Unbent and Unbroken: An Old Wolf's Tale
Taylor Davis | April 2019
My story is one of loss and of hope, and of persevering to beat the odds. This is the story of me, and more broadly, of my kind. This is the story of the wolf.
I suppose that I should start at the beginning. I was born in the place that the hairless creatures that stand on their hind legs call Yellowstone National Park, along with my four siblings. I remember the warm smell of my mother, and of her milk. My siblings and I often competed for the best spot to get her milk. She stayed with my siblings and I every moment of every day. Then, as we grew, we would begin to eat meat that our parents and much older siblings would bring back for us, though they chewed and partially digested it before giving it to us, to make it easier for us to eat. Eventually, the day came when my siblings and I had grown big and strong enough to accompany our mom on hunts. I remember the thrill of excitement we all felt on the day of our first hunt. We were so excited, in fact, that we loudly playing for about half of the hunt, and that playing scared off any prey within at least half of what humans call a mile. Mom growled at us to be quiet whenever we got loud. We complied, but the damage had already been done. Needless to say, we went back to the den hungry that night.
As hunting with mom became more routine for us, we started to settle down and focus. As we began to focus more, we improved by leaps and bounds. I can still feel the thrill of my first successful hunt pounding through my body. After we managed to track the elk, we saw them, and they saw us. The moment that they saw us, they formed a tight formation, facing us head-on. We moved around, staring at them, unblinking. One of my litter mates dashed in to nip at the legs of one of the cow elk, and immediately dashed back out to avoid the horns of the bull elk that was next to her. The rest of the pack and I joined in. If we had any hope of eating dinner that night, we needed the herd to run.
Soon enough, the herd’s courage began to waver. We could smell the scent of their fear coming to a crescendo. The elk shuffled their hooves and flicked their ears and tiny tails nervously. Then, one by one, they began to run. The chase was on. At first, the pack and I hung back, studying their running patterns, and looking for which one would be easiest to catch. Dad found a target for half of us, while mom found a target for the other half. With waves of their tails and flicks of their ears, my parents split us into our two groups and indicated the target elk, before charging into the chase. I charged in with mom, who had selected an old bull elk as our target. The old bull elk was falling behind the rest of the herd, but he was still close enough to the herd that the herd would be an issue. We had to separate him from the herd first. I came up on his side, between him and the herd, causing him to start steering his path away from the herd. I had to keep up the pressure, while still dodging his kicks and antlers, both of which could kill a wolf.
We eventually managed to separate him from the herd, but our job was still not done. Knowing that reuniting with the herd was his best chance at survival, the old bull elk started fighting back. My mom bit down on his upper hind leg, making it harder for him to move. One of my other siblings bit down on his other flank, and my littermate in our group bit down on the side of his neck. I had the killing blow. I bit down on the old bull elk’s windpipe, and he died shortly after. We let out a howl of victory, letting the others know we had succeeded. It was also a howl of sorrow and gratitude, for the elk who gave his life so that we might live. The rest of the pack arrived soon enough. The rest of us stepped away from the carcass for a moment, leaving our parents to pick the meat that they wanted to eat first. Then, the rest of us descended on the carcass, ripping the flesh apart to get to the meat, and snapping and snarling to guard our parts of the carcass. Once every wolf had eaten their fill, we laid down to rest a bit, observing the ravens and other scavengers coming to feast on the easy meal of our scraps. They didn’t really bother us all that much.
In my second winter, meat was too scarce for me to stay with my parents in their pack, so I set out on my own. I had to be careful about where I wandered, though, so as not to get caught in another pack’s territory. The one or two times that did happen, I barely escaped with my life, and with my tail between my legs. Eventually, I found another wolf who was also wandering alone, with no pack. He and I quickly began a lovely courtship, and by season’s end, we picked a den and marked out a territory of our own. After raising my first litter with him, I now finally understand both the love and frustration that my mother must have felt when she was raising my littermates and I.
One night, when my third litter was old enough to be alone, my mate and I went hunting outside of our territory in what humans call Yellowstone National Park. We wandered into a place where there had been forest, but now had none. However, the scent of prey mixed with the smell of dead trees, and another smell I did not recognize. We crept closer to investigate. The prey animals let out panicked cries, and light suddenly flooded our eyes, coming out of a wooden den. Also coming out of the wooden den was a mostly hairless creature that walked on its hind legs, carrying a large stick. The creature pointed the stick at my mate, and a sound like thunder deafened me for a few moments. I ran and hid. After the creature was gone, I walked back over to my mate. He was laying on the ground, still as a rock, and caked with the scents of blood and death. I licked the blood off of his fur, saying goodbye and grooming him one final time. I then walked back to my pups and pack, my heart laden with grief.
Many winters have passed since then. Throughout my life, I have seen more plants return to my territory, and more different kinds of creatures. I have smelled some of the hairless creatures on my pups since the night that my first mate died, but the pups seemed to be okay and unhurt. I still try to stay away from them, though. I have also taken a new mate, as the first one tragically died. The winters have gotten shorter and milder, and fewer prey animals have been dying from exposure. I have seen more and more scavengers coming to my kills in the winters as the years have gone by, as there are fewer animals that die from the winter itself. The wolf population has been steadily increasing. I see more wolves around here than I used to, and the voices on the wind tell of wolves who have begun to settle territories outside of the park, that have not seen wolves for many winters. My parents were some of the first wolves that the hairless creatures brought to Yellowstone, and I can now leave this world in peace, an old wolf, knowing that there will be many generations of wolves to come, despite the hairless creatures stealing our territories and killing us with the thundersticks.
Taylor Davis | April 2019
My story is one of loss and of hope, and of persevering to beat the odds. This is the story of me, and more broadly, of my kind. This is the story of the wolf.
I suppose that I should start at the beginning. I was born in the place that the hairless creatures that stand on their hind legs call Yellowstone National Park, along with my four siblings. I remember the warm smell of my mother, and of her milk. My siblings and I often competed for the best spot to get her milk. She stayed with my siblings and I every moment of every day. Then, as we grew, we would begin to eat meat that our parents and much older siblings would bring back for us, though they chewed and partially digested it before giving it to us, to make it easier for us to eat. Eventually, the day came when my siblings and I had grown big and strong enough to accompany our mom on hunts. I remember the thrill of excitement we all felt on the day of our first hunt. We were so excited, in fact, that we loudly playing for about half of the hunt, and that playing scared off any prey within at least half of what humans call a mile. Mom growled at us to be quiet whenever we got loud. We complied, but the damage had already been done. Needless to say, we went back to the den hungry that night.
As hunting with mom became more routine for us, we started to settle down and focus. As we began to focus more, we improved by leaps and bounds. I can still feel the thrill of my first successful hunt pounding through my body. After we managed to track the elk, we saw them, and they saw us. The moment that they saw us, they formed a tight formation, facing us head-on. We moved around, staring at them, unblinking. One of my litter mates dashed in to nip at the legs of one of the cow elk, and immediately dashed back out to avoid the horns of the bull elk that was next to her. The rest of the pack and I joined in. If we had any hope of eating dinner that night, we needed the herd to run.
Soon enough, the herd’s courage began to waver. We could smell the scent of their fear coming to a crescendo. The elk shuffled their hooves and flicked their ears and tiny tails nervously. Then, one by one, they began to run. The chase was on. At first, the pack and I hung back, studying their running patterns, and looking for which one would be easiest to catch. Dad found a target for half of us, while mom found a target for the other half. With waves of their tails and flicks of their ears, my parents split us into our two groups and indicated the target elk, before charging into the chase. I charged in with mom, who had selected an old bull elk as our target. The old bull elk was falling behind the rest of the herd, but he was still close enough to the herd that the herd would be an issue. We had to separate him from the herd first. I came up on his side, between him and the herd, causing him to start steering his path away from the herd. I had to keep up the pressure, while still dodging his kicks and antlers, both of which could kill a wolf.
We eventually managed to separate him from the herd, but our job was still not done. Knowing that reuniting with the herd was his best chance at survival, the old bull elk started fighting back. My mom bit down on his upper hind leg, making it harder for him to move. One of my other siblings bit down on his other flank, and my littermate in our group bit down on the side of his neck. I had the killing blow. I bit down on the old bull elk’s windpipe, and he died shortly after. We let out a howl of victory, letting the others know we had succeeded. It was also a howl of sorrow and gratitude, for the elk who gave his life so that we might live. The rest of the pack arrived soon enough. The rest of us stepped away from the carcass for a moment, leaving our parents to pick the meat that they wanted to eat first. Then, the rest of us descended on the carcass, ripping the flesh apart to get to the meat, and snapping and snarling to guard our parts of the carcass. Once every wolf had eaten their fill, we laid down to rest a bit, observing the ravens and other scavengers coming to feast on the easy meal of our scraps. They didn’t really bother us all that much.
In my second winter, meat was too scarce for me to stay with my parents in their pack, so I set out on my own. I had to be careful about where I wandered, though, so as not to get caught in another pack’s territory. The one or two times that did happen, I barely escaped with my life, and with my tail between my legs. Eventually, I found another wolf who was also wandering alone, with no pack. He and I quickly began a lovely courtship, and by season’s end, we picked a den and marked out a territory of our own. After raising my first litter with him, I now finally understand both the love and frustration that my mother must have felt when she was raising my littermates and I.
One night, when my third litter was old enough to be alone, my mate and I went hunting outside of our territory in what humans call Yellowstone National Park. We wandered into a place where there had been forest, but now had none. However, the scent of prey mixed with the smell of dead trees, and another smell I did not recognize. We crept closer to investigate. The prey animals let out panicked cries, and light suddenly flooded our eyes, coming out of a wooden den. Also coming out of the wooden den was a mostly hairless creature that walked on its hind legs, carrying a large stick. The creature pointed the stick at my mate, and a sound like thunder deafened me for a few moments. I ran and hid. After the creature was gone, I walked back over to my mate. He was laying on the ground, still as a rock, and caked with the scents of blood and death. I licked the blood off of his fur, saying goodbye and grooming him one final time. I then walked back to my pups and pack, my heart laden with grief.
Many winters have passed since then. Throughout my life, I have seen more plants return to my territory, and more different kinds of creatures. I have smelled some of the hairless creatures on my pups since the night that my first mate died, but the pups seemed to be okay and unhurt. I still try to stay away from them, though. I have also taken a new mate, as the first one tragically died. The winters have gotten shorter and milder, and fewer prey animals have been dying from exposure. I have seen more and more scavengers coming to my kills in the winters as the years have gone by, as there are fewer animals that die from the winter itself. The wolf population has been steadily increasing. I see more wolves around here than I used to, and the voices on the wind tell of wolves who have begun to settle territories outside of the park, that have not seen wolves for many winters. My parents were some of the first wolves that the hairless creatures brought to Yellowstone, and I can now leave this world in peace, an old wolf, knowing that there will be many generations of wolves to come, despite the hairless creatures stealing our territories and killing us with the thundersticks.