace. Safe. Understood. With companionship. Susan and Jean knew he was more than a dog and more than a wolf. He was a wolfdog, a being caught between two worlds. Without the intervention of that one concerned homeowner, that incredible soul wouldn’t have had a chance to live, to teach, and to become an important part of Earthfire’s mission: an ambassador who connected two worlds, both domestic and wild.
Hope was my introduction to Earthfire’s wolves, the first one with whom I tried to build a relationship. That was one of his most important roles at Earthfire. He was each of our first steps into relationships with the rest of our wolves. Once he decided to trust one of us, we then moved on to work with Tanaka, followed by Kenai. Given how poorly humans treated Hope at the beginning of his life, it’s surprising he chose to trust us. His trust did not come easily, but that’s what made it so special when he gifted it. He was so sweet—not a mean bone in his body—and affectionate in his own way. Not in the Kaya, Akela, and Tanaka way of covering me in kisses and reaching out with their paws for contact, but by showing he trusted me.
His was the first face I saw every morning when I arrived, and the last face I saw every evening when I departed. For the last six years, he rose to greet me each time I came near his enclosure. Even as he aged and walking became a struggle, he still got up to say “hi,” tail wagging, big ol’ smile on his angelic face, an affectionate glow in his golden eyes.
Recently, Hope returned from his daily garden outing and didn’t seem well. Celeste and I took him to the vet and discovered he had HSA, an aggressive form of cancer. He’d hidden it from us until it was too late… the tumor had ruptured, filling his lungs with fluid. It broke our hearts, but we were not about to let him suffer. We had to let him go.
As Celeste and I drove up the driveway with his still-warm body, sanctuary wolf Kenai let out a sorrowful howl.
She knew.
How did she know?
Kenai had lived across from Hope for many years and constantly flirted with him. She would pull us towards his enclosure (practically pulling our arms out of their sockets), ears flat, eyes excited, tail wagging. She’d affectionately rub her sides along the front of his enclosure, do a little play bow in front of him, and finish with a little dance. Tayler used to joke that Kenai probably hoped she could phase herself through the fencing to get closer to him. Confused by her attention at first, Hope eventually started to respond positively. He would greet her, his tail wagging and an affectionate smile on his face in return.
That night, Kenai howled mournfully, heartbreakingly, late into the night. Ramble Bear came out to watch as we buried Hope. Ramble, too, had lived near him for years. Did he also sense Hope’s transition from his physical form to spiritual form?
I miss taking him on walks around the ranch. Leashing him up and seeing the look of delight when he realized we were going on a walk instead of the garden. Don’t get me wrong, the garden was his favorite! In the garden, he could run over the berms, swim in the water, and most importantly, torment Tundra in the wolf alley. But he also loved a change in his routine, so going on walks was quite enjoyable for him (and me). We would walk past the animal cemetery, past the new bear gardens and wetlands, and out to the open 120 acres. He was not a straight walker. He preferred to bob and weave or circle around me. So, while our walks weren’t very long as far as distance goes, he got extra mileage out of them by taking the “scenic route.” I always wanted to walk farther with him, but he was in charge. As soon as he was ready to turn around, we turned around and went back to the familiarity of his pack.
Hope loved to join in the cacophony of Earthfire howls with a deep baritone of his own. Sometimes he chose to bark along instead. With 11 wolves, 6 foxes, and 3 coyotes all howling and yipping, Hope’s voice stood out amongst them. The howls don’t sound the same without his voice. Something’s missing.
It’s taken me a few weeks to summon the courage to write this. To feel it. I am still struggling with his loss—we all are. Susan reminded me that grief can be a positive thing, that it can open our hearts. So, that’s what I’m trying to do. Trying my best to celebrate him and all the wonderful lessons he taught me and others over the years. His name was so appropriate for the life he lived and the lessons he taught. Hope for understanding. Hope for a better world.
Hope.
