The Lives of Captive Wolves

You Can Take the Wolf Out of the Wild, But You Can’t...



When we started the 2 o'clock tour at the Colorado Wolf & Wildlife Center in the mountains above Colorado Springs, the wolves were napping, just as wild wolves do in the middle of the day. A woman in jeans and cowboy boots served as guide for our group—eight random travelers, most of whom simply had seen the road sign, pulled in and paid the $10 fee. She led us from one enclosure to the next to see animals with names like Princess and Wakanda—tossing them treats from a Ziploc bag, so we could hear their jaws snap shut. Then she led us in a group howl, hoping that some of the wolves would join in. "Ready?" she said. "One, two, three. ..."

Our first collective howl sounded more like the bawl of a dying cow. "Let's try it again." Finally a wolf stood up, shook the dust from his coat and gave a half-hearted howl.
As the guide directed us toward the gift shop, she tossed a biscuit over the fence. The next tour would be in an hour. The Wolf & Wildlife Center hosts thousands of visitors each year in its mission to "educate the public...about the importance of wolves, coyote and [foxes] to our ecosystem."

Each captive wolf has its own story, as does every captive-wolf operation. It was almost feeding time when I arrived at Mission: Wolf, a remote 200-acre sanctuary nestled at the southern end of Colorado's San Isabel National Forest. Wearing blue rubber gloves, two knife-wielding volunteers sawed through frozen meat. They'd cook the meat, which had been donated, in a giant pot mixed with vitamins and kibble, and then serve it to the 29 resident wolves, using white five-gallon buckets with each animal's name printed on the side: Nyati, Ned, Merlin, Orion, Lily—and Soleil, a female rescued from an owner who wanted a fighting wolf and kept her chained to a tree for five months.

"Get Face to Face with Wolves" is the catchy slogan of the Wolf Education and Research Center (WERC) in northern Idaho, which keeps about seven wolves on 300 acres. During my visit, I heard the epic story of a female wolf named Chemukh (the Nez Perce word for black). She'd been attacked and wounded several times by other wolves in her 20-acre pen and was desperate to escape. Most of the enclosure was double-fenced, but there was one single-fenced section, 13 feet tall, where staff entered during feeding times. As a safeguard, that section was electrified; it was also reinforced at the top with a lean-in of taut wires no more than three inches apart. Somehow, during October 2000, Chemukh clambered up that fence, even though it pulsed with 5,000 volts, resisting a caretaker's efforts to pull her off. She made it to the top, squeezed between the taut wires and leaped to freedom. WERC's resident biologist, Jeremy Heft, described Chemukh's escape: "It was sheer will." But Heft also said that, because Chemukh was a captive-bred, human-socialized wolf, she was doomed in the wild. She didn't know how to hunt large game, and even if she didn't starve to death, she would probably be killed by wild wolves or by people.

Heft came from Pennsylvania to be an intern at the center 14 years ago and fell in love with its wolves-"my new brothers and sisters," as he calls them on WERC's website. "The brutal extermination of wolves for unjustified reasons was a major rebellion platform for me and therefore I directed all my energy to fight for species that cannot defend themselves.... My job remains far from ideal—strenuous labor...on-call for problems all day, every day of the year; very few breaks away from camp...and the most difficult aspect: deciding when a brother must be euthanized... Still, through it all I remain proud that I have provided the best life possible for the Sawtooth Pack," a group of wolves inside the WERC fences.

In five years of exploring the obscure world of captive wolves, I visited more than two dozen operations, driving on dusty back roads and interviewing biologists, geneticists and other experts. My quest was inspired by my own sad experience as the owner of a wolf-dog hybrid, because I realized that many of the issues with hybrids extend to captive wolves. Captive wolves don't get a lot of attention, as the public tends to focus on the more than 60,000 wild wolves in North America. But the number of wolves and wolf-dog hybrids in captivity is much greater: about 1,500 pure wolves whose captivity is federally regulated, plus untold wolves kept by unlicensed individuals, and an estimated 300,000 wolf-dog hybrids.
People who keep or work with captive wolves are often earnestly trying to help the species. Motivated by a desire to ensure the long-term survival of wolves, they use science to educate the public about this elusive and intelligent creature. Many make enormous personal sacrifices, running their facilities with a lot of love and little money. But not all captive-wolf owners have conservation foremost in mind. Some are motivated by commerce, or by a yearning to possess "wildness." It raises uncomfortable questions: At what point does kindness to animals morph into exploitation? What are the appropriate boundaries between humans and wolves? And why do we insist on testing the limits of those boundaries?

Prior to the passage of the 1973 federal Endangered Species Act, which protected wild wolves beginning that year, people openly stole wolf pups from dens to supply the fur industry and zoos. Over the years, captive breeding has produced gray wolves and wolf-dog hybrids for the fur and pet trades, Hollywood, wildlife parks, and research and public education centers. There are even established genetic lines prized by private wolf and wolf-dog breeders.

No federal laws regulate possession of wolves. And anyone who acquires an "animal care" license from the U.S. Department of Agriculture's Animal and Plant Health Inspection Service can breed, exhibit, sell and ship wolves, as long as they're captive-bred, not wild-caught animals protected by endangered species laws. The license is easy to obtain; a set of vague regulations covers wolves, big cats, bears, rhinos and elephants, under the Animal Welfare Act.
To exhibit wolves, you just need a primary enclosure big enough for the animals to make "normal postural and social adjustments," surrounded by a perimeter fence that's at least eight feet tall. You must also provide a species-specific diet, plenty of water, and shelter from the elements. USDA license fees are cheap: $40 to $310 per year for exhibitors, depending on the number of animals; $40 to $760 per year for breeders and animal brokers, depending on their annual income from sales. There are plenty of loopholes in the laws. Meanwhile, an unknown number of pure wolves are kept as pets; estimates range from the hundreds into the thousands. Inspections and enforcement of federal regulation, done by the Animal and Plant Health Inspection Service and the U.S. Fish and Wildlife Service, are limited.

It's difficult to determine the exact number of captive wolf operations. According to a federal database, about two dozen operations in the West have a federal license and the word "wolf" in their names, ranging from the Wild Spirit Wolf Sanctuary in Ramah, N.M., to the Wolf Howl-O Exotic Petting Zoo in Kelso, Wash. But many licensed captive-wolf operations don't use the word "wolf": Howlers Inn, for example, a bed-and-breakfast near Bozeman, Mont., keeps wolves in a three-acre enclosure and a one-acre enclosure that have water features, trees and boulders.

The most ethical operations are nonprofits that provide a sanctuary for animals with nowhere else to go. Raising money, however, whether an operation is nonprofit or not, is an unavoidable part of the mission. WERC, for instance, solicits donations, asking people to "adopt" its wolves.
There's also a business side to captive wolves, one that includes not only breeding, but also buying and selling the animals and using them for photo shoots and other enterprises. "A lot of people think those calendar shots of wolves are wild wolves. That's just not the case. Wild wolves are too elusive," Mace Loftus, a Nevada wolf and wolf-dog breeder who supplies animals to photographers, said at the Pawlitically Incorrect Dog Symposium in Novato, Calif., nine years ago.

Even the highly respected National Geographic recently took advantage of the steady supply of wolf puppies at a northern Idaho operation called Wolf People, paying for carefully staged shots of pups exiting a den.

Wolf People has also bought animals from Triple D Game Farm in Kalispell, Mont., which is mainly known for providing "animal models," including grizzly bears, lynx, tigers and snow leopards, for wildlife photographers and filmmakers. Triple D touts its positive role in conservation, arguing that using animal models is better than disturbing animals in the wild. Its wolves, which rent for $350 per day, are housed indoors, in what employee Kathleen O'Neil described as "condos," and taken outside for their photo shoots.

Viewers of Jim and Jamie Dutcher's Emmy Award winning 1997 documentary film, Wolves at Our Door, and their 2005 sequel Living with Wolves, both of which aired on the Discovery Channel, are told that "one wolf pack has accepted a human presence and begun to reveal the secrets of their long-hidden lives." Jim Dutcher's wolves came from private wolf breeders as well as outfits like Triple D, where he is listed in company records as purchaser #54. He placed his wolves in an enclosure in Idaho's Sawtooth Mountains, where they had no choice but to reveal their daily lives, which bore little resemblance to life in a wild wolf pack.

With all the activity, including unplanned reproduction (which often occurs) and people who acquire wolves as pets only to find it doesn't work out, there's a surplus of captive wolves. Pretty much every operation is filled to capacity.
Some people defend keeping captive wolves by saying the animals have never known anything different and don't long for the outside world. They feel safe in their enclosures, delighted with their three hots and a cot. Yet while many captive-born, human-socialized wolves might act friendly and even loving toward people, those animals are still wild at a genetic level; their natural instincts have not been selectively bred out of them over multiple generations, as has been done with domestic dogs. They won't display tame behavior reliably or pass such behavior on to their offspring.

Everything in their evolution makes wolves want to run, not stay behind fences. Nature has designed them to travel 30 to 50 miles a day; in Idaho, the typical size of a wolf pack's territory, the area where wolves hunt and defend their food sources against rival packs, stretches over 360 square miles. Many captive-wolf owners are frank about the difficulties they face: aggression, repeated escape attempts, self-mutilation. At Wolfwood Refuge & Adoption Center near Ignacio, Colo., owner Paula Watson has recon-figured one wolf's enclosure several times because he scales 10-foot fences with ease. "Matok always wants out," she says. At Eagle Tail Mountain Wolf Sanctuary in Tonapah, Ariz., where Patricia and Kelly Reed care for as many as 120 wolves and wolf-dog hybrids, a wolf shoved his paw through the chainlink separating two pens; the wolves in the adjoining pen chewed it off. In all the commotion and heightened tension, the wounded animal's own pen mates attacked him from behind. Now he hobbles around on three legs, one foreleg having been amputated to the shoulder.

Captive wolves actually demonstrate more violent behavior than wild wolves. Tour guides often refer to the more dominant (read aggres-sive) captives as "alpha wolves," a largely outdated term coined by animal behaviorist Rudolph Schenkel in the 1940s. Schenkel applied the term "alpha" to winners of the fierce contests for dominance he observed in a group of captive wolves. Renowned wolf biologist L. David Mech, though, who has extensively studied wolves in the wild, has called the whole alpha concept into question, pointing out that at its core a wild wolf pack is made up of Mom, Dad and kids. Calling a breeding male and female the "alpha pair" makes about as much sense as describing human parents as "alphas." As adults with survival skills and experience, wolf parents are natural leaders, but they don't abuse their offspring physically or psychologically to make them behave. Displays of dominance and submission, as when a wild wolf rolls on its back, are voluntary, not forced, and serve to maintain friendly relations within the pack, much as human social courtesies do. Mech prefers the term "breeding pair" to refer to reproducing members of a wild wolf pack.

Calling a captive group of mostly unrelated animals a pack, as many captive-wolf operations do, is misleading in a number of ways. In captivity, wolves can't cooperate to hunt together or disperse to form new packs. As Weber of Mission: Wolf points out: "Throwing a bunch of captive wolves together to observe pack dynamics is like throwing a group of prison inmates together to study family relationships." Wolf handlers sometimes receive the brunt of confinement stress and territoriality, even from bottle fed, human socialized wolves—getting nipped, bitten or chased out of enclosures. At Arizona's Eagle Tail Mountain Wolf Sanctuary, Kelly Reed told me that some wolves that have lived at the sanctuary for more than eight years remain unapproachable. I watched as some animals paced inside their fences, treading the same pattern over and over, wearing trenches a foot deep in some places.

And life in an enclosure can last a long time. Take Sabertooth, at the time I met him a 15-year-old "geriatric" wolf living at Mission: Wolf. Already he had lived three times longer than the average wild wolf. His hips were going out, and he had sores on his ears. He was what Weber calls a "lifer," which for a captive wolf could mean 16 years or longer.
It's tempting to think that setting captive wolves free would be kinder. But aside from the political furor that would erupt over any attempt to introduce still more wolves into their native habitats, releasing captives amounts to a death sentence, as biologist Heft explained after Chemukh escaped from WERC. Some wolves would lack a natural wariness of people and be shot as a threat when they drifted too close. And wild wolves, highly territorial animals, would likely see the strange wolves as intruders and kill them. Also, wolf pups learn to hunt from their parents, so former captives would probably lack skills necessary to hunt large prey like elk and moose; instead, they would likely go after easier targets like livestock.

In 2006, a wolf-like "mystery predator" roaming central Montana killed 120 sheep before federal officials shot it from an airplane and sent the carcass to a wildlife foren-sics laboratory in Oregon. Dyan Straughan, a forensic scientist specializing in wolf casework, concluded that the rampaging predator had DNA from Wisconsin and Alaskan wolf populations. Although wolves do travel great distances, "that kind of mating just doesn't happen in nature," Straughan said. The animal bit sheep over their entire bodies, hunting instinctively but without the knowledge to kill efficiently. It was probably a captive-bred wolf that had either escaped or been dumped.

Wolf People—on Highway 95 south of Sandpoint, Idaho—illustrates how operations can have a variety of goals. Owner Nancy Taylor has been in the business for 18 years. Not only does she sell wolf-related jewelry, coffee mugs, refrigerator magnets and clothing, she'll also help you set up a Wolf People "franchise store" with the "trademarked logo" and a full inventory ready for your customers; "live wolves...are always a big attraction," her website says. Yet Wolf People also advertises itself as "A Northwest Wolf Education Facility," claiming to dispel old myths and negative attitudes in a state where the governor and a majority of the legislators want hunters to kill 75 percent of the wild wolves.
In one visit to Wolf People, I was in a group of about 10 tourists. We climbed into our cars to caravan to the wolf enclosure a couple miles up the road. Once we arrived, however, we were told to stay in our cars. A gangly young employee, his face pale with worry, was scouring the compound: A wolf had escaped its enclosure. Ten minutes later, it was caught and returned to its pen. (I learned afterward that a white wolf had escaped a few weeks earlier by digging under a fence; it still hasn't been found.)

But Taylor and her employees clearly mean well and care about wolves. Although the enclosures are only 5,000 square feet (about an eighth of an acre), most have plenty of trees, so the wolves can hide if they wish, and thanks in part to some top-shelf meat from Walmart, the animals are well fed. Right next to the cash register in the gift store is a fact sheet that describes the wolf's role in the ecosystem. The store also carries information about legislation and has petitions in favor of wild wolves that visitors can sign. And Wolf People's support for the Northern Idaho Wolf Alliance helps that group stage protests against wolf hunts.

Colorado's Wolfwood and Arizona's Eagle Tail have policies against breeding captive wolves. So does Mission: Wolf, founded by Weber more than 20 years ago and housing mostly wolves that would otherwise have been euthanized, as do all the best operations.

Certain captive-wolf operations are considering changing their practices to better help wild wolves. Chris Anderson, president and CEO of Idaho's WERC, questions the tour-and-gift-shop model. “If I wanted to start a T-shirt business, I could do it a lot more effectively,” he says. Anderson is working toward virtual education. Instead of hosting 2,000 visitors each summer, he thinks he can educate 2,000 people a day through the Internet, setting up a webcam in the wolf enclosure. All of WERC's wolves are rescued animals, and Anderson wants his operation to play an active role in resolving the conflict between ranchers and wolf advocates in the Pacific Northwest.

I met my own wolf-dog, Inyo, when she was one breath old. I had just escaped from an abusive relationship, and I invested that tiny creature with all the power of popular myth. I believed that wolf-dogs were more protective and loyal than “ordinary” dogs, so I imagined that Inyo would protect me from anyone who wanted to hurt me. But even before her eyes had opened, Inyo was struggling, hell for leather, and didn't want to be held by any human. As she grew up, she got more determined to explore and run free.

In my arms, in my house, or in a kennel, living in Tucson and then the Reno area, Inyo could not stand confinement, period. She climbed electrified fence, gnawed through heavy-gauge chainlink and my front door, ripped through drywall and insulation. I thought she loved me in her way, but she was always trying to leave, and I didn't know why.

Scientific research told me she was an animal compelled by instinct to be free and constantly traveling over new terrain. A graceful athlete and great partner on wilderness or rock-climbing adventures, she was miserable in the everyday life of city neighborhoods, where in spite of two-hour daily runs and miles of trekking, her howling and repeated escapes got us evicted from house after house. Even on remote acreage, she attacked livestock and neighboring dogs.

Inyo could not be my guardian; instead, I was hers—and I could not protect her. I began contacting sanctuaries. Not surprisingly, they were all full.

When Inyo used her teeth to correct what she perceived as misbehavior on my part, finally tearing my flesh to the bone, I made a decision that will always hurt. In 2003, after nearly four years together, Inyo and I took a last long run through the desert, and then I drove her to our veterinary office and had her put down.

After Inyo's death, haunted by her drive to be free, I learned all I could about captive wolves. Now I do whatever I can to help ease the way for wild wolves in my home state of Oregon. That includes supporting operations where dedicated staff work to make sure the life sentences of their captive wolves help serve their wild relatives. And I've learned that, with canines, there is a simple credo: If you love dogs, you keep them close. But if you love wolves, you leave them wild.
Ceiridwen Terrill is an associate professor of science writing and environmental journalism at Concor-dia University in Portland. Scribner has just published her book, Part Wild: One Woman's Journey with a Creature Caught Between the Worlds of Wolves and Dogs.

From High Country News.







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