The Last Dire Wolf

I was chilling in my den, thinking about how much I enjoy howling at the moon on a cold, winter's night. My mind wandered, and I wondered if my youngest daughter might have been an ancient wolf in a previous life. I imagined she would have been a strong, alpha female leading a large, loyal pack. So, I fired up my trusty time machine, set the controls for 10,000 BCE, and went back for a quick look-see...

On high ground, she could smell the ocean from where she stood, watching. The Big Ice was growing, moving her pack farther south and west. Another Long Winter was coming; she could smell that, too.

She stood about seven hands tall at the shoulder, and weighed nine stone. Her muscular body was solid and dense, about the same size as her mate. Her coat was a thick reddish-brown, with darker legs, and lighter ears rimmed in black. Her head was large and broad, her keen eyes missed nothing. She was about as long as the spear throwers were tall. She hunted Big Game here on the western shore of what would become North America in another 10,000 years.

Her pack was once thirty-six animals, but now they were fewer. The wild horses and bison had become rarer as the ice grew. It had been days since their last successful hunt. They had not encountered another pack in months. She could read the signs. Snow and ice as far as she could see. They would have to move farther south again, soon.

Noise from her pack down below attracted her attention. They were excited. Ahead of them, she could just make out a small mastodon that was mired in a thick, black pool, which stood out against the white blanket of winter. She could see her mate leading their wolves to surround the pool as they closed on the helpless creature. It had been a year or more since they had encountered a mammoth, giant sloth, or mastodon. There would be full bellies tonight. She loped down the hill and across the expanse to join the circle.

The wolves closed in on the mastodon, moving carefully across the foul-smelling crust. It was warm. The mastodon bellowed a warning. As they approached their prey from all sides, as one, the black ooze began to grab and hold paws, tails, and bellies flattened against it. A few wolves cried out as they started to struggle against the tar. Then, more...

Free wolves moved toward those who had become mired, to help, in response to their plaintive calls. She could see, one by one, as each wolf shared the same fate as the young mastodon they sought. Voices were silenced. She had moved toward her mate who had been caught in the tar as the crust gave way, not far from the struggling mastodon. The oozing asphalt caught her too, as she got close to him. He looked at her with fear. The mastodon slipped beneath the bubbling tar pit, bellowing one last time.

She could see a small pack of gray wolves cresting the hill where she had been standing a short time ago. She saw that they did not approach the pit, as her beautiful, broad head slipped beneath the surface of the tar. Perhaps, someday, someone would tell her story, Canis armbrusteri, last of her name.

Postscript: Our youngest daughter turned us on to Game of Thrones, so there was a natural connection in my mind between her and dire wolves. As a child, she was tiny but fierce--often taking the lead in a group or creative endeavor. Apparently, we know a lot about dire wolves and their prey from the La Brea tar pits, where thousands of dire wolf skeletons have been found, recovered, and studied.

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