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Sugar?” asked Steve , shaking his head in amazement. He’d retreated a good two yards away, settling down upon his haunches as he watched the two minister to the wounded creature.
    “That’s what my father and I named him after we found him as a young pup over fifteen months ago. His mother had died from blood loss after gnawing off her own leg when caught in an illegal bear trap on the other side of the hill. Sugar had escaped the trap, but his leg was broken and my father set it. Since the half-grown wolf wasn’t very mobile, I fed and nursed him through the worst, and I guess, probably domesticated him too much. I managed to reintroduce the loafer to the wild by the end of this summer. Sugar’s been hunting on his own but hasn’t joined a pack yet. He always checks the house out a couple times a day and sometimes at night I hear him howling outside the window. Guess he considers me part of his pack.” Tia stroked the gray wolf’s soft fur and glanced back at Steve who still appeared nervous.
    She sought to reassure him. “I believe Sugar is intelligent enough to recognize when you’re helping him. He never attacked or bit my father or me once the entire time we had him as a half-grown pup so I think you’re safe. What kind of wound is this?” demanded Tia, as she examined the gray wolf and the bloody torn wound at the spot where his right upper leg joined his torso.
    “He’s been shot,” said Jon bluntly.
    “I can’t believe people still shoot wolves on sight because of the unfair reputation they hold with many cattle ranchers down in the lower 48! Up here we know how important wolves are to the food chain and they remain one of the Alaska’s greatest treasures.”
    Tia seemed near tears and Jon spoke in a softer tone. “You’re right. It wasn’t until Adolf Murie began his long term study of the wolves near Mt. McKinley National Park that people began to understand how important wolves are.”
    Tia glanced up in surprise at the dark green eyes of the man leaning across from her. “I own that wonderful book; it’s called The Wolves of Mt. McKinley and must be at least fifty years old.”
    “I’ m glad to see you’ve read it,” said Jon quietly. “I also use his Field Guide to Animal Tracks a great deal in my work. Anyway, Murie concluded there’s a delicate balance between predator and prey in this region and by preserving the wolf we help ensure the survival of all sorts of other Alaskan creatures such as the Dall sheep and Sitka black-tailed deer. Without the intervention of the wolf these animals would over-run the region and disrupt the balance of nature.”
    Jon’s steady voice washed over her and Tia felt herself relaxing as she listened to his educated words. She watched nervously as he applied the pressure bandage to the entry and exit wounds.
    “T he bullet passed clean through,” said Jon, pressing his dark fingers against the upper regions of the wolf’s right foreleg. “There doesn’t seem to be much tissue damage and I believe that with some rest your wolf will be one hundred percent in no time. May I use your knitted blanket over there?”
    Tia leaped to her feet and grabbed the dark red lap rug from the back of her recliner and spread it over the wolf. “Is there anything more we can do?”
    Jon hesitated. “While the bleeding seems to have stopped, I’m concerned Sugar will pull his wound apart when he awakens. We need to stitch up his wound.” Jon sat back upon the floor and crossed his legs Indian fashion. “I’m not sure I’m a good enough veterinarian to sew him up. Do either of you have any skills in that regard?” He first looked keenly at Steve, who shook his head vehemently.
    “I’m into advertising, not doctoring,” he protes ted, shrinking back.
    Tia hesitated and finally heaved a long sigh. “I might be able to do it since I’ve had a little experience with the injured and sick while volunteering in a hospice in LA. I suspect wax thread will prove