I was born into a wolf pack, in one of the last truly wild places on Earth: Alaska. I don't know exactly where, I have never really learned how to read, much less read a map, with all of its confusing signs and symbols. But anyway, I was born to the Alphas: Leaf (my kind, gentle mother) and Sorrel (my brave, loving father). My name was Midnight, for I was born at exactly Midnight, whereas my brothers and sisters were born at other times during the night. I was (and still am, of course) a pitch-black she-wolf with a white star on my forehead and white paws. I was my parent's favorite, and so, destined to become Alpha Female in my pack.

            As the months went by, I became my father's favorite of the litter of pups, and he taught me to hunt mice and rabbits as soon as I could walk and run well. He taught my siblings, too, of course, but he taught me the most...and the most well. My siblings were never jealous, though, because I helped them to learn to swim (I have always loved the water) and to hunt better. It was a wonderful, beautiful existence, and I highly doubt that I could have believed that heaven was any better. If it was...well, if it was, than it really, truly was heaven.

          A wonderful existence, yes...until that fateful day. That day one winter...when I felt as if my whole life had been turned upside-down. 

My father and I were just returning from our daily walk, when we heard the howl of the guard wolf. "Stone! Whatever is happening?" yelped my mother, as she raced from our den, my siblings tumbling around her feet. "I smell....people. Close. Very close. And...dog, too; hunting dog, for why else would I smell a faint trace of boomstick-stones?" Stone said ominously. Boomstick-stones? I had only heard of them a couple of times. I had heard that they were deadly, although I did not know much about them. My mother had once told us that my grandfather had been killed by them...and the humans who had shot them at him.  "You may be istaken, Stone, but we cannot take any chances. Leaf, Feather, take the pups. Midnight, go with your mother. " My father sounded terrified, as if he could hardly believe what Stone had just told us. My brothers and sisters also looked terrified at the mere mention of the humans, and their dogs; but I was very curious about all of it. Part scared; part curious. I silently did as I was told. I could feel my heart pounding. The whole clearing seemed deadly silent. I could even hear paws crunching on the snow, leaving small pawprints where I had walked. I went to my mother, and crouched close to her warm body. Her scent, and Feather's soothing voice, comforted me and my brothers and sisters. My father was still shouting orders. And then, we began to evacuate the clearing.

                  We did not get far, though. For then, we heard the baying of the hunting dogs...and the crunch of man's boots on the snow...and shouting...and then....."RUN!!! EVERYONE! OUT OF THE CLEARING!!!" But it was too late. Stone, Feather, and a couple of other wolves leapt out of the clearing, each clutching a puppy tightly in thier jaws. But the humans were advancing on us. One had backed my mother into a corner of the den, and I heard a gunshot. One, then two, then three. So that was a boomstick. A large, heavy stick that humans carried. When they pulled a trigger, a stone shot out of it, making a terrifing cracking sound, like thunder during a storm. But the worst part about that discovery was, my mother didn't come out. At least, not until the human with the boomstick reached in and pulled out her beatiful gray body. He put it in a sack he was carrying over his shoulder, then reached into the den again and pulled out three more limp, lifeless bodies: three of my siblings. The sound of the gunfire was everywhere. (Gunfire was what the dogs called it--none of us really know what a "gun" is). I heard Feather and Stone yelp in pain, and I knew that they were gone. The puppies they were carrying must have been killed, too, for they never came back. One human was advancing on me. I was very young, only a year old, and was therefore frozen in fear. I couldn't run. I tried to, but my legs seemed glued to the snowy ground. He was coming at me...closer....closer....raising the boomstick. He was just about to pull the trigger when, out of nowhere, a sorrel-colored wolf leapt in front of me. I heard a shot, and the wolf fell a couple yards away from me. A man way back in the forest was yelling at the one that had tried to kill me, and he, satisfied with his work, ran off to aid the other human in killing the rest of the pack. They must have succeeded, because I found blood, and bits of fur, and fear-scent, and the scent of my pack-mates where they had ran to. I also never heard from any of them again.But since the human was gone, it gave me a chance to get a better look at the other wolf. I moved slowly over to the wolf that had saved my life. And then, I understood. It was my father, lying there. He was dead. And to this day, I still blame myself for his death. I laid my head down on his body, and whimpered pitifully. He taught me everything I know. I still mourn him, though he visits me in dreams often. The men never came to take his body away, though, so I buried him.

                    After that, I became a lone wolf. I stayed this way for months before I finally found a familiar face. And even then, the pack we formed consisted of wolves from many different backgrounds, histories, places, packs--and even people. We have a story, though now is not the time to tell it. Now is the time for me to go and rest. If I am to raise my pups in May, and really, truly form a good, strong pack, I will need my rest. I am young, very young, but even the young need their strength.