Georgia Ruth

Pickin' Banjo

Georgia Ruth

Every afternoon I walked the same route, from high school to work at my mother’s ice cream shop. The wages I earned didn’t seem worth the effort, but my wants were few and my savings grew. My life was boring.

I stopped to see why a crowd of boys had gathered at the open gate of our small town junkyard. Mr. Cash must have bought a new guard dog, because a hairy beast with yellow eyes was chained to a wooden shed. One kid launched a rock that hit the animal in the muzzle. He yipped and stood up.

“Dang, that’s a wolf,” somebody said.

The animal growled, pulling against his chain. Suddenly it was a sport. The boys challenged each other to hit him, pelting the enraged wolf that repeatedly lunged at them. One moron got close enough to poke him with a long branch that the beast grabbed and bit in two.

The owner came out of his office trailer and hollered. “You boys get on now! If Banjo breaks loose, he’ll eat you for dinner. I keep him hungry.” The gang yelled insults back at Mr. Cash before heading down the street.

The next day when I walked past the wrecked cars and piles of tires, I remembered the half-eaten bologna sandwich in my book bag. Just as I threw it toward the wolf, he lunged forward, and I pulled back. My sandwich fell short, a few feet from his farthest reach. Two classmates erupted in laughter as Banjo tried to stretch himself to get the food.

“Way to go, David,” mocked a kid I had disliked forever.

I felt terrible. I stood silently until the other boys left. Banjo lay quiet now, resigned to failure. Murmuring, I inched forward. I kept my eyes on the wolf. He lifted his head and sniffed the air. I shuffled closer and very slowly bent down to pick up the sandwich to toss again. He caught it and swallowed it whole. A low rumble came from his throat, and I retreated.

The next day I waited for everyone else to move on before sharing my tuna sandwich. I pitched it hard, right into Banjo’s mouth. This routine went on for a month. Once or twice, Mr. Cash saw me and threatened to call the law. I took to whistling the Star Wars theme to give myself courage.

The afternoon that Mom needed my help for a birthday party, I passed the junkyard earlier than usual. There was a gang of kids taunting Banjo again. I had my sandwich ready to fling when I heard a crunch. And felt pain in my empty outstretched fingers. Banjo had broken loose. He grabbed his food first, and then ran towards the screaming crowd who had bullied him. He bit somebody’s leg before the other boys scattered. The wolf ran off, dragging his chain. I was glad he was free, but my hand hurt. I had to wait until after the party to go to the doctor. I was bandaged and released, with a cool battle scar.

The next day I stopped by the junkyard and asked the owner what had happened to Banjo. Mr. Cash told me the animal service people had picked him up. He would be destroyed.

“I saw the whole thing,” he said. “It was your fault because Banjo thought he was protecting his food from those punks.”

At home I researched wolves and found that they naturally fear men. I knew Banjo acted out of self defense, but I wouldn’t be able to convince anyone. Not even my gentle mother felt kindly toward him. Although she expressed her opinion that it was the junk dealer who should be put down since he allowed cruelty to the animal, she insisted I should never have been there in the first place.

I found a wolf-dog sanctuary website and wrote a letter on behalf of my new friend. A week later I received an email from the manager telling me that she had rescued Banjo, and he was learning to adjust to his new home in North Carolina. Frannie thanked me for my interest in wolf-dogs. She had devoted her life to them, currently sheltering sixty on her property near Chimney Rock.

Frannie had an adoption program to help with the care of these refugees. For almost ten years, I sent a few dollars each month for Banjo’s food to a post office box in Asheville. Ten years and two children later, my wife questioned the wisdom of sending money to an unknown place with the name “Banjo” written on it.

“That’s for children. You’re naive if you think people are trustworthy,” chided Abby.

“I don’t send much. I want to believe in love and faith and courage and loyalty. All the values we teach our children. I want to believe someone at the top of the food chain is using my money to feed the outcasts at the bottom.”

“In Never-Never land, maybe,” she teased.

When my son was five and my daughter four, we made a visit to Chimney Rock. From the top is an incredible view of the Blue Ridge Mountains, and we hiked a trail before our lunch at the souvenir shop.

“This is a tourist trap,” said Abby.

“It’s natural history.” I chose that moment to tell her that the wolf-dog sanctuary where Banjo lived was very close. And having an open house.

“I knew you would want to do that. I just wondered when.” She smiled.

Dark storm clouds gathered, and the wind picked up, but we drove down winding roads through heavy forest according to Frannie’s directions. I was surprised to see about twenty cars in the parking area. We signed a visitor sheet at the entrance gate and received our instructions from a volunteer. “No shouting and no running.”

We hurried to join a tour before the rain hit. Several people were already headed to their cars. I looked around at the large runs scattered throughout the trees on the hill. Each had a shelter for the different sized wolf-dogs, most housed in pairs.

“Daddy, they have big teeth,” said my wide-eyed son.

My daughter tucked her hand in mine.

The name of each animal was on a sign in front of its cage with a code for the handlers, like at the Memphis Zoo where I worked. Frannie wore a silver braid, jeans and tennis shoes and gave the tour with amusing anecdotes and facts. She said the resident wolf-dogs had different personalities that she had to respect. Some loved attention and some were hermits. She reminded us that there would be no dogs if not for wolves.

I found Banjo. Or I found a wolf-dog with that name. He looked a little different than I remembered. More hair, brighter eyes, and perhaps smaller now that I was six feet tall. Funny thing was that he stared at me, sniffing into the air. I wished with all my heart he was the wolf I had fed, but the odds were against it. The average life span of a wolf is twelve years.

“Is he your Banjo?” said Abby.

“I don’t know. But I don’t think it matters.”

“He’s beautiful.” She squeezed my other hand. “Natural history.”

Just then lightning struck a tree at the edge of two pens. People ran, wolves howled, and the rain poured down. My family ran for the car, our son leading the way. As we passed the gift shop, I heard someone holler and blow a whistle. Right before a large gray animal galloped past us. And a second one behind him. I turned to see if all the wolf-dogs were loose.

Abby screamed. “He grabbed my baby!”

Through the pelting rain I saw the second wolf dragging my son along by the nape of the neck. I turned loose of my daughter’s hand to run faster but I couldn’t keep up. They were headed to the forest.

I shouted, “Stop! Stop!” Like another species could understand my rules. Out of the mist I saw Banjo return to his mate and bare his teeth, snarling his rules to her. She dropped my son. I was soon scooping up a speechless child and hugging him tight. We ran back to the souvenir shed where I examined him from head to toe. He had no teeth marks, just a torn hood on his jacket.

“You put our children in danger,” sobbed my hysterical wife. “For a fantasy!”

It was true. I sought a peaceable kingdom because I cherish all God’s creatures. But I had just lived the moment when theory became flesh and had my son’s name on it. I chose a priority.

I watched volunteers in rain parkas move from pen to pen with gifts of food. A tree had smashed a hole in the fence that had held Banjo and his mate. Two pens were empty.

As the storm passed over, Abby calmed down and gave me permission to help. I left my family in the dry shelter with cups of cocoa and walked out into the drizzle. I approached Frannie who stood in the middle of the compound shouting directions to her staff.

“Have the wolves taken to the woods?” I asked.

She pointed at the porch of her cottage. “Those are the two wolf-dogs I use for exhibition. They just want to get out of the rain.” Her forehead rippled. “How’s your son?”

“He’s okay. He seemed to think it was an adventure. It was only thirty seconds or so, thanks to Banjo.”

“Wolf-dogs are very intelligent,” she said. “And unpredictable. Volunteers are out searching, but we have to get this pen secure before we put them back.”

I offered an extra pair of hands, and soon the tree was topped and moved so that the holes in the wire could be repaired. Someone shouted and pointed at the edge of the forest where Banjo and his mate watched us. She sat, and he paced.

“Get more chicken,” ordered Frannie. “I hope they’re hungry.”

One of her volunteers walked toward the animals with the meat, a second worker with the tranquilizer gun. They stopped in the road, under the wolves’ scrutiny. Banjo glanced at me.

“It looks like Banjo has taken an interest in you,” said Frannie.

“Where did you get him?” I asked.

“The strangest way. A kid in Tennessee emailed me that he had been bitten by a chained wolf. He begged me to come get him, and he would pay for his food. How could I refuse a deal like that?”

My chest tightened. I had made a difference with my childish faith in happy endings.

“Lord, I hope they don’t run,” said Frannie. “If I have to call the Sheriff, he’ll have no problem taking them down. Heck, any farmer would do the same thing to protect his livestock. It’s a food chain thing. Wild animals will act wild.”

“How will you get them to the cage if you tranquilize them?”

“That’s a secondary plan. We hope to get a leash on the female’s collar. Want to try it?”

“No. I’m an accountant,” I said. “How do you transport your animals?”

“We use the camper when we pick up new critters, or take one to the vet. That’s how we take my wolf-dogs to show at schools and parades. You think we should use it?”

“It carries a wolf scent.” I shrugged.

She backed it up as close to Banjo and friend as she could get. They were tearing into the chicken, but keeping a watch on us. I moved closer and whistled the same tune I did ten years ago. Banjo listened and sniffed the air. I bounced a chicken offering in my scarred hand, and then threw it into the back of the camper. The female jumped in, but Banjo paused to turn and look down the road to freedom.

Banjo was born wild. He ran.