News item: A rare photo of the wolf that lives in the Chatham Islands off Oak Bay was taken from a passing boat last week.
Examination of the wolf’s spoor shows seals make up 80 per cent of its diet.
Dear Diary,
Being the Lone Wolf of the Chatham Islands, I have no one else to talk to, so I might as well record my thoughts here.
It’s nice to have these islands to myself. No people, no other wolves, no other animals (Except the seals! Yummy!), no rotting to death in the Colwood Crawl each day. This is Songhees land, off limits to the public.
Still, this solitary existence can be a bit … solitary. Feeling blue. Think I have a case of the Mondays.
TUESDAY — Weird thing happened today. I’m down by the water in my Little Red Riding Hood outfit, trying to charm a harbour seal onto shore, when this nature photographer passes by in a boat.
Usually I would slip out of sight, but this time I whip off the hood and strike a classic wolf-in-the-wild pose. Don’t know what made me preen for her like that. Could it be that this lone wolf is actually lonely?
Not sure what to make for supper tonight. I’m thinking seal.
WEDNESDAY — Feeling at loose ends. Netflix is down. Kept an eye out for my photographer friend but she didn’t show.
Flipped through Jamie Oliver looking for new recipes but all I saw was the same old, same old. Raw seal. Roast seal. Seal burritos. Seal vindaloo. Seal flipper pie. I feel like Bubba from Forrest Gump.
THURSDAY — Got a visitor today. This deer swims up to the island, says his name is Buck and he’s on the lam from the Oak Bay venicide. Then he looks around and says: “You got anything to eat?”
I was going to reply, “Just look in the mirror,” but decided to let him live. It’s nice to have the company.
FRIDAY — Another visitor! This one came from the other direction, across the strait. “I’m Dr. Ebrahimi,” she introduced herself, extending a dripping hand. “I’m a dentist. Formerly of Seattle. Formerly of Iran. Donald Trump thinks I’m a threat.”
Buck looked alarmed and took cover behind me. “Are you a threat?” he asked.
“Only to your gum disease,” she said.
SATURDAY — Yet more visitors! This time it was a family of five, arriving by boat from Washington. “Hector Rodriguez,” said the dad. “Been farming in the U.S. for 15 years, but Donald Trump wants to send us to Mexico.”
“Can you grow food that isn’t seal?” I asked.
Hector looked a bit confused, but replied “Si, I’m a good farmer.”
“Then bienvenido, amigos!” I declared, flashing the children my best wolf smile.
The eldest looked at me blankly. “Sorry,” she said. “I was born in Port Angeles. I don’t speak Spanish.”
SUNDAY — So, Hector and I are staking out the footings for the new chicken barn when I look up to see a grey-haired couple wading ashore.
“We came from Vancouver,” says the man. “We just sold our termite-infested 1942 Kerrisdale bungalow for $7.2 million and decided to retire. This place looks nice. What does Chatham Island waterfront go for?”
MONDAY — I can barely hear myself think. The women are nattering on about Zumba class, the guys are moaning about the Seahawks (yes, we know, they should have given the ball to Lynch) and the kids are trying to ride Buck like a horse (“Get off! Bad hombres!”).
So I trot down to the beach for some peace and quiet, only to see another couple swimming my way, except this time they’re younger. He has water streaming from his civil war beard. She’s using a rolled-up yoga mat as a flotation device.
“I’m weak from surgery,” she explains. “Sold a kidney, but still can’t afford a down payment in Fernwood. What’s a Chatham Island two-bedroom go for?”
TUESDAY — Huh! Didn’t expect that big group from the Songhees nation to show up today, though I guess it is their island. But who gave the OK for the Oak Bay High field trip? And who are those guys in the tent city that popped up overnight?
Getting pretty crowded. I got a phone call from Ten Mile Point last night, asking us to keep it down.
WEDNESDAY — Woke up to the sound of tour buses (who knew Victoria could build a bridge so fast?). Hector’s new food truck (“Try our seal-sa!”) has a big lineup. A man by the pedicab stand is selling souvenirs, though the image on the Lone Wolf T-shirts looks like a German shepherd. A bylaw officer is ordering Dr. Ebrahimi to put me on a leash.
Barely audible over the din, I hear a distant howl. It’s the call of the wild.
