Named after the elderly leader of the wolf pack in Rudyard Kipling’s The Jungle Book, Akela is a handsome five-year-old wolf with a distinctively long snout and expressive golden eyes. Though he is timid around visitors and new team members, often hiding in his den box and peaking out to make sure any suspicious individuals are gone, he is very playful and affectionate with those of us he has warmed up to. Akela adores playtime in the garden with his siblings, but sometimes, he’s not quite ready to come back inside.
I was in the office preparing for a weekly outreach meeting when the call came over the radio.
“Heather, if you have a minute, can you help us get Akela in, please?”
I grabbed my winter coat and geared up to head outside. It took several minutes to locate Akela in the 1.5-acre pine and aspen-filled wolf garden. Eventually, I saw the tips of his ears on top of the waterfall. He was curled up, resting in a hollow on the boulders, not a care in the world. I called his name and his head perked up in recognition of my voice. However, rather than coming to me, he stretched languidly across the top of the waterfall, gently settling deeper into his spot, just peeking over the edge. We were on wolf time, not human time.
Since he wasn’t budging, I climbed through the trees and up the backside of the waterfall. He lazed on his side in a recessed area where, come summer, water will collect before cascading down the front of the boulders. He looked at me, and I smiled as I approached. “Hey, Akela. How ya doing, handsome?”
He stretched all four legs out in relaxation and contentment, pressing the side of his face into the snow. I got down on my knees to stroke his ribs and back. I scratched between his shoulders and caressed the incredibly soft fur behind his pointed ears. Ran my fingers through his fluffy tail. He had zero interest in leaving his comfy spot. I could tell we were going to be there for a while.
The rocks were digging into my knees, so I moved onto all fours to distribute my weight better. One hand rested on his side and one reached between his front legs. My fingers slowly curled in and out of the thick fur on his chest. A few minutes later, I lowered myself to my stomach and rolled onto my side. My head laid in the snow to echo his. In the distance, the rest of the wolves began to howl. Our nearby foxes, coyotes, and Shota the German Shepherd joined in. Akela lifted his head like he would join them, but instead, he laid his head back on the ground. I chuckled. “Akela, you probably better answer, or the others are going to worry.” He simply looked at me and closed his eyes, relaxing even more.
We laid together in the snow for another fifteen minutes before I retracted my arm from his chest, reaching for the phone in my back pocket in hopes of getting a photo with him. But as I removed my phone, he lifted one paw and gently pressed my arm back to the ground. Apparently, we were still on wolf time—and wolf time does not allow the use of cameras with which to commemorate moments.
I could have stayed out there all day, but I needed to return to human time. Cold, wet and slightly bruised, I stood, hoping Akela would follow. He got up and we walked through the wolf garden side by side, my hand resting on his back.
But after escorting me to the exit, Akela returned to wolf time. It wasn’t until hours later that food did what I couldn’t.
Apparently, wolf time does allow snack breaks.
