12
June 2017
Valley Voice
The Paw Print
Wolves In Love By Debora Black
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fierce, teeth-filled licks to my mouth from Tycho—and then the two of them would leap away and claim the lead over our excursion. In those slow days, we roamed aimlessly across the vast, blue-sky mornings, picking our way through the red dirt and the cactus and the pinon pine. The dogs liked to move from one shady patch of terrain to the next. They would pause now and then to pull a quill or a thorn from their paw. They mercilessly chased-off grounded birds and ate whatever morsel the bird had been after. I admired their capabilities. We broke new trails each morning, forging our rough and winding passage through all directions and ups and downs, but with the dogs pushing ahead, we always ended up near the house that I had discovered was theirs, and I would deposit them in their yard.
When I packed a few things into a U-Haul trailer and headed for 70 West, I didn’t know I was leaving Central Ohio and my teaching work in the city, my circle of friends, my house, or my marriage in any permanent way. I only knew that I wanted to get outside of it all. So I went to the Colorado mountains and settled in my condo to finish my graduate work in writing. Most days I put my notebook, food, and other supplies into my backpack and hiked into the forest. The forest was a place where anything could happen. Once, I saw a sunset so magnificent it shattered me. Once, a mother bear and her two cubs crossed a meadow above me. They seemed like a miracle. And once, I was changed forever. I was on a trip, working on some writing. Hiking, and inside that quiet, I heard the strides of an animal running up behind me. I turned, fearing the worst. In an instant, the dog was on me. A blaze of white, a delighted, dusty volatility, wriggling and squirming against my bare legs while her heavy tail swirled and swung. Her coat was deep. Supremely thick around her neck. This accentuated her chest, which was full and strong. She was a striking animal. I ran my hand over her side, feeling her lean muscles, but she dropped her pointed ears and ducked away when I reached to pet her head. Submission and boundaries all at once. She liked me though, and I fell in love with her as she circled around me and allowed my hands to pass over her sides. Then her huge mate stepped from the brush. His imposing chest lifted high. The same pointed ears. His amber eyes, eerie and looking directly into mine. How he came toward me. The slow elongating of his back, his head reaching forward. His course tail resolute. The white dog skipped back and forth between us, dropping her ears and head to him, swishing her tail. I knew not to touch her, or to move at all. I could only coo my offering of friendship. How, in that last instant, he accepted and leaned heavily into my thigh, the weight of him unbalancing me. How his unnerving eyes had never left mine. Strangely, our meeting had settled something, and the dogs—Io and Tycho, I would later learn—continued to appear from nowhere during my hikes. We would fall together in a happy greeting—all twirls from Io, and
For those who live here and for those who wish they did.
Their yard bore no difference from the land around it. It was dirt and spiny grasses and volcanic rock. There were numerous deer remains scattered about. An intact spine with fleshy vestiges. An eyeless fragment of greying skull. An array of hide covered limbs. All gruesome relics that the dogs had rooted up. My being present, Io would cavort about with an ample piece of one poor creature clamped between her jaws. The two long parts of the leg dangled unmanageably from the joint, and the sad hoof dragged through the dirt while Io carried on with her performance. She always got a rise out of Tycho and me, and it was evident this pleased her. Trespassing, half afraid of being shot, I was concerned for the dogs, so I looked around. I found feed buckets containing a quantity of food and water. And Io showed me to a place that the dogs used, which was located behind a tangle of bushes growing against the house. The space was cave-like, large enough for both of the dogs to stretch out. It was hidden and shady and it blocked the wind. It made a good shelter. But no one ever seemed to be home in that remote house, and the dogs marauded freely during the days and nights. It seemed to be the way of West Texas. Everything was parched and hot and a little bit harsh. I was persistent in my watch, and finally met the woman who owned the property. She was tall and tough and suited for that wild landscape. But Shirley had troubles, and in a few months, she let me have the dogs. I drove back down from Colorado to get them. They were thrilled to see me and crashed and tumbled over one another, ravenous with enthusiasm, as they jumped into the car. “Careful with ’em,” she said. “They know who they are.”
Driving away, I couldn’t think too much about what was ahead. I admit I felt kind of cruel. And as I picked our way down the ruts and slippery turns in the crumbly mountain road, I hoped Shirley wasn’t too broken-hearted. “Well if you ever need to find a home for them,” I’d told her about the dogs, “I’ll take good care of them.” I guess that’s just the way it had sorted out. More than anything, I hoped that the dogs wouldn’t have a change of heart. I figured if that happened, I’d have to turn around. But watching the dogs hanging out the windows, their bright eyes and lolling tongues as they thrust their faces into the wind, I felt the expectant joy that was inside that car, and all the dirty clouds of dust we kicked up just rolled on by.