I claimed him as mine, for a short time at least, the day I almost stepped on him in the thick underbrush of the forest floor. His green, haunting eyes captured my eyes as they penetrated through his furry, matted blackness, taking hold of me as a magnet instantly attracts metal.

I did not sense any hostility for having discovered him. He was afraid and submissive, ears drooping to the side, without exposing his teeth as he stared at me as a child would stare at an unfamiliar babysitter. He was beautiful. He was vulnerable, and his right front paw was ensnared in a man-made trap that had been triggered by curiosity, too easily misjudged by a very young wolf separated from its pack. I was charged with the responsibility of restoring this righteous animal to health and survivability. And from the Cherokee, I therefore named him “Waya,” which means wolf.

Waya had lost more blood than I imagined he could lose and still live. He did not resist my extrication of his paw from the trap. He lay there lifeless as I temporarily dressed his wound. From my canteen, I offered him water, which he did not refuse. A faint whimper expressed his gratitude, followed by an unexpected lick on my nose as I bent over to stroke his brow. With Waya secured to a makeshift sled, the two us made the short journey to my hillside cabin, primitive and far removed from the society I had long ago rejected.

Upon arrival home, Waya and I were greeted by Bertha, the cow, who caught sight of her master and his new friend with acknowledgement expressed in a concerned “moo.” Waya had fallen asleep, trusting me with never a thought of being harmed or dying as humans would think.

Bertha’s milk was easily tolerated by Waya, who accepted it from me as I dropped it into his mouth with an old kitchen baster. Within a day or two oatmeal laced with trout served as a preparation for restoration of diet appropriate to a warrior of the wild.

On the fifth day of recovery, Waya, healing nicely from my successful nursing of his wound, was becoming playful, wanting to jaw spar and frolic in the savored warmth of the September sun. Waya was gaining strength. Was Waya soon to be too much to handle?

Several days later, Waya received beaver that I had caught and butchered. He didn’t wait for a table blessing. He didn’t express thankfulness with a kiss on the nose. He dragged his fat rodent off to the seclusion of Bertha’s barn and in stealth and selfishness devoured it only to re-emerge licking the unctuous blood from his satisfied mouth. Then, he looked at me, without drooping his ears. His eyes were not cast down in submission as before.

Waya, with a posture of authority, might easily have said, could he speak as humans speak,

“I should soon be leaving you, good friend. I am part of something more than your world of containment and exile. I would take you with me, but you do not have a place with me or my family. I am a roamer, and, if need be, a loner. I have accepted your hospitality because of necessity. You cared for me because you felt it was necessary. You have had a black wolf come into your life, but do not dream of me for it is bad luck and a curse based on sacred legend. Now, when I am gone, you will dream as the Indians dream, of gray wolves, for you have long thought of reconciling with your family and the society which you rejected. You must take the path that is laid out before you, and I will do the same.”

It was my last night with Waya. He did not anchor to my side. He was restless, like a circus animal, caged and on display. With the wind of the day subsiding, an inviting moon begged attention and devotion. Suddenly, a lone wolf, too close for comfort, gave a mournful cry, followed by others in the same pack. Their howling, in steady crescendo, went unabated for ten tense minutes, followed by an abrupt silence, an enticement for an answer, which Waya provided in an impassioned cry, which signaled his position and readiness. This was the moment, the moment of the departure for a spirit that was meant to return to the freedom of living openly, without enclosure, devoured in all of nature’s elements, scents and unpredictability.

I knew that I could not stroke his brow or offer a hand, for he had been reclaimed by a million years of instinct. He looked at me and proudly exposed his sharp, young teeth, which would soon sink into the flesh of a creature on the run. Without hesitation, he was gone, never to return.

Lonely, but yet joyful in restoring Waya to health, I went to bed and listened to the howls of the pack. Then, I dreamed of a gray wolf in recurring episodes until early morning when I was awakened by the sharp, popping snaps of rifle fire in the distance. It was September fifteenth, the first day of the hunting season for wolves in Montana.