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The Inspiring Story of the Wolf Who Came To Sleep Over
At left, Gina poses with Tomba, the wolf-dog; At right, Gina and Tomba go out to play in the wilderness of the Southwest. |
Did Little Red Riding Hood
misunderstand her wolves?
By GINA GALLO
of TheColumnists.com
You might say it defies conventional wisdom.
While most people work hard to keep the
wolf from their door, I fling mine open and invite him in. And
contrary to the bad rep fostered by the misinformed Red Riding
Hood, this wolf is irresistible--a beguiling blend of charm,
gallantry and a wisdom far beyond his scant three years.
In technical terms, Tomba is a Shiloh Shepherd, a rare breed
off-shoot that’s a jaw-dropping mix of Timber wolf and German
shepherd (think: Rin Tin Tin on steroids to the zillionth power.)
At a full six feet on his hind legs and a solid 145 pounds, he
commands attention or clears the streets wherever he goes, depending
on crowd reaction.
And while his every movement has the sleek
economy of a master predator, beneath that lush silver coat beats
the heart of a gentle monarch. Just ask Sunny, the orange tabby
cat who lives with him and snuggles together as they sleep, or
any of the smaller dogs he encounters in his travels. Or me,
the hostess who enjoyed two weeks with my houseguest, the wolf.
When my friend Jesson Cowart’s job required relocation here
from Idaho, he knew the move might be complicated by Tomba’s
watchful presence. And inquired if I’d be interested in
providing lodging for Tomba and Sunny--his gang of fur, only
until his own home was ready. Since my own menagerie includes
cats, a neighbor’s pot-bellied pig who visits occasionally,
and a coyote who regularly dines pool side on linguini a la
Gina, what were two more sets of paws under my roof?
So, I opened my door to a cunning thief--the wolf who pranced
in and stole my heart.
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Is his tongue hanging out because he's with Gina ...or was it really that hot outside? |
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Forget every cliche you’ve heard about this animal. Or maybe Tomba is not the Central Casting caricature of the Big Bad Wolf, or even the furtive carnivore who hides in the dark, waiting to rip out the next jugular that passes by. Careful training and a strong bond with his owner have produced a pet so smart, and so socialized, I almost expect him to show up at feeding time in an impeccable tux. He waits politely while I prepare his food, then chews it slowly enough to show he’s savoring it--completely unheard of in my previous experiences with dogs.
And when I grate a little Parmesan over
the top--just for a special treat, just this once, I tell his
owner--Tomba gives me a conspirator’s wink and groans in
delight at his first taste. An Italian mother and a wolf who
loves good food--is this a marriage made in heaven or what?
But this is only the beginning of our bonding. The very next
day, I take Tomba up to the mountains--one of my favorite private
places up on the high line that’s at once peaceful, energizing
and deeply spiritual. This is where I come when I have questions,
need to sort my thoughts, or simply enjoy the solitude that seems
to bring some order to the chaos.
As we begin to climb, Tomba acts as if he knows the way. He veers off the trail at exactly the right place, making his way through a narrow crevice that leads to the hidden waterfall--a place so secret, there are never any footprints in the soil. Somehow he knows the secret ledge I climb that leads up past a grotto of shimmering mica, through an unlikely copse of lush, flowering trees and higher still, to a peak so high the shifting winds might just be the flutter of angel’s wings. Now there are clouds below us --long wispy plumes that float about the sweeping vista that stretches to the California border.
 Gina out hiking with Tomba, who seems to be asking, "Any more of that linguini, Mama Gina?" |
 Jesson Cowart, who owns Tomba, poses with him on the trail as shadows gather. |
At dawn, there are the sounds of small animals who come out to feed, but Tomba doesn’t leave my side. He seems to understand why we came here, this special place I offer to him as a gift. A big horned sheep is silhouetted on the next ledge with light glinting off his majestic horns as he watches us.
But my wolf is not in predator mode. Instead,
he circles once, twice and then a final time before sitting at
my feet. No words are required, nothing but a kiss on his velvety
nose as we sit, companions and friends watching the rising sun
bleed color across the mountains.
©2005 by Gina Gallo. The photos are the property of the
author. All rights reserved. This column first posted Oct. 24,
2005.
You
can comment on this column online. Please address your message
to either "The Editors" or Gina Gallo. To send an email,
click here and don't forget to mention Gina's name: talkback@thecolumnists.com
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