Shaun Ellis - The Man Who Lives with Wolves

He might make me close my eyes and tell him what I could hear; I’d thought it was quiet until my eyes were closed and then there would be such a deafening noise—birds singing and chattering, insects rubbing their legs, small mammals scurrying, even sheep bleating in the distance or a cow coughing three fields away—so many different sounds and songs. Or we’d investigate a rabbit burrow for signs of activity or identify the prints left by deer and other animals on the muddy tracks. He made every outing an adventure, made every discovery exciting. I loved listening to him talk, hearing him explain, in his rich Norfolk accent, which birds preferred which berries, or why foxes killed more than they could eat or carry away; and sometimes, if I asked, he would talk about himself and about his childhood and how different life had been when he was my age, when there were no modern conveniences like refrigerators, tractors, or electricity; when they’d harvested with scythes and milked the cows by hand.

When we’d reach our destination, he would never take me inside with him. He would leave me to wait with the dogs a little way off while he went to see whomever he had come to visit. Sometimes he would be gone for several hours while he and his friend shared a bottle or two of stout, but I had been taught to wait patiently. It would never have crossed my mind to complain; I adored this man and I never questioned his authority, enjoying nothing more than his approval. Besides, I knew that no matter how long he was gone, he would always come back. He would suddenly appear, saying, “Come on then, boy,” and I’d slip my hand into his great rough paw. We’d retrace our steps and find new things to look at and talk about on our way home.

One day we made just such a trip to choose my puppy. My grandfather and the farmer greeted each other warmly, like long-lost friends, and disappeared together into a barn, where mother and pups were kenneled, leaving me alone in the farmyard. “Wait there, boy,” he said. “I won’t be long.” And so without question, despite the excitement and my impatience to see the litter, I found myself a comfortable spot and sat down to wait.

Suddenly I heard the barn door creak as a gust of wind took it, and a large dog escaped through the open gap and came charging toward me, barking ferociously, ears flat against its head. I knew enough to know that this was not a friendly greeting. I sat still, kept my hands by my side, and waited; it didn’t occur to me to be frightened. Bess and the farm dogs had often charged at me and however aggressive they sounded in a pack, I always held my ground and once they had sniffed me, they were never anything but friendly. The dog’s hackles were raised, her tail was erect, and she was growling as she reached me, her teeth bared. I didn’t move. I let her sniff my legs, feet, hands, and head. Soon the growling stopped and I turned my hands over to expose the palms, which smelled of the cheese sandwich I’d eaten during our walk. She licked them and looked up at my face with soft eyes. I started to scratch the long fur under her chin, which she obviously enjoyed because she sat down and leaned her body into mine, allowing me to rub the rest of her silky body.

The barn door creaked again and as my grandfather and the farmer emerged, the dog by my side growled deeply, gave a sharp bark, and charged the two men. I guessed she was the mother of the pups, and from the panic that ensued, I gathered she did not welcome visitors. The farmer shouted angrily at her, “Get in that barn, now!” The dog lowered her body and slunk back toward me. “Keep still, boy,” warned the farmer. “Don’t move and she won’t hurt you.” But as he ran over toward me, yelling at the dog to get back to the barn, it was clear he didn’t trust the animal an inch. By the time he reached me, the dog had tucked her frightened, shaking body into mine and, ignoring his command to stay still, I had started scratching her again while speaking softly to her.

“Well, bless my soul. Come and have a look at this,” said the farmer, cap in his hand as he scratched his head in disbelief. “I’ve never seen anything like it. No one has ever been able to get near that bitch. The only reason I keep her is because she’s so good with the sheep, but she’s always been a real liability with strangers.”

“Ma always said the boy has some sort of gift with dogs,” said my grandfather, still keeping a safe distance. “She’ll swear he knows what they say.”

Not trusting the dog to remain calm, the farmer shut her up while we went into the barn for me to choose one of the puppies. They were fenced in behind straw bales—five in all, four girls and a boy—curled up in one big bundle of black, brown, and white fur. They were lurchers, a greyhound cross breed, so would be good hunters. I knew I wanted a female; my grandfather had taught me that bitches were far better than dogs at providing for their families, and I wanted this dog to earn her keep.

Tied on the end of a length of bailing twine was a rabbit’s foot that the farmer dangled in front of the bundle while he squeaked as an alarmed rabbit might. Immediately the sleeping pups’ ears went up and they looked around. When they spotted the foot dangling within their reach, they sprang to life and, sure enough, it was the bitches that were there first, two of them ahead of the others. It was one of those two that I chose to take. I picked her up and held her in my arms, and as my grandfather handed over a couple of large bottles of light ale in payment, I could just hear, over the puppy’s frantic licking, the farmer say, “The boy’s right, you know. She’s the one I’d’ve picked.

“Away you go, boy,” said the farmer with a cheery smile. “Take care of her.”

“Don’t worry, sir,” I said, grinning from ear to ear, the puppy warm and wriggly in my arms. “I’ll take care of her.”

I named her Whiskey and in the next thirteen years, she scarcely left my side.

The English countryside is not an obvious place for a child to develop a passion for wolves, and it wasn’t immediate, but animals have been in my life for as long as I can remember.

One summer’s evening my mother came home from work. She had been picking carrots or some other vegetable out of the ground all day and was exhausted. “There’s a job waiting for you in there,” said my grandfather. “Shaun’s been busy again.” She opened the door and recoiled in horror. Frogs were hopping, croaking, and climbing over every surface in the room. I had spent my afternoon collecting them from the pond up the road, steadfastly walking back and forth with a bucket, and the room was alive with frogs. And I spent that evening going back and forth with the bucket once again, putting them all back.

Another time she went into the coal shed, after night had fallen, to get some fuel for the fire and screamed as five black chickens started flapping and squawking. I had found them on my travels across the fields—and the very next morning I was dispatched to take them back.

And then there was the time I brought home a Muscovy duck, complete with its nest filled with eggs. My mother was too scared to touch the duck—an ugly brute, she called it—so I carried the duck under my arm while she carried the nest and the eggs back to the pond, where we reinstated the whole lot among the reeds. My poor mother; I was always giving her heart failure, coming home with some creature that I’d find a home for somewhere about the house.

I grew up on the land and I was fascinated by the natural world. There was no money for outings, treats, or toys when I was a child; the hedgerows, fields, and forests were my playground, and the dogs were my companions. I roamed for hours; I explored the thickets for bird nests, I knew when rabbits had young, I watched hares boxing in the springtime, I knew where to look for fox dens and badger setts. I could recognize owls in flight and knew the difference between kestrels and sparrow hawks. I couldn’t have crossed a busy London street or found my way around a subway at the age of ten—and to be honest, I still feel uneasy in big cities in my forties—but there was not a lot I didn’t know about the wildlife on my doorstep.