Wolf, Wildlife Refuge

 

Wolf, Wildlife Refuge

Gandy the tawny wolf picks me
from a crowd of gawkers at the fence,
leans in sniffing, studying. Gus the keeper says
Gandy’s keying on your aftershave.
Nope. I’m gray-bearded, unshaven.

I ask if Gandy is an old wolf.
You’re very perceptive, Gus says.
Nope. Saw it in his movements. Stiff like mine.

I seem the only one engaging Gus or Gandy
while spectators aim phones, capturing us
in digital cages.

Gus says wolves can smell cancer or arthritis,
helps them select which moose
to cull from the herd.

Gus says good old Gandy still acts like
the alpha wolf, hates competition.
They keep him penned separately
so no one gets mauled.

Folks standing near me edge away.
Gandy steps to the fence.
From his throat, a low growl.
His snout is like an anvil.
My joints ache.
And Gandy stares at me. Hard.

……

From my book Random Saints
First published in Red Eft Review—thank you editor Corey Cook.
photo by Stafford Green