Our farmhouse was a century home, made of logs with a red-brick faux facade. By the time Wayne and I were born, there was electricity, a toilet and running water. The floors creaked and the doors squeaked and while most of the time, living in an old farmhouse was a lot of fun, sometimes it was very scary.
On nights when the moon was full, Buster would engage in a howling match with the bush wolves. I would hind under the quilts and flannel sheets, envisioning the wolves somehow getting into the house and hiding under my bed.
“Oooooo,” I could hear from far far away. “Ooooooo.”
“Oooooo,” Buster would answer.
Back and forth the howling would continue and sometimes Dad would come to my rescue by opening his bedroom window and shouting, “BUSTER –STOP THAT GODDAMN HOWLING”. Buster’s howling would stop, but not the distance “Ooooooo” coming from somewhere ... out there.
I can't remember ever seeing a wolf, yet I was wildly afraid of them. I knew they were hiding under my bed because Wayne told me they would snap at my feet if got too close to the edge. So, when my parents put our bunk beds in parallel configuration, I would stand on the edge and jump out to the floor as far as I could. To get back in, I’d stand far enough away so that with one big jump, I would land on the mattress. Thus, the reason why I loved the beds put in "bunk" formation - the wolves couldn't get me on the top. They'd get Wayne!
One night as I was walking from the bathroom to the bedroom, I heard a growling sound down the dark hallway. I froze in fear - couldn’t move. With my heart pounding hard, my whole body started shaking. As my weight shifted from one foot to another, the floorboards squeaked.
“Grrrrrr,” came the sound again. I knew right away that somehow a wolf had gotten into the house and into the bedroom. I couldn’t speak, scream or move. If I did anything, the wolf would attack me and gobble me up.
“GRRRRR,” the wolf growled louder. Scratch! Scratch! I could hear the wolf's claws scraping the floor and I started to cry.
“BOO!” Wayne shouted as he jumped out of the bedroom into the hall.
“EEEEEK!” I screamed, now crying loudly.
“Shhhhh,” laughed Wayne. “Stop crying. It was just me. You’re such a scaredy-cat!”
“I....thought... you ....were a ... wolf!” I metered out, tears running down her face.
“What going on up there?” Mommy shouted making her way up the stairs. “You kids, get to bed.”
“Wayne pretended he was a wolf and scared me,” I wailed.
“Come on. Both of you, into bed. Wolves cannot get into the house. Never, ever,” Mom tried to assure me.
“Maybe they’ll come in through the window,” I whimpered, now tucked under my warm heavy covers.
“They cannot get through the window OR the door.”
“I think they're hiding under my bed, Ma”
“There are no wolves under your bed. See? I’ll look right now.” Mom looked under the bed. “Nope, nothing there.”
“Maybe they’re in the closet, Ma.”
“There are no wolves in the closet. See? I’ll look in the closet.” Mom opened the closet door and sure enough there were no wolves.
“But Buster howls for the wolves to come and play with him," I insisted, having a hard time buying into Mom's logic.
“Buster is howling to keep the wolves away. Buster is protecting us. You have nothing to worry about with Buster outside. OK?” Mom pulled my covers up close to my nose.
A few minutes after Mom went back downstairs, I had to go to the bathroom. I squeezed my eyes shut and tried to fall to sleep. I knew everything that Mom had said was true. There were no wolves at the window, none under the bed and none in the closet. Buster was outside protecting the house. I pushed down the covers and put one foot over the edge of the bed then pulled it back quickly. I stood up and jumped out as far from the bed as possible and ran to the bathroom. When I was back in the bedroom, I stood as far from the bed as I could and jumped back in.
by Wendy V. Smith (January 2011) (revised November 2020)