My Wolf-Dog

You should not get a wolf-dog for a pet.

For one reason, I’m pretty sure it’s illegal. Also, it’s not fair to the wolf-dog – they’re too wild to tame. With over 360 dog breeds, there’s a better choice available.

But do as I say, not as I do. My dog Triton was half-wolf. His story is the final pet post celebrating my essay in Next Chapter LitMag and a “maybe” from Chicken Soup for the Soul’s Pet Edition.

Here’s how it happened.

I was in my early twenties, an age of poor choices and questionable motives. The guy in the apartment below me got a wolf hybrid puppy, and man, what a beautiful dog. Fluffy-coated and merle-colored with streaks of white, black, and brown – if it was a cat, it would’ve been a tortoise-shell. I just had to have one.

The apartment neighbor said he’d bought the dog from a lady at a gas station in the next town over. Sounded legit.

I drove an hour out of town to a run-down cinderblock convenience store with concrete floors and a rusted, leaning sign. I’d noticed the place before when cruising the country.

Back in college, I took weekly driving excursions on the two-lane roads around Greenville, NC, watching farm fields float past the windows of my turquoise Toyota Paseo. I drove with no destination in mind, just for the feel of freedom and the sound of music blaring from the car speakers.

I especially liked curvy roads, where I could downshift before the turn and then accelerate within it, each extra mph increasing the force that propelled me into a tight semi-circle. At least, I think that’s how it works. Did I mention I failed physics twice?

At the gas station, I found the puppies gathered behind the rack of pork rinds and stale peanuts. There were six of the litter left, boys and girls with two coat variations, white and merle. Half had naturally docked tails, half longer tails. While I carefully considered each ball of fluff, I listened to the woman behind the counter tell their story.

She owned both the gas station and the puppies and had lived and worked all around the US, following husbands, boyfriends, and greener pastures. She had yet to find what she was looking for.

Recently, while living up north (in Montana, I think), she met a man with an Arctic she-wolf that he’d brought back from Alaska. This species is white-gray to palest beige-yellow in color, with yellow-brown wolfish eyes and a short snout. Like a teddy bear.

Why did the man bring a she-wolf back from Alaska? He was up there with his own dogs, and the wolf came slinking around. She took up with his dogs, which I must assume were of the large and husky variety. She let herself be handled and fed. When it came time to pack up and go home, the wolf came with him. Clearly, this was a mistake.

Once the she-wolf was in Montana, she became aggressive and wouldn’t let anyone near her. She howled, she hated. The man didn’t want her anymore, but he couldn’t take her all the way back to Alaska (Should he? Yes. Did he? No.) Along comes the gas station lady, and lo and behold, the she-wolf lets the gas station lady pet her. The man gives her the she-wolf.

Directly afterward, the wolf mated with the woman’s male German Shepard, then returned to a feral state, unwilling to be touched. The she-wolf roamed the woman’s property, made a den, and had her babies.

Since the Arctic wolf was whitish and the German Shepard blackish, the lighter-colored puppies resembled the wolf and the darker the dog, though the darker ones appeared more traditionally wolfish. The woman didn’t know why some of the puppies had short tails – she hadn’t docked them, and neither parent had this feature. It’s possible some were offspring of the man’s dogs and not her German Shepard’s.

I’m glad kittens and puppies don’t have the compulsion to know their parents, because it can get complicated. Perhaps the lady lied to me, and Triton wasn’t part wolf, but I think he was.

Should I have bought one of those wolf hybrid puppies? No. Of course not. Did I? Yes. I took home a little yellow poof-ball, a male with angel eyes and a long tail. I named him Triton, to go with Sebastian the cat and my Little Mermaid theme.

On the way home, I did something with Triton that I’ve done with all my dogs. I parked near a section of forest and carried the puppy into the woods. I set him down and walked away. I called him by his name and kept walking, until he followed me. I did this repeatedly, in new places, so he knew to follow where I went.

Triton was a normal dog. On the advice of a friend, I had him neutered young, to limit aggressive behavior. Was that right? I don’t know. The neighbor guy didn’t neuter his male wolf-dog, and at a year old, it bit both him and his roommate. His wolf hybrid became unmanageable. Mine remained a teddy bear.

Triton liked long walks – the longer, the better. He liked escaping from his fenced yard and roaming the neighborhood. You’ve never seen a dog who could escape half so well. I exercised and adventured him, but it was never enough. He wanted freedom, and I sympathized. Sometimes, I let him escape.

But other than the instinct to roam, an observer wouldn’t have recognized Triton as a wolf, not unless they were familiar with arctic wolves (he looked just like one). To the uninitiated, he resembled a golden retriever. And he was so sweet. At eighty pounds, he was big and fluffy, obedient and friendly. He was an excellent swimmer and loved to chase sticks so far into the ocean, I wasn’t sure he could get back. He liked to run on the beach and explore trails. He liked to be the center of attention. Triton lived for eleven good years, and I hope now, he’s rolling in stinky dead fish in dog heaven, wild and free.

– Jessi Waugh