Chapter 8. A WALK ON THE WILD SIDE
I prayed that night.
I halfway expected Barker to be gone when I woke up and I wholeway hoped he would still be there. My prayers were answered.
Couldn’t have been too much after dawn when I looked out the window and saw him pull a long stick, as thick as my wrist and taller than I, out of his Bronco. Barker and The Black Gang started up the driveway.
“Hey!” I hollered, as Mongo and I tumbled out of the house. “Wait for us!”
Spiders’ webs bubbled with glistening dew. Slats of golden sunlight pierced through the pines, striping shadows across the trail in front of us. Our property abutted a tree farm, one of the euphemisms for the ages, tens of thousands of acres, too many of them clear cut, which stretched for miles across the mountains toward to the coast. The air hung fresh. Until the smell of dog poop filled my nostrils.
It was kind of embarrassing the way the pup would squat right in the middle of the path to relieve himself.
I watched as The Black Gang discreetly completed a particularly healthy dump. He scraped his feet on the forest floor, kicking up clods of soil and grass, like a bull preparing to charge.
“Why does a dog do that after he takes a shit?” I asked. “I’ve always wondered.”
“The only efficient sweat glands a dog has are between its toes,” Barker answered. “The paw-scraping action adds another marker scent – his body odor – that lets all the other animals know of the dog’s presence in the area. Same reason they spray so many bushes with their urine. To establish an ‘olfactory fence,’ an invisible boundary line to warn intruders away from his territory.”
I had no idea. Mongo had only recently learned to lift his leg when he peed.
The Black Gang pranced protectively just behind Barker while Mongo scampered comically in circles, his nose pressed nearly to the ground, tracking one tantalizing scent after another, sniffling, snuffling, dodging into the brush, scampering back every couple of minutes to make sure we hadn’t gotten lost.
The puppy would scoot up to the older dog, trying to goad him into play. Gang seemed perfectly happy, doing his job, walking with his boss, providing back-up. When Mongo got too close, became too annoying, Gang would grab the pup by the scruff of his neck, causing him to go limp, falling on all four knees, in submission. Like a rag doll. Gang would let go, Mongo would take off again, darting into the woods until it was time to come back and repeat the entire procedure. A pretty good game itself.
“I wouldn’t piss that big dog off, if I were you,” I warned.
“Gang, why don’t you take Mongo for a run,” Barker suggested. “Get some exercise…. And remember to bring him back.”
So off they went, the puppy taking two strides for every one the other dog took. Which I couldn’t help noticing was what I had to do to keep up with Barker Ajax.
We walked along in silence.
Barker, doubtlessly eager to work the kinks out from yesterday’s wall building, seemed deep in thought. Shoes scrunched. Wind rustled. A red-tailed hawk cried. A crow called. Every so often somewhere far off in the distance a dog, mine, would bark.
I thought this must be the most beautiful, wonderful place in the whole world to grow up. A lush idyll of towering Douglas fir, alder and maple, conifer mixed with western red cedar and western hemlock. A statuesque oak standing here and there like a punctuation mark. Berry bushes everywhere, black, blue, red and raz.
The Lewis and Clark Expedition – led by a woman, my mother always reminded me – passed very near here. On their way to the Pacific and eternal fame. Then, as now, these hills were home to a hundred or more species of birds and some sixty species of mammals. Where the loggers didn’t rule.
Trout in clear streams. Woodpeckers pounded trunks while warblers walked the branches and turkey vultures sailed the thermal breezes. Mongo particularly appreciated the partridge families who would explode from the thick Scottish Broom brush at his approach. We’d seen the tracks of a black bear and heard tales of cougar in the vicinity. This spring I’d seen with my own eyes a bobcat and a red fox. Can’t do that in the city. And more than once we’d been awakened by our dogs howling at the foot of the bed in response to the nocturnal song of local coyote.
Springtime saw blankets of wild flowers, white trilliums, tiger lilies and wild roses. One of the last best places left. Too hilly, too rainy, too far for most people, made it just right for us.
Cresting a foothill, Barker stopped suddenly. I almost walked right into him, deep in thought myself. He signaled me to remain quiet, then pointed across to the next knoll. Standing there, motionless, staring right at us, was a herd of elk.
“Wapiti,” Barker whispered, using the Shawnee word nobody used around here.
“You act like you’ve never seen an elk before.”
“I’ve never seen these elk before. Aren’t they magnificent?”
I was busy counting. Two dozen, uniformly rather large, no antlers, no babies. We were maybe a mile from the house if that crow flies straight. Living so close and all, I guess I had come to take this herd for granted.
“Where I grew up, you only saw elk on television nature programs like Wild Kingdom,” Barker said, still whispering. “Who can forget old Marlin Perkins? ‘While my assistant Bruce, using his bare hands, attempts to tag a rutting bull, I’ll stay behind with the bazooka and Land Rover.’
“Or in a zoo, certainly not in your own backyard. To actually come across a wild animal in its natural habitat, something I’ve never gotten used to. Hope I never do.”
The elk acted like they had never seen a human before. Stock still they stood. All eyes glued. We stayed there the same way, unmoving. A full-grown elk stands five feet high and weighs around a thousand pounds. Suppose they charged, we could get trampled.
“They are herbivorous, aren’t they?,” I asked.
“Count on it,” Barker assured me. “Grass, leaves and twigs.”
Right then, the herd began to evaporate. No breakneck flight involved. The elk didn’t really disappear, they faded away, a couple steps one direction, a couple another, behind a bush, a tree, some brush, perfectly camouflaged. They were gone.
The dogs were back. Mongo was a bit of a mess, burrs stuck to his woolly coat as if it were made of Velcro. So tired, a wonder he could run without tripping over his own tongue. He saw The Black Gang drinking from a deep puddle and did the same. Gang walked over to Barker to report in, Mongo came over to me to shake muddy water on my pants. The older dog took his accustomed position beside his master, while the pup again followed his nose, addicted to scent.
I was studying The Black Gang. What a magnificent specimen he was. Looked like one of those Alaskan sled dogs with a glandular problem. Must have measured well over six feet from nose to the tip of his tail. Wouldn’t be surprised if he weighed more than 170 pounds.
One-seventy-five. If not the size of a full grown man, then certainly larger than most folks.
You knew – didn’t take a zookeeper or veterinarian to figure it out, at a glance this beast would be totally dangerous if provoked.
Completely protective of his master. Fast as a second-place greyhound. Jumped like a scalded deer on springs. Smarter than a junior high school honor roll student. Gentle with children, tolerant of puppies.
“What kind of dog is Gang?,” I asked Barker on the walk back.
“He’s what’s known as a wolf-hybrid,” Barker answered.
“Cool.”
“Not really. Another example of man’s ignorant interference with nature’s grand plan.”
“How do you mean?”
“Just because two animals can have sex together doesn’t mean they should, Zac. A good rule no matter what species you are, I guess. Wolves and dogs aren’t supposed to mate. The result is a beast that’s neither wolf nor dog, not fit for the wild nor civilization.”
“I’m not sure I get the point.”
“It took twelve to fourteen thousand years to domesticate the wolf into a dog. Take Mongo. Old World shepherds bred guard dogs to look as much like sheep as possible, wooly and lamb-faced. They bond early to the sheep they’re supposed to protect. Centuries of domestication went into producing that puppy. You can trust him.”
“And you can’t trust Gang?”
“An exception to the rule. To him, at least to his ancestors, sheep are part of the food chain. Mongo comes from a long line of protectors, Gang’s descended from predators. Recently, too.”
“I see where that might be a problem.”
“You have no idea. Canines are pack animals. Over the centuries, we’ve convinced your typical dog, the house pet, to accept human beings as pack leaders. A wolf-hybrid, he sees humans as other wolves. And we simply can’t compete. When a wolf reaches a certain age and a certain maturity, he’ll want to be the leader of the pack. If you keep a hybrid wolf, he will try to take charge of your family. It’s not that he suddenly dislikes you, or he’s suddenly malicious, it’s his instinct. You’ve got two choices. You can either let him win and run your life, in a sense becoming his pet. Or you can fight him for it.
“That doesn’t sound like a good idea.”
“No. A wolf’s bite is literally twice as powerful as the average dog’s. That’s not the worst of it. A wolf is going to bite you about five times in the length of time a normal hound will bite you once.”
“Wow.” Excuse me for being monosyllabic.
“And he’s smart, too. A German Shepherd, the so-called police dog, has the intelligence of a 3-year-old human child. The chimpanzee the intelligence of a 5-year-old, while the wolf has the intelligence of a 7- to 9-year-old child.”
Barker Ajax was grinning. “Which perhaps explains why I’m childless myself.”
Found myself looking at The Black Gang, unable to put together in my head the information I’d just been given with what I knew about the animal trotting next to me.
“But he’s only part wolf, right?”
“His daddy was, the other half’s a bit of a mystery. Best I can tell, his mom was a real junk yard dog. Part Rotweiller, probably where he gets his coat from. Rest could be Doberman Pinscher.”
“So, how come you have a dog like that?,” I wanted to know.
“Wrong place, right time, you could say. Driving through some high desert one afternoon, well off the beaten track, I came upon this dusty automobile cemetery. Acres of rusted metal. Figured I might as well prowl around for some Bronco parts, maybe get lucky for cheap. Didn’t find anything I could use.
“Snaggle-toothed geezer who lived on the place didn’t want to see me leave without some of my money staying behind, so he took me around back of his shack where he had a bunch of chicken-wire pens sitting in the sun. Must’ve been a hundred degrees. There was a pen eight feet high with the biggest, baddest wolf I’ve ever seen, a tow chain dragging from his collar to an engine block anchored in concrete. A pile of ribs, probably deer, in the corner, in front of the battered shell of a two-tone cream-and-gold ’57 Plymouth Belvedere, which served as his den. I could see the dead bugs floating on top of his water dish.
“In the dust, roaming free, a few scrawny pups dragged their butts, obviously suffering from worms. The old man was running the worst kind of puppy mill, breeding so-called ‘security dogs,’ mostly for warehouses in the Los Angeles area. Too many dogs, not enough space. Wasn’t pretty. I couldn’t get out of there fast enough.”
“And that’s where you bought The Black Gang?”
“Hell, no. No way I’d see that man profit. No way. I love dogs. Got a couple miles down the road and I heard a noise behind me. Don’t mind saying, spooked me a little. The look on that caged wolf’s face had given me the willies, just couldn’t shake’em. I glanced behind me and there was this little fur ball, bright eyes gleaming, frightened. Must’ve jumped in through the open window. I reached over to reassure him, was lucky to get my hand back in one piece. That’s when I made up my mind. Drove to the nearest town, called the SPCA, the state police and the local newspaper.”
“And kept the puppy,” I finished the story for him.
“And kept the puppy, right.”
We were back at the farm. I was still curious. “The color’s obvious. And he’s certainly big enough for two dogs. What kind of name is that for a pet anyhow, The Black Gang?”
“You’d better smile when you call him ‘a pet.'”
Barker Ajax smiled and I thought for a moment he wasn’t going to answer. He stopped, squatted down and gave his best friend a hug, burying his face in the animal’s dark fur.
“Color and size, sure, that’s part of it. Another part, when I was growing up, seems like everybody was worried about Negro youth, angry black teenagers, Afro-American youngsters out of control, with names like the Bloods and the Crips, the Posse. Some of the fear was genuine, some of it was racist. Got to the point everybody was afraid of young black men, even other blacks felt threatened. The fear was real. Figured if I was ever in a situation where my personal safety was jeopardized, the biggest help would be a gang.
“I started to examine the reasons such gangs existed, why kids joined a gang in the first place. Self-preservation was a key, of course. Safety in numbers. Protection. More importantly, what gang members found was a sense of belonging, support from their peers, companionship, caring and sharing, brotherhood, trust, loyalty, that family feeling they couldn’t get at home. Made a great deal of sense.
“I decided the concept shouldn’t be limited to juvenile delinquents. Thought I could use a gang of my own.”
“The Black Gang.” I understood.
“That’s the fact, Zac.”
“Say, how come, since he’s half wolf, you two get along so well?”
“Easy. I never do anything he doesn’t want me to do.”