Brown Wolf Page #5

"Brown Wolf," a short story by Jack London, explores the bond between humans and animals through the eyes of a dog named Brown Wolf. Set against the backdrop of the rugged wilderness, the narrative follows the journey of a wealthy man who adopts the dog, reflecting on themes of loyalty, survival, and the intrinsic connection between man and nature. The story highlights the instincts of Brown Wolf as he navigates various challenges, showcasing London's mastery in depicting the raw and emotional interplay between humans and their animal companions. As the tale unfolds, it reveals deeper insights into trust, freedom, and the essence of companionship.

								

sprang up on his hind legs, resting his fore paws on her hip and at the
same time licking Skiff Miller's hand. When the latter shook hands with
Walt, Wolf repeated his act, resting his weight on Walt and licking
both men's hands.

"It ain't no picnic, I can tell you that," were the Klondiker's last
words, as he turned and went slowly up the trail.

For the distance of twenty feet Wolf watched him go, himself all
eagerness and expectancy, as though waiting for the man to turn and
retrace his steps. Then, with a quick low whine, Wolf sprang after
him, overtook him, caught his hand between his teeth with reluctant
tenderness, and strove gently to make him pause.

Failing in this, Wolf raced back to where Walt Irvine sat, catching
his coat-sleeve in his teeth and trying vainly to drag him after the
retreating man.

Wolf's perturbation began to wax. He desired ubiquity. He wanted to
be in two places at the same time, with the old master and the new,
and steadily the distance between them was increasing. He sprang about
excitedly, making short nervous leaps and twists, now toward one, now
toward the other, in painful indecision, not knowing his own mind,
desiring both and unable to choose, uttering quick sharp whines and
beginning to pant.

He sat down abruptly on his haunches, thrusting his nose upward, the
mouth opening and closing with jerking movements, each time opening
wider. These jerking movements were in unison with the recurrent
spasms that attacked the throat, each spasm severer and more intense
than the preceding one. And in accord with jerks and spasms the larynx
began to vibrate, at first silently, accompanied by the rush of air
expelled from the lungs, then sounding a low, deep note, the lowest in
the register of the human ear. All this was the nervous and muscular
preliminary to howling.

But just as the howl was on the verge of bursting from the full throat,
the wide-opened mouth was closed, the paroxysms ceased, and he looked
long and steadily at the retreating man. Suddenly Wolf turned his head,
and over his shoulder just as steadily regarded Walt. The appeal was
unanswered. Not a word nor a sign did the dog receive, no suggestion
and no clew as to what his conduct should be.

A glance ahead to where the old master was nearing the curve of the
trail excited him again. He sprang to his feet with a whine, and then,
struck by a new idea, turned his attention to Madge. Hitherto he had
ignored her, but now, both masters failing him, she alone was left.
He went over to her and snuggled his head in her lap, nudging her arm
with his nose--an old trick of his when begging for favors. He backed
away from her and began writhing and twisting playfully, curvetting
and prancing, half rearing and striking his fore paws to the earth,
struggling with all his body, from the wheedling eyes and flattening
ears to the wagging tail, to express the thought that was in him and
that was denied him utterance.

This, too, he soon abandoned. He was depressed by the coldness of these
humans who had never been cold before. No response could he draw from
them, no help could he get. They did not consider him. They were as
dead.

He turned and silently gazed after the old master. Skiff Miller
was rounding the curve. In a moment he would be gone from view.
Yet he never turned his head, plodding straight onward, slowly and
methodically, as though possessed of no interest in what was occurring
behind his back.

And in this fashion he went out of view. Wolf waited for him to
reappear. He waited a long minute, silently, quietly, without movement,
as though turned to stone--withal stone quick with eagerness and
desire. He barked once, and waited. Then he turned and trotted back to
Walt Irvine. He sniffed his hand and dropped down heavily at his feet,
watching the trail where it curved emptily from view.

The tiny stream slipping down the mossy-lipped stone seemed suddenly to
increase the volume of its gurgling noise. Save for the meadow-larks,
there was no other sound. The great yellow butterflies drifted silently
through the sunshine and lost themselves in the drowsy shadows. Madge
gazed triumphantly at her husband.

A few minutes later Wolf got upon his feet. Decision and deliberation
marked his movements. He did not glance at the man and woman. His eyes
were fixed up the trail. He had made up his mind. They knew it. And
they knew, so far as they were concerned, that the ordeal had just
begun.

He broke into a trot, and Madge's lips pursed, forming an avenue for
the caressing sound that it was the will of her to send forth. But the
caressing sound was not made. She was impelled to look at her husband,
and she saw the sternness with which he watched her. The pursed lips
relaxed, and she sighed inaudibly.

Wolf's trot broke into a run. Wider and wider were the leaps he made.
Not once did he turn his head, his wolf's brush standing out straight
behind him. He cut sharply across the curve of the trail and was gone.
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