With all her big brothers and sisters
off to school, our ranch became a
lonely place for our three-year-old
daughter, Becky. She longed for
playmates. Cattle and horses were too
big to cuddle and farm machinery
dangerous for a child so small. We
promised to buy her a puppy but in the
meantime, "pretend" puppies popped up
nearly every day.

I had just finished washing the lunch
dishes when the screen door slammed and
Becky rushed in, cheeks flushed with
excitement. "Mama!" she cried. "Come
see my new doggy! I gave him water two
times already. He's so thirsty!"
I sighed. Another of Becky's imaginary
dogs.

"Please come, Mama." She tugged at
my jeans, her brown eyes pleading,
"He's crying---and he can't walk!"

"Can't walk?" Now that was a twist.
All her previous make-believe dogs
could do marvelous things. One balanced
a ball on the end of its nose. Another
dug a hole that went all the way through
the earth and fell out on a star on the
other side. Still another danced on a
tightrope. Why suddenly a dog that
couldn't walk?

"All right, honey," I said. By the time
I tried to follow her, Becky had already
disappeared into the mesquite. "Where are
you?" I called. "Over here by the oak
stump. Hurry, Mama!"

I parted the thorny branches and raised
my hand against the glare of the Arizona
sun. A numbing chill gripped me. There
she was, sitting on her heels, toes dug
firmly in the sand, and cradled in her
lap was the unmistakable head of a wolf!
Beyond its head rose massive black
shoulders. The rest of the body lay
completely hidden inside the hollow
stump of a fallen oak.

"Becky," My mouth felt dry. "Don't
move." I stepped closer. Pale-yellow
eyes narrowed. Black lips tightened,
exposing double sets of two-inch fangs.
Suddenly the wolf trembled. Its teeth
clacked, and a piteous whine rose from
its throat.

"It's all right, boy," Becky crooned.
"Don't be afraid. That's my mama, and
she loves you, too."

Then the unbelievable happened. As
her tiny hands stroked the great
shaggy head, I heard the gentle
thump, thump, thumping of the
wolf's tail from deep inside the
stump. What was wrong with
the animal? I wondered. Why couldn't
he get up? I couldn't tell. Nor
did I dare to step any closer. I
glanced at the empty water bowl.
My memory flashed back to the five
skunks that last week had torn the
burlap from a leaking pipe in a
frenzied effort to reach water
during the final agonies of rabies.
Of course! Rabies! Warning signs
had been posted all over the county,
and hadn't Becky said, "He's so
thirsty?" I had to get Becky away.
"Honey." My throat tightened.
"Put his head down and
come to Mama. We'll go find help."

Reluctantly, Becky got up and kissed
the wolf on the nose before she walked
slowly into my outstrectched arms. Sad
yellow eyes followed her. Then the
wolf's head sank to the ground. With
Becky safe in my arms, I ran to the
barns where Brian, one of our cowhands,
was saddling up to check heifers in
the north pasture. "Brian! Come quickly.
Becky found a wolf in the oak stump near
the wash! I think it has rabies!"

"I'll be there in a jiffy," he said as
I hurried back to the house, anxious to
put Becky down for her nap. I didn't
want her to see Brian come out of the
bunkhouse. I knew he'd have a gun.

"But I want to give my doggy his
water," she cried. I kissed her and
gave her some stuffed animals to play
with. "Honey, let Mom and Brian take
care of him for now," I said.
Moments later, I reached the oak stump.
Brian stood looking down at the beast.
"It's a Mexican lobo, all right."
he said, "and a big one!" The wolf
whined. Then we both caught the smell
of gangrene.

"Whew! It's not rabies," Brian said.
"But he's sure hurt real bad. Don't
you think it's best I put him out of
his misery?"

The world "yes" was on my lips, when
Becky emerged from the bushes. "Is
Brian going to make him well, Mama?"
She hauled the animal's head onto her
lap once more, and buried her face in
the coarse, dark fur. This time I
wasn't the only one who heard the
thumping of the lobo's tail.

That afternoon my husband, Bill, and
our veterinarian came to see the wolf.
Observing the trust the animal had
in our child, Doc said to me,
"Suppose you let Becky and me tend
to this fella together." Minutes
later, as child and vet reassured the
stricken beast, the hypodermic found
its mark. The yellow eyes closed.

"He's asleep now," said the vet.
"Give me a hand here, Bill." They
hauled the massive body out of the
stump. The animal must have been
over five feet long and well over
one-hundred pounds. The hip and leg
had been mutilated by bullets. Doc
did what he had to in order to clean
the wound and then gave the patient a
dose of penicillin. Next day he
returned and inserted a metal rod to
replace the missing bone.

"Well, it looks like you've got
yourselves a Mexican lobo," Doc said.
"He looks to be about three years old,
and even as pups, they don't tame real
easy. I"m amazed at the way this big
fella took to your little gal. But
often there's something that goes on
between children and animals that we
grownups don't understand."

Becky named the wolf Ralph and
carried food and water to the stump
every day. Ralph's recovery was
not easy. For three months he dragged
his injured hindquarters by clawing
the earth with his front paws.
From the way he lowered his eyelids
when we massaged the atrophied limbs,
we knew he endured excruciating pain,
but not once did he ever try to
bite the hands of those who
cared for him.

Four months to the day, Ralph
finally stood unaided. His huge frame
shook as long-unused muscles were
activated. Bill and I patted and
praised him. But it was Becky to
whom he turned for a gentle word, a
kiss or a smile. He responded to
these gestures of love by swinging
his busy tail like a pendulum.

As his strength grew, Ralph
followed Becky all over the ranch.
Together they roamed the desert
pastures, the golden-haired child
often stooping low, sharing with the
great lame wolf whispered secrets of
nature's wonders. When evening came,
he returned like a silent shadow to
his hollow stump that had surely
become his special place. As time
went on, although he lived primarily
in the brush, the habits of this timid
creature endeared him more and more
to all of us.

His reaction to people other than
our family was yet another story.
Strangers terrified him, yet his
affection for and protectiveness of
Becky brought him out of the desert
and fields at the sight of every
unknown pickup or car. Occasionally
he'd approach, lips taut, exposing a
nervous smile full of chattering
teeth. More often he'd simply pace
and finally skulk off to his tree
stump, perhaps to worry alone.

Becky's first day of school was
sad for Ralph. After the bus left, he
refused to return to the yard.
Instead, he lay by the side of the
road and waited. When Becky returned,
he limped and tottered in wild, joyous
circles around her. This welcoming
ritual persisted throughout her
school years.

Although Ralph seemed happy on the
ranch, he disappeared into the
surrounding deserts and mountains
for several weeks during the spring
mating season, leaving us to worry
about his safety. This was calving
season, and fellow ranchers watched
for coyotes, cougars, wild dogs and,
of course, the lone wolf. But Ralph
was lucky. During Ralph's twelve
years on our ranch, his habits
remained unchanged. Always keeping
his distance, he tolerated other
pets and endured the activities of
our busy family, but his love for
Becky never wavered.

Then the spring came when our
neighbor told us he'd shot and
killed a she-wolf and grazed her
mate, who had been running with her.
Sure enough, Ralph returned home
with another bullet wound. Becky,
nearly fifteen years old now, sat
with Ralph's head resting on her lap.
He, too, must have been about
fifteen and was gray with age. As Bill
removed the bullet, my memory raced
back through the years. Once again
I saw a chubby three-year-old girl
stroking the head of a huge black
wolf and heard a small voice
murmuring, "It's all right, boy.
Don't be afraid. That's my mama,
and she loves you, too."

Although the wound wasn't serious,
this time Ralph didn't get well.
Precious pounds fell away. The once
luxurious fur turned dull and dry,
and his trips to the yard in search
of Becky's companionship ceased.
All day long he rested quietly.
But when night fell, old and stiff
as he was, he disappeared into
the desert and surrounding hills.
By dawn his food was gone.

The morning came when we found him
dead. The yellow eyes were closed.
Stretched out in front of the oak
stump, he appeared but a shadow of
the proud beast he once had been.
A lump in my throat choked me as I
watched Becky stroke his shaggy neck,
tears streaming down her face.
"I'll miss him so," she cried.

Then as I covered him with a
blanket, we were startled by a strange
rustling sound from inside the stump.
Becky looked inside. Two tiny yellow
eyes peered back and puppy fangs
glinted in the semi-darkness.
Ralph's pup!
Had a dying instinct told him his
motherless offspring would be safe
here, as he had been, with those
who loved him? Hot tears spilled
on baby fur as Becky gathered the
trembling bundle in her arms.