When I arrive at the Scout, I raise the door on the cap over the bed, then lower the gate. I wrestle out the massive Yeti cooler that weighs a ton and pull the rubber latches free. Even wrapped in a brace my sprained wrist complains. I reach inside with both hands to lift out the thawing Butterball.

Shadow has followed me halfway up the ramp. He freezes as I turn, watching me with that same hyper-alert posture: front legs spread, ears pointed, eyes on mine.

It hurts like hell, but I squat to place the turkey on the frozen gravel. “I’ll leave this here.”

He doesn’t trust me. He gives a glance in the direction of the woods. I am afraid he’s about to bolt.

Slowly, I straighten up again, feeling the effort in my thighs, especially the left one, and my back.

“Or we can go home,” I say.

His gaze reveals nothing.

“I haven’t had a chance to buy another kennel. I bet you’ll never get inside one of those again. I wouldn’t either if I were you. So you’d have to ride in back. I don’t mind if you want to eat while I drive.”

He takes a tentative step forward. My heart begins to swell.

“I’ll let you hang your head out the window if you want to pretend you’re a golden retriever. We might scare a few drivers off the road, but what the hell.” I retrieve the turkey and place it in the rear of the Scout.

Wolves and dogs are closely related, but humans have spent millennia learning to communicate with our so-called best friends. I can yammer at this big, black creature all I want. Maybe he understands me; maybe he doesn’t. He is and always will be a wild animal.

“Take your time. I need to get these snowshoes off.”

I take a big-footed step toward the driver’s door, worried again that I am moving too fast for him.

But as I approach the side mirror, I see his reflection, trotting forward, tail wagging.

Without another word from me, he vaults into the rear of the truck.

By the time I circle around, he is lying on his stomach, beside the cooler. He gnaws the frozen turkey, taking scraping bites. I hesitate to close the gate on him, but I take the chance. He keeps right on eating.

The drive home is surreal. Despite the turkey being a block of ice, Shadow manages to polish it off. I resort to tossing him granola bars from my personal stash in the glove compartment. These, he swallows whole.

I am dying to call someone, anyone, with the good news. But the situation inside the moving vehicle seems too delicate. I don’t want to speak, let alone stop in case it unnerves the wolf. That’s all I need: him going haywire.