Wolf

By Albert Payson Terhune

Terhune penned many books about the dogs he kept and trained on the Sunnybank estate throughout the 1920s and 30s.
Wolf, is Terhune's classic story of the funny-looking purebred collie who was somewhat an outsider with a matching personality. Wolf the dog himself became famous posthumously when his heroic death was recorded in nearly every paper in America.
This early work by Albert Payson Terhune was originally published in 1925, we are now republishing it with a brand new introductory biography.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Read Books Ltd.
• Release date: Apr 15, 2014
• ISBN: 9781473393196

Book preview

CHAPTER I: HIS OFF-DAY

WOLF

CHAPTER I: HIS OFF-DAY

IT was not Wolf’s day. Few days were Wolf’s days. Wolf had an inborn gift for ill-luck. Trouble was his birthright. There are such dogs; even as there are such people.

More than once the fiery red-gold collie had the wit and the grit to make Trouble his servant, rather than his tyrant. But not on this day.

There is a fire-blue little lake in the North Jersey hinterland; with soft green hills that encircle it as though they loved it. On its eastern shore, facing the sunset across the water, a point of sloping land runs out;—a point that is a hillside lawn, girdled by gnarled and mighty oak trees, more than two hundred years old.

On a plateau framed in giant oaks, above the Point, is an old rambling vine-clad gray stucco house, red-roofed and trimmed with black-brown timbers. Behind the house and behind the barns which lie in a hollow a hundred yards from it, the oak-grove hillside rises gently again, for a furlong, with the driveway winding through it; until it ends in the stone wall that borders the highroad. Beyond the wall and the road stretch anew the meadows and the woodlands of The Place, with the mountain forests behind them.

Here, with the Mistress and the Master whose chum he was, dwelt Sunnybank Lad; glorious mahogany-and-snow collie, whose eyes had a Soul back of them.

Here Lad lived out his sixteen years of staunch hero-life and of d’Artagnan-like adventure. Here he died, in the fullness of serene old age. Here he sleeps, near the house he loved and guarded.

Some of you have read the tales of Lad’s exploits. You may remember his temperamental gold-and-white mate, Lady; and Bruce, the beautiful giant collie without flaw of nature or of physique.

If so you will also recall Wolf, the stormy little son of Lad and Lady. (More of you will remember reading, a year or so ago, in the newspapers, the account of Wolf’s hero-death. For nearly every paper in America devoted much space to this shining climax of his tumultuous life.)

Lad went through his eventful long career, serene and loved; his dashing adventures bringing him vast credit and admiration. Bruce the Beautiful lived out a serene tenure of days; petted, praised, happy.

Even Rex, the big crossbreed at the lodge-gate, seldom got into serious trouble;—at least seldom until a blizzard day you may have read of—a day when his murder-battle with old Laddie in the snow-choked forests behind The Place found its ending in a knife-thrust through his insane heart.

With Wolf, in his early years, it was different. He was born to Trouble. And he ran true to form.

Within him throbbed the loyal, staunch, uncannily wise nature of his mighty sire, Lad. But through his veins, too, frisked the temperamental wildness of his mother, Lady.

The two strains did not blend. They warred. Bit by bit, the Lad strain predominated; but only after several years had passed.

For instance, it was the heritage of Laddie’s unafraid and chivalrous soul which at the last made Wolf throw his life away gayly and gloriously to save a worthless cur.

But in his early years, the mixture of Lad and Lady in his makeup was as incongruous as the clash of flint and steel. The result often took the form of one hundred per cent bad luck for the strange young dog.

Wolf’s ill fortune began when his fuzzily pudgy grayish-yellow puppy body shaped up into something approaching maturity and when the indeterminate fuzz merged into a ruddy gold coat. Collie puppies, up to four months, are adorably pudgy and fluffy and appealing. That is why even the poorest of them find ready purchasers at that stage.

Not until the roundness of body and indeterminate shape of head and foreface set into their permanent lines can the most expert beholder tell with certainty what the young collie is going to develop into.

It was so with Wolf. His sire and dam, each in a wholly different way, were glorious specimens of the highest type of thoroughbred. Their son, Wolf, was as highborn as they. His was the heritage of collie perfection. But he missed this heritage by a mile.

The Mistress and the Master watched with increasing gloom their hopes of a son of Lad and Lady which should combine the best points of both parents. They had bragged happily of breeding a collie that should be a pride to The Place; at dog-shows and at home.

Wolf was not such a collie.

He was undersized; though wirily powerful and as lithe as a panther. His coat, which should have been wavily abundant, was as short and as thick as a chow’s. It was not unlike a chow’s in texture and growth. His bushy tail was three inches too short. His head was broad where it should have been chiseled into classic lines. His muzzle was not long enough for the rest of his head. The stop above it was too prominent. His glowing dark eyes were round; not almond-shaped or slanted as called for in the Standard of the Breed.

In brief, he was not a true type of collie; though of royally pure lineage. He was a throwback;—a throwback almost to the ancestral wolves which form the trunk and roots of the collie family-tree. It was this queer outward resemblance to a young timber-wolf which gave him his name.

Yet Wolf was beautiful, in his own odd way; and he was surpassingly strong and swift. That broad brain-space of his was vibrant with incipient wisdom.

The fact remained that he was anything but a show-type of collie and that he gave no sign of reflecting future credit on The Place or on his breeders. He would have been sold, in those early days, except that nobody would pay a decent price for such a dog, and because the Mistress—the natural protector of all The Place’s weak and luckless Little People—pitied him.

From the first, he gave to the Mistress the absolute loyal devotion which had always been given her by Lad. This devotion did not keep Wolf, in puppyhood, from transgressing The Place’s every law and winning for himself a repute for sheer naughtiness which strained all the Mistress’s gentle patience.

Yes, he was a trouble-center; seemingly a changeling in disposition and in luck; as well as in body. His elfin cleverness served only to intensify this; and it blurred the traits of steadfastness he had inherited from Lad.

From the beginning, as I have said, he was the adoring, if erratic, slave of the Mistress. He loved the Master, too, in only a lesser degree. For the rest of mankind or womankind he had not the slightest use; to the day of his death. He endured them when he must; and he kept out of their way when he could. He molested no one, so long as people let him alone. But he resented with slashing teeth any effort at familiarity from the world at large. Children were the sole exceptions. Like the Mistress and like Lad, he had an odd sense of protection for anything defenseless.

Yet, there was one of The Place’s Little People which Wolf failed to recognize at first glance as belonging to the helpless class. Thereby hangs this story.

It began on a day when a well-meaning friend sent the Mistress a pale-gold canary in an equally pale-gold cage. The Place was a bird-sanctuary. Never a year when at least a score of nests were not built among the heavy wistaria vines that draped the house and the verandas. The big trees of the lakeside lawn were athrill with music. There was bird-melody from gray dawn till dark, in summer and in spring. As sensibly send a bottle of nice clean sand to the Sahara as a tame singing bird to that abode of song.

The undesired gift was made welcome. The gilt cage was hung in the alcove of the dining-room bay window. The canary swung there, and screeched his heart out with gusts of shrill music, in sorry contrast to the myriad liquid notes of songsparrow and thrush and robin and catbird and oriole in the sweet old trees outside.

Wolf found a house door open and strolled interestedly into the dining-room; where, at the Mistress’s instructions, the Master was hanging the shiny cage in the alcove arch. The canary hopped feverishly about, chirping in falsetto excitement. The cage, on its gilded spring, swung jerkily up and down in the flare of morning sunlight.

To Wolf, this was a most engaging, if puzzling, sight. Never in his single year of life had he seen a captive bird nor a gorgeous and fascinatingly jiggling cage. He gave vent to his feelings by jumping up and trying to get the scent of this queer new creature at close quarters. For a dog relies most on his sense of smell and least on his eyes. A peculiar sight must be verified by his nostrils.

Wolf’s blunt young nose rapped the metal floor of the cage and set it to jiggling tenfold, while the canary squawked loud terror at the impact.

Down! commanded the Master, angered at what seemed to him an act of wanton puppyish mischief. "Down!"

He enforced his order by a sharp rap of his open knuckles across the collie’s hips.

At the word and the blow, Wolf dropped to the floor, almost midway in a second spring. There he stood; in no way cowed, but resentful and wondering. He was still young enough to be bewildered by a myriad prohibitions whose nature and meaning he could not understand. An older dog gets to taking them philosophically for granted.

Apparently, in leaping up to get the scent of that wildly hopping bird, Wolf had broken some complicated law. The Master’s single mandate of Down! would have sufficed, without the knuckle-rap.

Leave that cage alone, Wolf, went on the angered voice, speaking incisively now. "Leave it alone!"

The dog comprehended. Here was something else that must be avoided; something else that a collie must remember to keep away from. Nevertheless, the memory of the slap rankled. Glumly, Wolf left the room and the house. He knew he was in disgrace. Disgrace cuts into a sensitive dog like a whiplash.

The next noon, Wolf was drowsing on a rug in the raftered living room, midway between the two open porch doors. The day was sultrily hot. Here, close to the floor and between the two doors there was a cool breath of draught. A collie has a genius for finding such spots; when summer heat makes his heavy coat a burden.

The Mistress and the Master and a guest were sitting on the porch, in the few minutes before lunch should be announced. A maid was going to and fro, between dining room and kitchen, arranging the table.

Dogs have certain vast advantages over humans. A human can see farther and more distinctly, except in the dark, than can a dog. But a human cannot hear with half the acuteness or with half the understanding of a dog; while a human’s sense of smell is to a dog’s as a baby’s rattle to a machine gun.

Scent is a dog’s surest and strongest sense. It verifies or corrects all his other senses. (That is why a dog is not interested in his own image in the mirror. His nostrils tell him no other dog is facing him there. He believes his nose and therefore discredits his eyes.)

By dint of smell and of hearing, now, Wolf became aware of a new and forbidden presence in the nearby dining room. He knew that the kitchen cat—an ill-favored pinkish brown feline—had slipped into the room, in the wake of the maid; and was hiding there, under the table. This was in the days when long table-cloths were still in vogue; offering cave-like hiding places for such intruders.

The maid went out to the kitchen again, closing the door behind her. Wolf heard the canary chirp loudly in fear.

With a worried interest in a scene whose nature he foresaw, he got up from the rug and strolled into the dining room. He arrived just in time to see a pinky-brown shape leap upward and attach its talon claws to the bottom of the cage.

The flimsy spring broke. Down upon the hardwood floor, with a metallic clash, tumbled the cage. To shield the wildly fluttering canary from the probing claws, Wolf bounded forward; growling sharp menace at the marauder. The cat fled, spitting, as he rushed at her. She took refuge beneath the table with its sheltering cloth.

Under the cloth dived Wolf, in punitive pursuit. The cat twined herself amid the table’s tangle of carven central legs, whence the dog sought in vain to

Reviews for Wolf

[Rita Goetz · Rating: 4 out of 5 stars]

Albert Peyton aterhune always captures the heard of collies very accurately enjoyed immensely

[pallandavid · Rating: 5 out of 5 stars]

Wolf. Sired by purebred Collies, his mother and father were show dogs of great repute. Wolf. HIs nature and intelligence was pure but his appearance was not. He didn't have the physical appearance of a Collie but was kept on due to his nature. This book is basically seven short stories, each telling a tale in this remarkable little dog's life. He was uncanny. His adventures were joyous and good. Each story ends with a smile. Even the last. The last is is last adventure. I smiled with tears in my eyes.