The Chosen

I was there to look for a yellow lab. My fiancé and I had recently rented a

house with a large yard and I was ready for a dog. While visiting friends in

northern Arizona I decided to go to the local shelter and take a look.

I walked through the rows of incarcerated dogs, glancing through the steel

bars, not really making eye contact, distracted by the din of barks and yips

like tin cups running back and forth across metal. Not wanting the inmates to

think it was visiting day for all of them, I had just picked up the pace when I

was brought up short. There, sitting calmly amidst the ruckus, was the

largest canine I had ever seen.

I moved to the front of the pen, drawn by his size, his demeanor and good

looks, his aura of contained power. For his part he leaned against the door,

three inches of fur pushed through for petting. He stood up, paws against my

upraised hands, slender cold nose poking my forehead. I shook myself and

stepped back. I was here to look for a yellow lab. I turned and walked away,

feeling his eyes watching me down the length of the corridor. I moved to the

next row, other furry bodies wiggling and squirming for attention. I turned

the corner and headed back to the calm in the center of the storm. Once

again he rubbed against the pen, stretched and flexed 120 lbs of muscle,

stood up, looked me in the eye … and smiled.

A kennel worker sauntered by, keys jangling, belt creaking, a big stick

slapping against his thigh. The words, “Can I take him out” just popped out

of my mouth. I was almost as surprised as he was. “Well O.K.” he replied

cautiously, “but he hasn’t been walked in a week. This monster is really

strong; you have to hold on tight because he’s gonna bolt.” The guard

clipped a leash on through the bars, opened the door just a crack and handed

the leash to me. I braced my feet. I wrapped the leash around my hand three

times. I squared my shoulders, gritted my teeth and nodded. The guard

opened the door all the way and jumped back. There was about a two second

pause, where I swore a collective hush fell over the whole room. And then

the “beast” on the other end of the rope moved slowly out of his cage, sat

down, leaned his whole weight against my body and looked up at me … and

smiled.

Oh no,no,no. I was here for a yellow lab. I handed him back to his keeper

and once again walked away. I sat down. At this point the self talk began, the

part where my head lawyers up and starts presenting logical arguments to my

heart. I was driving my brand new Thunderbird. This trip was its maiden

voyage. It still had that new car smell, not a mark on it. What would he do to

the interior? Was my fence strong enough? What would my fiancé say? Oh no,

this was not even close to a yellow lab. Case closed.

I looked up just as a young couple walked by to look at “the big guy.” They cooed

and clicked. They whistled and cajoled. They offered a treat and reached through

the bars to their shoulders. “The big guy” turned around, paced to the very rear

of his cage, turned his back and laid down. No amount of coaxing would convince

him to even lift his head to look at them.

Oh no, no, no, my head objected, but it was too late. My heart’s right to the

pursuit of happiness won over the pursuit for a yellow lab. As the couple

walked off muttering, I went to his door, just to be sure. He ran over,

jumped up and licked my face. He smiled. He had great closing arguments. I

went to the front counter and confirmed what I already knew. He was a

wolf/dog and was on death row. He was scheduled to be put down in two days.

I signed the necessary paperwork and posted his bail. I walked back to tell him

what he already knew. I would be back to get him in the morning.

The next day I bought a blanket for the back seat, called my fiancé to tell

him I was bringing home a surprise and went to pick up my not-a-yellowlab.

He walked calmly to my shiny black car, sniffed several times, jumped

in the backseat and lay down. He did not move a muscle for the entire eight

hour trip back home.

When I arrived at the house, Craig, my 200 lb, bodybuilding boyfriend,

opened the door. He was no match for the flying furry body that slammed

him chest high, knocked him flat on his back, straddled him and licked his

face over and over. “I take it this is my surprise,” Craig gasped. “You know,

this is not a lab.”

Winslow lived to be fifteen and became the alpha male of a pack of nine

other wolves and wolfdogs. He lived a rich and full life packed with

adventures, teaching me a lot along the way. The most frequently asked

question I hear is,” How did you ever get started rescuing wolves?’’ I look

them in the eye … and smile. I tell them I never intended to have a wolf

refuge. I tell them I was chosen.

by Paula Watson