IT WAS A DEAL
By Kathe Campbell
Would I see the creature any moment while murmuring calming words in the corral where my jittery donkey herd had mustered? Great ears forward and nostrils flaring, the donkeys snorted up a wet storm, like the time my black jennet tangled with a bear.
What's going on here? I pondered aloud, watching and waiting, as dogs echoed their unease over neighboring hills and valleys.
With my own dog Keesha at my side, I slipped silently down the draw to watch a mule doe trotting back and forth up and down the gully from the road to the creek, time and again. My heart pounded, and a thousand butterflies took over. She put on her show, squealing and grunting as though sick or wounded. I had never heard or seen anything like it in all of my ranch years.
At last, relieved and exhausted, the mule doe appeared with the spotted twins she had stashed in tall grass just over the ridge. Although startled to see me, she must have felt safe on this place close to my crew. She dropped down with her family to rest.
Was it her way of luring a predator towards her own body instead of her fawns? Wow, I was truly witnessing a mother's undaunted precious love while I waited to glimpse whatever she had seen or smelled. As usual at ranch crisis time, I laid awake that night.
At dawn's first light Keesha engaged her alert bark again. While traipsing from the deck and through the doggy door, she pounced on our bed, reverberating low rumbles of distress.
Whatever it was paid little or no attention to her threats while she dashed toward the fence then back to us time and again. Our precious Keeshond had saved more than one creature on this place, for not even one of our furred or feathered friends had succumbed to predators.
Half awake, I arose to sit on the edge of the bed, anticipating the neighbor's yellow Labrador who comes to soothe his aching old bones in our pond. It's a daily ritual for the big dog who suffers from arthritis just like the rest of us old duffers. But Targhee was nowhere in sight in the quiet cool.
But wait . . . there was a dog all right. In the half-light he blended in with the sand and rocks, a far cry from the appearance of my favorite Lab. I blinked and wiped away the night's sleep. It was him; it had to be him with his long legs and big feet, his straight bushy tail with it's classic dark spot -- the creature I would make a deal with if he would leave my ranch critters in peace.
Coyotes and foxes show up near the pond now and then, but upon confronting Old Mother Goose's impressive wingspan, Wiley Coyote invariably gives up and retreats quietly. This guy didn't have the look of a coyote.
I had seen these fascinating canines from afar in the wilds, and here he was, a descendent of the oft-criticized Canadian transplants. It was like meeting an idol for the first time; someone I greatly admired, had even studied and written about.
Our Yellowstone son had told us often to beware, that a wolf or two could show up in my Montana mountains. Now my dreams of a chance meeting had come true. To me he was bold and beautiful - this magnificent canine-looking, almost domestic. To others he would appear as a messenger of bad will, a carnivorous hunter preparing to practice what Mother Nature had endowed.
Big dribbles of water slid from his chin and plopped down at water's edge. He raised his head to ogle the ducks and geese floating upon the water like so many decoys. Their little hearts were beating like trip hammers as their wing and tail feathers quivered.
The wolf stood, staring, seemingly incurious, waiting for the right moment, but his eyes were not that of a wild thing in anticipation of the kill. They were green, and his brownish-gray shoulders were not hackled, nor were his legs tensed for a pounce into the water.
Without alerting the visitor, I managed to get my husband's attention just long enough to pound the word "wolf" into his sleepy brain. As usual, he figured I was seeing things, until he slowly and patiently raised his gun site through a crack in the slider.
He caught his breath and whispered, "That is a wolf, Kath, but he's only here for a drink." And with that . . . . . KA-BOOM! My heart leapt, and my wilderness hero jumped skyward and raced for the woods like greased lightening.
Ken had shot over the wolf's head to thwart any salivating temptations, letting him know he wasn't a welcome visitor - now or ever. Would the threat be a deterrent?
Keesha hurried from the deck to pond's edge, snuffling wild dog scent in a frenzy, but there was no blood anywhere. Nonetheless, it didn't keep her from patrolling her acres often, even after the first snow.
I felt honored, frightened, and relieved, all in the space of a few moments. The captivating predator was safe, as were my fine feathered friends at our Duck Soup Waterfowl Refuge. The wolf was never seen again, but the memory of the moment is fused in my mind as long as I live. It was a deal.
BIO:
Kathe Campbell lives her dream on a Montana mountain with her mammoth donkeys, a Keeshond, and a few kitties. Three children, eleven grands, and three greats round out her herd. She is a prolific writer on Alzheimer's, and her stories are found on many ezines. Kathe is a contributing author to the CHICKEN SOUP FOR THE SOUL and CUP OF COMFORT series, numerous anthologies, RX FOR WRITERS, magazines and medical journals.
SOMETHING TO THINK ABOUT
What have been your moments in time with the wild creatures of nature?
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