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    Raising Wolves
    Raising Wolves
    Raising Wolves
    Ebook106 pages1 hour

    Raising Wolves

    By Jeanne Drewrey

    ()

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    About this ebook

    This journey began when my husband asked me to go get his jacket from the car. Just as I put my hand on the car door, I saw a small white mound of something lying on his jacket in the passenger seat. In wonderment, I realized that mound was a white Artic wolf pup. That day began a love affair with a white ghost of the Artic.

    That same day began our education of what it's like to live with an extremely intelligent, affectionate, and energetic Canis lupus arctos.

    I found the acceptance and warmth I craved from animals, unsuccessfully trying to adopt every stray that came along.

    Miyaca got into their third fight in two days, snarling and slashing at each other with bared fangs. They produced no blood.

    I lost Mani today; the worst day I've spent. Maybe an ad will get her back; I pray and pray. I feel low, real low.

    Wolf haters didn't bother to disguise their feelings; usually, they were men. Never overt in their dislike, they made it clear with stony expressions and unblinking stares. I gave as good as I got.

    One time we took Miyaca to Yellowstone National Park, stopping to take pictures of a mother moose and her baby. We watched from the motorhome as people crowded around the moose, cameras clicking. Someone shouted, "There's a wolf." Everyone turned and started taking pictures of Miyaca the White Artic Wolf.

    Many questions were asked about the wolf, and we answered all questions.

    LanguageEnglish
    PublisherChristian Faith Publishing, Inc.
    Release dateDec 3, 2024
    ISBN9798895266151
    Raising Wolves

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      Book preview

      Raising Wolves - Jeanne Drewrey

      cover.jpg

      Raising Wolves

      Jeanne Drewrey

      ISBN 979-8-89526-614-4 (paperback)

      ISBN 979-8-89526-615-1 (digital)

      Copyright © 2024 by Jeanne Drewrey

      All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, distributed, or transmitted in any form or by any means, including photocopying, recording, or other electronic or mechanical methods without the prior written permission of the publisher. For permission requests, solicit the publisher via the address below.

      Christian Faith Publishing

      832 Park Avenue

      Meadville, PA 16335

      www.christianfaithpublishing.com

      Printed in the United States of America

      Table of Contents

      About the Author

      My grandmother came from a long-ago era of luxury that only wealth can make available. She and Grandpa owned land and businesses. Grandma never had to dress herself; she had her own personal handmaiden. Then came the depression, and they lost everything except some silver and household furnishings. Grandpa went to work, eventually retiring as Chief of Police. They were still the social King and Queen of our little town, at least Grandma was with her clubs and cliques. Then their son and his wife, my parents, died in a car accident, and they inherited my sisters and me.

      By then the beautiful furniture was worn but spotless, as was the flooring in our old rented house. The cherry and birdseye maple furniture were polished to a deep sheen, and every Sunday, the drop leaf table was covered with a fine linen cloth, upon which was arranged bone china, properly folded linen napkins, and delicate crystal goblets.

      Every Saturday we, little girls, laboriously polished silver tea sets and ornate silverware; to do it all again the next Saturday so a proper table could be set on the Sabbath. Grandma said it was for our benefit, to learn to be socially correct. But I always thought Grandma made us suffer so she could relive, however fleeting, her lost, genteel life. We, little girls, were her reluctant and complaining disciples.

      Ours was not a nurturing household. What affection there came from my oldest sister, who was all of ten years old. And sometimes Grandpa let us sit on his lap. Not surprisingly, I found acceptance and the warmth I craved—from animals, unsuccessfully trying to adopt every stray that came along.

      A traditional methodist, Grandma felt that Catholics and Pollocks (Polish) were socially and spiritually inferior. Same for Mexicans (There weren't any blacks in our small midwestern town). My best friends in school were mostly Polish Catholics. Their families were openly affectionate and kind. The moms were fabulous cooks. I did my best to find the faults that Grandma hinted at but couldn't. Grandma had a plaque hanging on the porch wall. It said, There is so much bad in the best of us and so much good in the worst of us that it hardly behooves any of us to talk about the rest of us. But Grandma and her club cronies did countless hatchet jobs on everyone, including each other. I spent many stolen moments in the homes of my Polish and Catholic friends where I was warmly accepted, as I was a carefree, clumsy, affectionate tomboy.

      The discrepancies between them (family-oriented, affectionate) and my family (autocratic, belittling) propelled me into full-blown, adolescent rebellion. I became angry and argumentative. I constantly challenged the unrelenting rigidness and the disparities of social class according to Grandma—all the things I couldn't understand.

      One afternoon I was called in from a neighborhood game. A suitcase was packed and by the living room door. Some lady was waiting in a health-and-welfare car. Comprehension came slowly as I stood on the porch. The shock was huge. I was condemned as incorrigible and shunted off to a series of foster homes, never to be with my sisters again.

      My heart would have been pure lead had it not been for one foster home that had a horse. It was a young, unbroken stallion. Perhaps his spirited need to be free matched mine, in any case, my fourteen-year-old heart fell in love with him, and I spent the next year or so being bitten, bucked off, and kicked. Eventually, we settled into a tenuous relationship. Before either of us was seriously damaged, the stallion let me ride him confidently, often bareback with only his mane to grip. We raced across the meadows, drinking in the sunshine, free as air.

      After school, I hopped off the school bus, changed into riding clothes, and headed for the barn. Duke, the horse, wasn't there nor could I find him in the pasture. Running into the house and yelling Where is Duke?, my foster father finished his last bite of lunch and, strolling out the door, said, Sold him.

      The days were empty after that. The sun shines, meadowlarks sing, and clover still smells sweet. None of that could penetrate a heart turned wooden. Then social services moved me on.

      I didn't ride again for thirty-five years, although I never forgot that horse. He was there when I needed a childhood, and that's what he gave me for a moment in time. He also taught me what it is like when two free spirits bond.

      Through the years of adulthood, it was not unusual for dogs, cats, raccoons, rabbits, skunks, pigeons, fish, canaries, and my six children to fill the home with pleasure. Always fascinated with exotic animals; my main interest was wolves.

      There were packs of wild wolves in the northern woods of Minnesota, but from where we lived, they may as well have been in another country. There were few books available on wolves in the l950s–1970s and less movies. Information was sketchy; the myth of the wolf was still big and bad. I had some hazy recall of a wolf caged in a zoo somewhere. But that lonely, sad, solitary creature was not what I thought those beautiful, highly evolved animals should look like. His wide-spaces, slanted eyes fixed upon me. I should have been delighted, but I remember feeling melancholy. Being very young, I did not understand that wolves are pack animals, and the isolation was a form of living death to the poor wolf who had also lost his freedom.

      I'm writing a first draft and reminding myself that I'm simply shovelling sand into a box so that later I can build castles.

      —Shannon Hale

      I cannot live without books.

      —Thomas Jefferson

      Letter to John Adams (June 10, 1815)

      TaraRoss.com

      My children grew up and headed off to their various futures. I became a grandmother many times, divorced and remarried, and continued reading every book on wolves that I could get my hands on.

      Having moved to Idaho, I spent a great deal of time hiking in the mountains. We camped, fished, and hunted. My husband, Kip, owned horses, so we rode until I was forced to be idle from an old neck injury. The pain came on with subtle twinges in my neck. The episodes were short, so I ignored the burning stabs.

      Kip and I were married on horseback in a beautiful state park, with our family, coworkers, and friends joining us. It was a joyous day, complete with barbeque, dancing, laughter, and well-wishes. I had no clue that before long I would be nearly bedridden with devastating pain for several years, medical bills,

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