Another interrupted night of sleep

Every now and then, maybe once or twice a year, Toby howls. I'm talking a real, wolf-like howl here, not the yowling-singing kind of song that he makes when he sees a bunny or a squirrel. This is a wilder sound, from deep in his primeval wolf brain.

I know it's from some deep instinctive spot in his brain because he only howls in his sleep, and only during the night. The first time he did it, we were staying in a Best Western in Bend, Oregon, during a long and fabulously fun road trip that included some backpacking, camping, hotels and a wedding. Come to think of it, that was the first big road trip the dogs ever took, and the first backpacking trip. So perhaps his imagination was fired up by all that wilderness and change of scenery.

I remember one night on that trip, backcountry on a beautiful alpine meadow, Toby and I sat inside the tent after the sun dropped behind the mountains, and watched as a group of deer appeared and moved through the last, silvery traces of light. Enrico and Nelly were already asleep, and Toby and I sat silently side by side, watching the magical scene, hidden observers in our little nylon bubble. His head turned this way and that, following the movements of ghostly deer in the dim light, but he never moved or made a sound. Which is particularly notable, because every other time he has seen a deer, he has yowled and pulled and, if unleashed, taken off like a shot in hot pursuit. Only that one, beautiful night did he sit and admire them peacefully.

A few days later, he made his first howl. It's a hard sound to describe, not like the classic "A-Ooooooo" that we all imagine from wolves or coyotes. The pitch rises and falls, and the tone is incredibly eerie; a long, meandering, unearthly call into the night, sung once and only once. That first time, jolted awake by the spooky and unfamiliar sound, we clicked on the light and looked around. Toby was still sound asleep. Nelly was wide awake and staring at him with the same "what the fu...?" expression as us.

Nelly makes no such sound. The closest she has ever come was, in fact, on the very same backpacking route (albeit a different trip) in the Eagle Cap Wilderness in eastern Oregon - which, by the by, is one of the most beautiful places on Earth. Rocky peaks, lush meadows, cold streams, glittering alpine lakes. Paused for a rest, we spotted a line of elk traveling a path high above us on the hillside. Staring at the elk, Nelly began making the most unbelievable noise, a high-pitched "aiiee-yaiiee-yaiee," as if she were yearning for the elk, calling to any and all nearby wolves to join her in the hunt, ready to abandon us and all our comfortable domesticated ways for the wild life. Two nearby hikers stared at her in surprise, and we gaped back at them, like, hey, don't look at us, we've never heard her make that sound before, or anything remotely like it. And in fact, we never have heard it since.

Anyway, last night Toby woke us up with a howl. It's even spookier than being awakened by the cat in heat. But I don't mind, I savor the howling nights. I love that such a thoroughly domesticated animal still has that little part of him deep inside, a wild and mysterious wolf.