I has just finished washing the lunch dishes when the screen door slammed and Becky, my three-year-old, rushed in. “Mommy!” she cried. “Come and see my new doggy! I gave him water two times already. He’s so thirsty!

  I sighed. Another of Becky’s imaginary dogs. After our old dog died, our remote home - Singing Valley Ranch in Sonoita, Arizona - had become a lonely place for Becky. We planned to buy a puppy, but in the meantime “pretend” puppies popped up everywhere. 

  “Please come, Mommy,” Becky said, her brown eyes enormous. “He’s crying, and he can’t walk.”

  Now, that was a twist. All her previous make-believe dogs could do marvellous tricks. Why suddenly a dog that couldn’t walk?

  “All right, honey,” I said. But Becky had disappeared into the mesquite by the time I followed.

  “Over here by the oak stump. Hurry, Mommy!” she called. I parted the thorny branches and raised my hand to shade my eyes from the desert sun. A numbing chill gripped me. 

  There she was, sitting on her heels, and cradled in her lap was the unmistakable her of a wolf. Beyond the head rose massive black shoulders. The rest of the body lay completely hidden inside the hollow stop of a fallen oak tree. 

  “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; a piteous whine rose from his throat.

  “It’s awright, boy,” crooned Becky. “Don’t be afraid. That’s my Mummy, 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? Why couldn’t he get up? Of course! Rabies! Hadn’t Becky said, “He’s so thirsty”? My memory flashed back to the five skunks who last week had torn the burlap from around a leaking pipe in a frenzied effort to reach water during the final agonies of rabies. 

  I had to get Becky away. “Honey.” My throat tightened. “Put his head down and come to Mummy. We’ll go find help.” 

  Becky got up, kissed the wolf on the nose and walked slowly to my outstretched arms. Sad yellow eyes followed her. Then the wolf’s head sank to the ground.

  With Becky safe in my arms, I ran to my car parked by the house and sped to the barns where Jake, one of my cowhands, was saddling up. 

  “Jake. Come quickly. Becky found a wolf in the oak stump near the wash. I think it has rabies.”

  Back at the house I put my tearful child down for her nap. “But I want to give my doggy his water,” she cried. 

  I kissed her and gave her some stuffed animals to play with. “Let Mummy and Jake take care of him for now,” I said.

  Moments later I reached the oak stump. “It’s a Mexican Lobo, alright,” Jake said, “and a big one!” The wolf whined, and we both caught the smell of gangrene.

  “Whew! It’s not rabies,” Jake said. “But he’s sure hurt bad. Shall I put him out of his misery?” 

  The word “yes” was on my lips, but never spoken. Becky emerged from the bushes. “Is Jake going to make him well, Mummy?” She hauled the beast’s head into her lap once more. She buried her face in the coarse, dark fur.         This time I wasn’t the only one who heard the thumping echo 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 pulled the massive body out of the stump. The animal must have been five and a half feet long, and well over one hundred pounds. The hip and leg had been mutilated by bullets. Doc peeled away the rotten flesh. He dug out bone splinters, cleaned the wound, and gave the wolf a dose of penicillin. Next day he returned and inserted a metal rod, replacing the missing bone. 

  “Well, it looks like you’ve got yourselves a Mexican Lobo,” Doc said. “They don’t tame real easy. I’m amazed at the way this fella took to your little gal.” 

  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 later, 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 great bushy 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 would return like a silent shadow to his hollow stump. 

  As he wandered the ranch, Ralph never chased the cattle. However, his excessive drooling when I let my chickens run loose prompted Bill to build a fenced-in poultry yard. 

  And what a watchdog Ralph was! Feral dogs and coyotes became only memories at Singing Valley Ranch. Ralph was king. 

  Becky’s first day of school was sad for Ralph. When 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 trotted in wild, joyous circles around her. This welcoming ritual remained unchanged throughout her school years. 

  Although Ralph seemed happy on the ranch, he disappeared into the Santa Catalina 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 the coyote, the cougar, and, of course, the lone wolf. But Ralph was lucky.

  Year after year we wondered about his mate and the pups he undoubtedly sired. We learned that the wolf returns to his mate to help feed the young. We wondered how much of Ralph’s own food he dragged off to his hidden family. Each June, Becky gave him extra food because he grew so thin.

  During Ralph’s twelve years on our ranch, the habits of his life became rituals, and his love for our child never wavered. At last the spring came when he returned home with another bullet wound. The day after Ralph’s injury, some ranchers whose land bordered ours told us they’d killed a big she-wolf. The mate had been shot at also, but he kept running.

  Becky was fifteen years old now. She sat with Ralph’s head resting on her lap. He, too, must have been about fifteen, and was grey with age. As Bill removed the bullet, my memories spun back through the years. Once again I saw a chubby three-year-old stroking the head of a huge black wolf. 

  The wound wasn’t serious, but Ralph didn’t get well. Precious pounds fell away, and his trips to the yard in search of Becky’s loving companionship ceased. All day long he rested quietly. But when night fell, old and stiff as he was, he disappeared into the hills. And each morning his food was gone.

  The day came when we found him dead in front of the oak stump. The yellow eyes were closed. 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. 

  As I covered Ralph 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! The motherless pup he had tried to care for alone.

  Had a dying instinct told Ralph his 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. 

  “It’s alright . . . little . . . Ralphie,” Becky murmured. “Don’t be afraid. That’s my Mum, and she loves you, too.”

  Did I hear a distant echo then? A gentle thump, thump, thumping - the tail of the Lobo?

​

​