Summary

Buddy, a captive timber wolf who loved humans, lived his life in a conservation facility, unable to roam freely due to his unnatural lack of fear towards people.

Abstract

Buddy was a three-foot-tall timber wolf who loved all humans and played no favorites. Despite his friendly nature, he had to be confined because of his instinct to run towards human voices instead of away from them. Historically, wolves were hunted to near extinction due to human fear and misunderstanding, which led to myths portraying them as dangerous beasts. In reality, wolves are family-oriented animals that mate for life, play, and care for their elderly. Buddy's life in captivity, while tragic, highlighted the capacity for connection between humans and wild animals. His story underscores the importance of wolf conservation efforts and the need to challenge our preconceived notions about wildlife.

Opinions

The author clearly admires wolves and Buddy in particular, emphasizing their misunderstood nature and the injustice of their historical persecution.
There is a strong sentiment against the killing of wolves, with the author expressing sorrow and frustration over the illegal hunting of wolves in national parks under the guise of accidents.
The author holds a reverent view of wolves, describing them in familial terms and drawing parallels to human social structures.
There is a sense of regret and sadness for the way Buddy had to live his life in captivity, despite his loving and joyful personality.
The author appears to believe that humans have a responsibility to protect wolves and other wildlife, as evidenced by the mention of conservation efforts and the endangered species list.
The quote from George Carlin's book and the reference to Rudyard Kipling's poem "The Law of the Jungle" suggest the author's appreciation for the wisdom and symbolic significance of wolves in literature and culture.

There Are Nights When The Wolves Are Silent and Only The Moon Howls

Photos of a wild and beautiful animal who lived his entire life never knowing he was supposed to fear humans

He was three feet tall at the shoulder, six feet long from his coal black nose to the tip of his perpetually wagging tail, and he loved everyone.

He played no favorites. In his mind, all people were his people.

All you had to do was yell Hey Buddy, and he’d come running. Ninety-odd pounds of excitement, tongue wagging, and that crazy tail looking for all the world like it was going to wag itself right off his body.

Didn’t matter who it was. Old faces and young ones, old friends or new. Didn’t matter a lick to him. There was no one he didn’t love.

He was born that way, they said.

Ever since he was a young pup, when they first got the call and went to get him, that’s all he ever wanted. Just to be with people. If he heard human voices, his instinct was to run to them instead of away.

That’s why they had to lock him up.

For the rest of his life.

Buddy was a timber wolf and once upon a time, his ancestors covered two thirds of America and much of Europe.

Then the pilgrims arrived and set a bounty on wolves. A penny a pelt, which is about 40 cents in today’s money. That’s how little they valued the life of a wolf. Religious people, killing off their God’s creatures.

If that wasn’t bad enough, when the federal government was first formed, they agreed that all wolves should be exterminated. Menace to society.

To justify the slaughter, they painted them as snarling beasts that howl at the moon and are driven crazy by the scent of blood. Terrifying creatures that travel in packs of 30 or 50, killing entire herds of game animals.

None of that is true. We made it up. To justify slaughtering them.

We made them the villain of folk and fairy tales. Big bad wolf in the forest, just waiting to eat up three little pigs or a little girl bringing treats to her grandmother. Vile creatures. Except, they’re not.

Wolves travel in small packs of 6–9, with an “alpha couple” at the lead. With humans, we call it a family. Mom, Dad and the kids. Sometimes, there’s an older wolf who can’t hunt anymore. We call them grandma or grandpa.

Wolves mate for life, share food, feed the elders who can’t hunt anymore, bring each other gifts and play with their children.

A wolf researcher once watched a young wolf play “frisbee” with a piece of animal hide for over an hour. Tossing and catching. Over and over. They play. Romp in the snow. Jump and tussle like human children. Hide and seek around trees. And they’re terrified of humans.

Unlike Buddy, their instinct is to hide when they hear us.

Buddy didn’t know to hide.

By 1945 they were almost extinct. We’d killed them all.

Luckily, environmental scientists realized that exterminating the wolves was throwing the food chain out of whack. Wolves were placed on the endangered list and slowly, their numbers started to grow again.

But there are times when humanity is not very humane, and there are people who don’t let the truth get in the way of their beliefs.

I wish I was making this up. I wish it was fiction. But it’s not and I’m so sorry to have to tell you this. Despite that it’s illegal to kill wolves for sport, a tragic and heartbreaking number of wolves die in “accidents” involving a snowmobile or atv. In national parks.

It’s not like those people can walk into a national park packing a gun, but they sure can go in with a snowmobile or an atv. And then “oops,” what a tragic accident. Hahahah. And those people on their snowmobiles?

They don’t stop to wonder if the wolf they just plowed down had a cub or two hiding in the bushes. A cub like Buddy.

I’d call his name and watch him come running. Tongue wagging with joy, he’d leap up for the hugs no one could ever give him, belly fur poking through the bars that separated him from the rest of the world.

Watching that boy surrounded by bars broke my heart over and over but his unbridled joy at being alive always put it back together again.

So I did the only thing that made any sense. I kept going back.

There’s a crazy line in the middle of a George Carlin book that says “There are nights when the wolves are silent and only the moon howls.”

It’s just sitting there, on page 81, plunked down between campy one liners that worked better on stage than they ever will in print.

It’s how I felt when I heard Buddy was gone.

Wolves don’t howl at the moon. It’s not about the moon. It’s about the position of their throat. When wolves tilt their heads that way and howl, they’re calling their family. Buddy’s family never answered.

But that boy finally got his only wish. He died cradled in the arms of a human, who held him, tousled his fur and kissed him goodbye.

I miss him.

Now this is the law of the jungle, as old and as true as the sky, And the wolf that shall keep it may prosper, but the wolf that shall break it must die. As the creeper that girdles the tree trunk, the law runneth forward and back; For the strength of the pack is the wolf, and the strength of the wolf is the pack. — Rudyard Kipling

In case you’re interested: photos of Buddy were taken at an animal conservation facility where Buddy lived most of his thirteen years. Photos were taken with my terribly old, very beloved Nikon DSLR full frame camera. — xo, Linda