The Reminder is making its archives back to 2003 available on our website. Please note that, due to technical limitations, archive articles are presented without the usual formatting.
The Reminder is pleased to republish this article, written by Michelle Grimmelt, which originally appeared in the January-February 2007 edition of our sister magazine, Cottage North. **** I was five the year that the wolves came into town. It was not uncommon for wild animals to venture over that imaginary border that separated Snow Lake from the extremely vast uninhabited lands of boreal forest that surrounded us. To say that these animals were the intruders would reflect an arrogance of mankind that seems to be the norm in the 21st century. This was not the case in the virgin Northern Manitoba wilderness of the mid-1960s. My parents had immigrated to Snow Lake from the thriving metropolis of Flin Flon, long before there was even a crude or makeshift road into town. They had arrived by train; passage paid by HBM&S. 'The Company' had discovered rich ore beds that had been hidden forever beneath the stomach walls of the Precambrian Shield, and the smelter in Flin Flon was hungry for the treasures buried deep within its bowels. One had to know with exact certainty where one was going, for it was still years before Snow Lake would be drafted onto the maps of Manitoba or Canada. You could not venture into the harsh terrain of this northern experience, without a hint of humility, or a conscious awareness that the title to this land was held in the firm grasp of Mother Nature. Mankind had staked a claim, but the animals could not read. There were stark and cold realities imbedded in my childhood upbringing that were completely unavoidable and truly quite remarkable. 'She' had little tolerance for those that entered 'her' domain devoid of respect, either for the harsh realities of a frozen winter playground or the short and sweet temptations of spring and summer. We learned the difference between fear and respect, and we learned the feelings behind the words 'awe' and 'magnificent'. We had no radio and we had no television. Our movies were live and they were free. Mother Nature dominated our silver screens. National Geographic could eat their hearts out. Video late fees could never apply. And so it was, on the nights that the wolves came into town. Dad woke us all up at three in the morning, the blackest hour when our tiny town slept in peace. He rounded up his four little ducklings and perched us in front of the back bedroom window. An impromptu family reunion gathered again for one of nature's free shows. We did not have to guess at the frigid conditions outside. The blankets of snow hovered somewhere on the verge of wanting to turn to ice and the crystals hung petrified in the air _ frozen in two-four time. The smoke from the chimneys puffed in straight lines _ too cold to move. Jack Frost had etched his trademark in delicate drawings strewn haphazardly along the window's edge. And then we saw them. Dancing under the frigid spotlight from the pumphouse light that flickered in pain, struggling against the weight of the plummeting mercury. I counted three and thought they were dogs. They seemed to dance, but I realized they were likely shifting from foot to foot avoiding the chill that must certainly stab their paws on the frozen ice sheets beneath their feet. 'It's Murphy!' Robbie shrieked and all of the sand that had been left in my sleepy eyes disappeared. I saw him too! Our massive lovable Saint Bernard was romping carelessly with these two newfound playmates who had stolen silently into town from behind the curtain of the northern twilight zone. It was the first time I had seen another dog who stood as tall as Murphy, for our Murphy was the 'King of Dogs' in Snow Lake! He weighed over 160 pounds, his red and white fur coat thickened by the necessity of our winters and his own genetic composition that allowed him comfort and warmth in a brutally cold terrain. There was a big black dog that seemed to hang back as though shy of this lumbering stranger. The brown dog, though not as tall as Murphy, seemed more daring. He nipped at Murphy's ear, jumped and twisted in a ballet parody, and Murphy jumped as quickly as his cumbersome weight would allow. He seemed to laugh. And then the two took off in a dead run down Lakeshore Drive. See 'Fourth' on pg. Continued from pg. A fourth dog emerged from the blackness of where our frozen lake met our frozen land. He joined the brown dog and Murphy within an incredible second and the three began a game in the middle of the street that was reminiscent to 'ring-a-round-the-rosie.' Still, the black dog hung back, assessing the situation cautiously, his eyes glinting red under the spotlight that was enshrouding this game. 'Whose dogs are they, Dad?' Bryan whispered. 'They're not dogs, son. They're wolves.' Silence. And the creatures of the night played tag _ oblivious to our watchful eyes. Our beautiful Murphy, in his glorious fur coat, frolicked as innocently as in the days of his puppyhood, his delight apparent. We giggled at his obvious joy. The line between domestic and wild was as obscure as the snow from the cold. They played a good game; our dog and those wolves. Murphy undoubtedly outweighed them, but his movements were far less agile. They were quite obviously quicker and less inclined to be taking in mouthfuls of snow such as he did as he raced up and down the white roadway. He was a rookie; they were seasoned professionals. I had not noticed that my daddy had left the room until we saw him at the end of our driveway. His Steelworkers parka left open and his sleeves pushed up, he held the shotgun, though bent in half, firmly in his right hand. We saw his breath escape along with the words 'Here Murph.' Dog and wolves stopped short. Again, louder, 'MURPHYÉ COME!!' The black wolf disappeared as quickly as I blinked my eyes. The other two seemed to tip toe slowly into the recesses of the blackness enshrouding the ballpark road. The jovial game of just moments before was interrupted; called on account of man. Their party had come to an end. Murphy looked around in confusion. His playmates proving fickle, he came lumbering towards home. They came again the next night and the night after that. The telephone woke us on that third night. It was four in the morning, and Dad's friend had been watching the wolves dance. He thought we should know our Saint Bernard was once again frolicking on the fringes of the wild side. Again we gathered in the back bedroom. This time they were playing just moments away from our back yard. They were running in circles, one nipping at Murphy's ear, the other at his heels. The black wolf had overcome his shyness. He stood just ten feet from the game, though did not partake. A foreign trickle of something inched down my spine. We were more solemn, in that back bedroom this time, than on the previous nights. I wondered if Murphy was still having fun. He seemed less goofy and more fatigued. Dad rapped on the window. Murphy looked up; the wolves backed away. Wolf eyes met mine. He rapped again. The wolves retreated further. Murphy sauntered out of our line of sight. Dad left the room and called Murphy from the back door. We held our breath. 'Good boy!' we heard, and audible sighs filled the room. The fine line between fear and respect began to etch itself into our innocent souls. He woke us again, on the fourth night. This time he did not round us up into the back bedroom but herded us down into the basement. The brown wolf lay dead on the concrete, our Saint Bernard lay solemnly beside him. Dad had shot the wolf. He wanted us to know. Murphy looked into my eyes, imploring and confused and the red rims around his beautiful brown eyes bespoke of a sadness. I wondered if he had been crying. His massive front paw was placed gently over that of the brown wolf's, his immense head only inches from the wolf's own smaller one. Eight innocent eyes stared into those of our dad's. He too looked as sad as Murphy. My mom wiped her tears away and said nothing. This was Dad's show now and he had his little ducklings to answer to. I remember his words as clearly as if he had spoken them last week. He was our dad and our protector, and in the wisdom of his 32 years, he knew better than us. 'I had to do it, kidsÉI didn't want to.' He looked nervous and upset. 'I wanted the game warden to do it, and maybe do it differently, but we didn't have a lot of choices here. Wolves are not dogs, they are wolves. 'A wolf can only ever be a wolf, and a dog can only ever be a dog. We cannot confuse the twoÉ ever! Wolves are wild animals, and we do not know what they might do. Your mother thinks they wanted Murphy to join the pack and go away with them. I didn't agree with her.' He continued, 'I think our winter is too cold this year, and I think they are hungry. Murphy would not survive a wolf's life, and if the wolves did not kill him for food, some other animal would have.' I leaned down then and touched the wolf's fur. It felt like dog fur but coarser _ rougher. 'Not as soft as Murphy,' I mumbled, and Dad touched my shoulder gently. Murphy whimpered. Dad lifted the wolf's lips and showed us his perfect long front teeth. 'They came too far into town, kids.' My dad continued with his lesson. 'They travel in packs, and it is likely there were more of them hovering on the outskirts of town. 'If we lose our dogs to the wolves we will cry and be sad, but we can't run the risk of losing our kids to the wolves, and that is why I shot the wolf. We can always get another dog, but I can never get another one of you guys.' See 'Silence' on pg. Continued from pg. Silence filled our basement as we watched our Saint Bernard lick the face of the dead brown wolf. Dad's words sunk deep into the crevice that he was slowly carving into our northern upbringing. 'Do you understand?' Dad's voice cracked. I recalled the eyes of the black wolf, and I began to comprehend why the brown wolf lay dead on our basement floor, instead of romping through the winter streets of my small northern hometown, playing wolf games with my dog. We nodded to our daddy. Murphy did not. He stayed by the wolf's side for the hours it took for the game warden to arrive and take the wolf away. The wolves never came back to town, or at least I never knew if they did. I never saw a wolf in the wild again. As I learned more about the habits of the wolves, I realized my mother was wrong, and my father was right. It was highly improbable that they would coerce a domestic dog into joining their pack. They were likely very hungry that viciously cold dark winter. They were cunning, and they were smart, and they were smart enough to leave town when one of their own had been shot. Smart enough to know they had crossed that invisible boundary into mankind's world. And I understood when the line had blurred in my father's mind between fear and respect of our wilderness. If they were stalking our dog, they could just as easily have been stalking his children. He did what he had to do. It was a harsh and rugged land, in a time capsule frozen in memory. We still talk about the night the wolves came to town, and for years afterward would affectionately and albeit a bit sorrowfully call our Murphy 'The Red Wolf.' We never knew if Murphy ever forgave Dad for shooting that wolf. But we did.
