After my parents got married, in the late seventies, they decided they wanted to get a puppy together. My mom had several dogs growing up. My dad didn’t but really wanted a dog and had read every book on dogs and taking care of them he could get his hands on. They found a reputable breeder — yes, I know, “Adopt, don’t shop,” but that wasn’t really a thing yet back then — and got everything prepared.
When the puppies were eight weeks old, my parents went to pick up the one of their choice. While my dad sorted out paperwork and payment and such, my mom played with the puppies and chatted with the breeder’s children. One of them asked her a question.
Kid: “What are you going to name him?”
Mom: “We’re naming him [Puppy]. Do you have a name for him?”
Kid: “We call him Wolfie.”
Mom: “Really? Wolfie?”
Kid: “Yep!”
Mom was a bit surprised. The puppy was a fluffy little brown and white thing with floppy ears that didn’t resemble a wolf in the slightest; he was a spaniel-type breed. She wanted to ask the kid why they called him Wolfie, but they were distracted by something, and then my dad announced it was time to go, so she never found out. She did relay the story to my dad on the way home, and he was surprised by the name, as well. But you never know why kids might name an animal something, so they put it out of their minds.
That night, after an exhausting day of exploring his new home, backyard, and neighborhood, the puppy curled up contentedly in the little nest my parents had prepared for him, complete with a hot water bottle, and went to sleep. My parents went to bed, hoping he’d sleep through the night but prepared to deal with nightly whining.
What they were very much NOT prepared for was to be awoken in the middle of the night by ear-splitting howling. They’d never heard a wolf howl, but this was pretty much how they’d imagined it sounding except higher in pitch. My parents rushed downstairs to find the puppy sitting upright in his nest and howling his lungs out at the moon, which shone through a crack in the curtains. They watched the howling puppy for a moment, too dumbfounded to respond, before my dad picked him up and gently shushed him.
Dad: “Well, I guess now we know why those kids called him Wolfie.”
They called up the breeder the next day, and he confirmed that, yes, “Wolfie” had the odd habit of sometimes howling at the moon, but it was harmless and he’d probably grow out of it as he grew older. Still, he advised closing the curtains, since he only did it when he could actually see the moon. My parents looked at each other, shrugged, and basically decided, “Well, we wanted a dog, and we can live with this.” Curtains were closed from that point on.
I’m happy to say that “Wolfie” lived a long and happy life with my family full of long walks, bike rides, hunting trips with my dad, and camping holidays in several countries, as well as all the ear-scratches and belly rubs he wanted, but he never completely grew out of his habit of howling at the moon. When he got two “brothers”, my parents were worried they’d pick up this habit as well, but they didn’t. They were even more worried when they brought home a hairless, two-legged “sister” for Wolfie — me. Though I learned to bark before I could talk and accidentally ate dog food on several occasions, I was much too sound of a sleeper to pick up howling at the moon, much to my parents’ relief.
