Wolf

Susan and I raised a small Mexican wolf with a coat of many colors, including reddish hues in winter. We called him Colorado. He was well behaved and happy.

In 1967 I was walking Colorado along the esplanade in Redondo Beach, not far from Avenue C.  We paused near an old woman who asked me what breed he was.

"A Mexican wolf,"  I said.

She scoffed.

"You don't believe me?" 

"Do you believe I'm Jack London's younger sister?" 

"No. You're not."

Sometimes dog fanciers looked at me with concern, wondering how I'd gotten stuck with such a malformed German shepherd.

Colorado had been around both wolves and dogs and treated them the same. To him, they were the same. He liked them. Once a collie had jumped him. Colorado had knocked him down and stood on him in good humor, then let him up. 

From the esplanade I looked down at volleyball players on the beach, some surfers on boards, two brown lifeguards on a tower, people in cars driving by. No one seemed to notice the wolf. He went unrecognized (except once by a man who worked at the Los Angeles Zoo). 

Most of the time I was the only one who knew what Colorado was. He didn't know he was a wolf.