THE NEWCOMER
1 The dog's yellow eyes bored into mine as its lips parted and wrinkled. The dog then drew back into a silent snarl, showing its great fangs and the moist cavern of its mouth. He was, without doubt, the most ill kept, and most beaten up dog that I had ever seen. His entire bearing registered threat, but it was the almond-shaped, wolf eyes that most clearly signalled his aggressiveness. This dog, was wild and would not hesitate to go for the throat.
2 He stood, his great paws planted on the bottom of the truck box, holding my eyes where another dog would have averted my glance. While we stared at each other, Alfred, the Ojibway Indian who hoped to sell the wolf dog to me, hovered nearby, a thick club in his hand.
3 I needed a lead dog for my team, but this monster, a creature more of a wolf than a dog, who had learned early to hate man, spelled trouble. No, he was not for me. I had noted the heavy chain which secured him in the back of the pickup truck and the open cut on his left shoulder. I paused to have a closer look, being careful not to get within reach of those strong white teeth. However, there was something about the animal that touched me. Half starved and evidently brutalised since puppy-hood, yet the dog had dignity, and his strength showed in every respect.
4 We faced each other for some time in mutual appraisal. Then I spoke to him as though he were another person. "You're a wild-looking dog, but I think I like your looks." At the sound of my voice, the dog pricked up his ears and raised his tail slightly. It seemed to me there was the merest nuance of a wag in the movement. I fervently hoped so, because by now I was determined to buy him, albeit against my better judgement. I turned to Alfred and prepared to drive a hard bargain. "He's not pretty, that's for sure.... and he looks as though he'd rather tear my throat out than lift his leg in greeting."
5 "He's a good dog," Alfred interrupted. "You carry a club, he's okay. He knows what a club's for that dog." "How much?" I asked bluntly. Alfred, whom I had helped out of a problem in early summer and who had since become a friend, was anxious to turn the dog into cash. "Would fifteen dollars be too much?" he asked.
6 I offered him twenty dollars, but I attached one condition: he was to remove the dog from the truck and lead him to an unused shed on my property. It was obvious that a club would be needed to get him there, and the dog was used to such treatment from the Indian. I hoped that if he never saw a club in my hand, I could win him over more quickly.
7 Alfred had already told me that the dog was nearly three years old. His grandmother had mated with a timber wolf. One of her litter, who was to become the big dog's father, was bred to another half wolf. The Lupine heritage showed in the dog's size, looks, and the way that he moved: fluidly and cat-like. Until I actually saw him, I suspected the Ojibway had been exaggerating in the hope of arousing my interest. I knew now that he had underplayed the dog's wolfishness for fear I might not want him.
8 At my homestead, Alfred got the animal to the very edge of the truck's tailgate, jumped to the ground, and pulled the dog with him, turning quickly to threaten him even more vigorously with the club. In the shed, I watched to make sure he fastened the animal securely to a thick wooden upright pole. Then, we went out and closed the door. As we walked away, I could hear the prisoner lunging at his chain. The Indian was anxious to leave and spend some of his wealth. This suited me; I wanted to feed the dog and spend a little time with him. If ever an animal needed a friend, it was this one.
9 My three other dogs were loose in the hay barn, and they knew instantly that a stranger had arrived, no doubt hearing his growls and certainly scenting his formidable rankness. As I waved Alfred off, the uproar from the barn was clamourous: the males howled, and the collie bitch barked hysterically. They could not be pacified until I gave them an extra feed of dog meal. I proceeded to give the new dog his share of the meal, and unfortunately, maybe out of his mistrust of me, he lunged and bit my arm.
10 That night of the big dog's arrival, I was not at all sure I had found what I was looking for. Washing up one-handed after supper, feeling the throb of the bite, I was most conscious of the work that lay ahead: the winter firewood to cut, a fowl run to build, then a winter of cutting logs to sell to the distant city paper mill. That was my only immediate source of revenue, and the income was already half committed to pay for traplines, which I hoped would furnish spring and summer income after the fur was marketed. To that, had been added the need to tame the wild dog.
11 Whilst milking the cow and thinking about the scheme, I suddenly realised that the new dog had no name. Presently, the white, frothy milk suggested one. I thought of snow, and mountains in the Far North. Although I had not been to the Yukon territory, the photographs I had seen came to mind. 'Yukon', .... the name suited him; he was as wild as the North and as rugged as the mountains. Sometime later, I called Sussie, stopped Rocky and Sooner from sneaking out of the barn behind her, and led the collie to the shed. Sniffing intently while I opened the door, she eagerly popped into the building.
12 By the time I followed, the two were nose to nose, Sussie showing in her stance that she was not going to fall over this scruffy stranger, but coy enough to invite his attention. Yukon was holding himself tall, tail up high, wagging vigorously, ears forward, and an inane smile on his face. He did not glance in my direction, but now pranced as well as his chain would allow, darting forward, only to be brought up short. Sussie, the flirt, backed away, wagging her tail sedately. Yukon whined, straining at the chain until he actually coughed.
13 It was a cue for me to now properly introduce Yukon to the other dogs, confining my participation to opening the barn door. I was thrust aside as he dashed in with his tail held high. I followed but found myself ignored. In the barn, there was a clear demonstration of superiority as he advertised his desire to respond to any challenge.
14 The other three dogs faced the newcomer. Susie was wagging her tail, confirming her earlier allegiance to Yukon. Sooner, the smallest of the three males, stood with drooping tail and ears back. His easy-going nature wanted no part of a leadership trial. Rocky was a different kind of dog. Chunky and well muscled, he was used to dominating the others. He was not about to allow a newcomer to strip him of his power. Sussie and Sooner edged away from the 'centre ring.' The rivals took up a stance some distance apart, lips peeled back, hackles raised. I stood stock-still. There was no doubt who the victor would be. Even though he was not in prime condition, the wolf dog was a fearful creature that outweighed Rocky by a good twenty kilogrammes.
15 'Would Yukon kill Rocky if he were not stopped?' I thought to myself. I decided that I would have to do something. Then it was too late. Even as Rocky took one step forward, Yukon surged swiftly ahead and smashed his big chest into Rocky's right shoulder, a tremendous, battering blow that flung the malamute up against the barn wall with a loud thud. It was simple, but effective, calculated to end the fight before it began.
16 However, Rocky was not going to relinquish his leadership quite so easily. Snarling viciously, he jumped to his feet and rushed at Yukon, seeking to fasten his teeth on the big dog's throat. He came closer, but when his jaws snapped shut, the bite managed only to clip a tuft of hair from the wolf dog's shoulder. Then Yukon ducked under the other's jaws and suddenly reared upward, throwing Rocky back off his feet. By the time he hit the floor, Yukon was already straddling him, reaching with those enormously powerful jaws to take hold of the other dog's neck. He held on, growling deeply, pinning Rocky down.
17 At first, Rocky growled back, but when he could not break the hold on his neck, his growls became hysterical yelps. In the end, the malamute ceased to struggle and became silent.
18 I realised that Yukon did not intend to kill. I was not then aware of the built-in, inhibitory factors that prevent animals of the same species from destroying each other: natural safeguards programmed into every species with the exception of our own.
19 Yukon released his hold slowly and shifted his position, no longer astride his opponent. He, too, stopped growling, but he kept his head down, jaws open, and eyes fixed on the other's face. At this, Rocky lifted his back leg: a canine sign of surrender. He made doubly sure that the new leader would understand this when he turned and offered his throat as a target: the supreme gesture of surrender. Yukon was appeased. Without further ado, he cast one long and challenging glance around the barn and walked to Sooner, who was doing his best to hide between my legs.
20 Satisfied, Yukon then turned to Sussie, and the two spent some moments licking each other and wagging their tails before the new leader walked casually to me and nuzzled my hand. "Okay, you're the boss now. How about a walk?" I stressed the last word, knowing that they all recognised its meaning. A second or two later, I was surrounded by a press of dogs, and Yukon lost some of his dignity as he led the pack to the door.
Adapted from: Reader's Digest Condensed Books, 1st Edition, The North Runner, Published by the Reader's Digest Association, 1979, Britain. ISBN 0620046821.