Pitbull and Wolf Mix Dog, We Named Her Whiskey
Whiskey at About 6 or 7 months old
wolves are not dogs
Whiskey was her Name
A friend of mine was a forest ranger's wife, and she had two pit bull dogs in her yard, which was located out in the country, actually more like the wilds. Her dogs, both females were in a fenced in yard, but to her surprise one morning when she opened her door to go out and feed them, she found a wolf in the yard with them. She slammed it shut and went for her husband, and when they both returned, it was too late. Apparently her dog was in heat, for the wolf male had her.
She called me and told me about it, but we were not sure if she would actually have pups from this mix. Sure enough, a couple months later she had a litter of pups, and they all looked like pit bulls except for two or three out of the twelve of them. I took one of the pups, a duplicate of her mother so far as coloring was, and short haired. She was a little bit bigger than her mom, as she grew to adult, but we did not even think about the mixture, treating her like we did our other dog, a border collie mix.
We had to move to Nevada, due to the health of my son who needed a kidney, and we packed up and went. It wasn't until we got to the desert that we noticed there was a definite difference between this dog and any other I had ever had.
The first tip I got was a rather strange one. The Nevada desert was full of thorns called goat heads. They were nasty thorns and anywhere you walked the bottom of your shoes would be covered with the things. The very first time I let Whiskey outside, she took off running and suddenly yelped loud. She came walking back to me on three legs, and I removed one thorn from the pad of her paw. I thought to myself what a mess this would be if this happened each time she went out. She took off at a dead run out into the middle of the desert, and did not come back until the next day. This was not like her to take off for a long time. I was worried that she was crippled and laying out in the sand somewhere with the thorns. When she did return, there was not one thorn in her paws. Neither was there any wounds or signs of thorns. For the remaining two years that we lived in the middle of this desert, she never did pick up one more thorn. It was amazing.
Whiskey not only learned how to not get thorns, but she learned to hunt. She came home all the time with snakes, lizards, rats, and any other critter she could find and kill. She also came back after that first time, pregnant. I have no idea who the daddy was, but she had puppies. She had puppies, but she wanted to hunt and would leave them for hours sometimes. She took care of them, and we then had her spayed.
One day, it was in the middle of a move, I was all packed and just had to move boxes. I decided to cook dinner early at the old house, and then would only have to heat it up later, and it would be easy. I took a load of boxes to the new house, and when I returned, the stew that I had turned off and left on the back of the stove, was gone. Now, I do not mean that the stew was gone, I mean the whole pan of stew was gone.
I searched and looked, and she was the first thing that came into my mind, but how could she not only eat my stew, but make the pan disappear? I emptied the old house out to nothing left, and still was stumped about what happened to my dinner that night. I thought that maybe a prowler or homeless person had stolen it finally. The next day, I found out what happened. I picked up the very last box that was in the kitchen, and under it, (it was flipped upsidedown) was my empty pan. She had eaten the stew and hid the pan under one lonely box left in the kitchen. I could not scold her.
Whiskey had a mind of her own. She did not belong to me, rather, she accompanied me in my journey. She would leave home, and come and go as she pleased. There was not a thing I could do to stop her, for the fence, she simply ate. Not chewed, but ate it. Not much of it was left when I went out that next morning. She would not eat or drink if I tied her up, and she was very obedient when she wanted to be. She let me know that she was my equal, not my pet, and that she would do as she pleased.
At the end of our friendship, she chose to leave me, and moved in with a young man about age 19, who she took a liking to. She would come by the house and say hello, but moved on she had. I made the lad understand she was different, and not a dog, and he seemed to get along with her very well. I moved back to California for my son's surgery eventually, and she opted to stay in Nevada, and she did. I loved Whiskey dog, but a dog, she really was not.
© 2010 deb douglas