How to Kill a Wolf: An Undercover Report from the Idaho Coyote and Wolf Derby
The best way to fatally wound a wolf without killing it instantly is to shoot it in the gut, preferably with armor-piercing ammunition. Unlike soft lead-tipped bullets, which mushroom inside the body cavity and kill quickly, heavy-jacketed AP ammo pierces the target and blows out the other side.
This has two advantages: The first is that, especially with a gut shot, the animal will suffer. It will bleed out slowly, run a mile or so in terrified panic, and collapse. Then it will die. The second advantage is that, if you’re hunting illegally (out of season, at night with a spotlight, or on land where you shouldn’t), there is little forensic evidence for game wardens to gather. No bullet will be found in the cadaver. Most importantly, the animal will have traveled some distance from where it was shot, so that tracing the site of the shooting is almost impossible.

I gleaned these helpful tips from a nice old man at a saloon in Salmon, Idaho, which last December was the site of the first annual Coyote and Wolf Derby. I had come to this rural town—population 3,000—to enter as a contestant in the derby. Over the course of two days in late December, several hundred hunters would compete to kill as many wolves and coyotes as possible. There were two $1,000 prizes to be had, one for the most coyotes slain and the other for the largest single wolf carcass. Children were encouraged to enter, with special awards for youths aged 10–11 and 12–14 listed on the promotional flyer. The derby’s organizer, a nonprofit sporting group called Idaho for Wildlife, advertised that the event was to be historic: the first wolf-killing contest held in the US since 1974.
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How to Kill a Wolf: An Undercover Report from the Idaho Coyote and Wolf Derby

The best way to fatally wound a wolf without killing it instantly is to shoot it in the gut, preferably with armor-piercing ammunition. Unlike soft lead-tipped bullets, which mushroom inside the body cavity and kill quickly, heavy-jacketed AP ammo pierces the target and blows out the other side.

This has two advantages: The first is that, especially with a gut shot, the animal will suffer. It will bleed out slowly, run a mile or so in terrified panic, and collapse. Then it will die. The second advantage is that, if you’re hunting illegally (out of season, at night with a spotlight, or on land where you shouldn’t), there is little forensic evidence for game wardens to gather. No bullet will be found in the cadaver. Most importantly, the animal will have traveled some distance from where it was shot, so that tracing the site of the shooting is almost impossible.

I gleaned these helpful tips from a nice old man at a saloon in Salmon, Idaho, which last December was the site of the first annual Coyote and Wolf Derby. I had come to this rural town—population 3,000—to enter as a contestant in the derby. Over the course of two days in late December, several hundred hunters would compete to kill as many wolves and coyotes as possible. There were two $1,000 prizes to be had, one for the most coyotes slain and the other for the largest single wolf carcass. Children were encouraged to enter, with special awards for youths aged 10–11 and 12–14 listed on the promotional flyer. The derby’s organizer, a nonprofit sporting group called Idaho for Wildlife, advertised that the event was to be historic: the first wolf-killing contest held in the US since 1974.

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THE RIGHT TO DIE IS THE RIGHT TO LIVE - 
WOLF THE ARTIST AND HIS STRUGGLE TO SURVIVE AS HE PLEASES


One month before his 18th birthday, my son Wolf was thrilled to receive invitations from galleries in Melbourne and New York City to exhibit his paintings of mythical creatures, herbivores, aliens, religious imagery, and cities destroyed by solar flares. The bad news is that the showings are scheduled for the summer of 2013. Wolf may not be alive then. At least according to the call I received from one of his doctors, suggesting that he and I begin sessions with an end-of-life grief counselor.
Wolf was born with a microdeletion in his 22nd chromosome. The resulting medical conditions have rippled out into ever-expanding rings of pain; each attempt to fix one problem results in another. The more tests and treatments and medicines he is prescribed, the sicker he gets. The sicker he gets, the more tests and treatments and medicines he is prescribed. 
At various points in his life, Wolf has been diagnosed as schizoaffective, bipolar, ADD, OCD, and ODD, and he’s also been undiagnosed with these disorders. Finally, the doctors settled on NOS—“not otherwise specified.” The US Department of Health claims that 20 percent of Americans are mentally ill, and even questioning authority is considered by some to be a disorder. If you fell into their diagnosing hands, who knows what they would find? Wolf has never had a break from his diagnosers.
I am grateful to science for saving Wolf’s life at three weeks old when his heart failed; I am grateful to psychiatry for creating medications to stave off crises that, without intervention, could have been disastrous. I am grateful to the many giving doctors, nurses, therapists, teachers, and aides who have taken his little broken body and mind into their hands and hearts to infuse them with more life. But somewhere along the line they—and I—forgot that eventually we would have to step away and give that life back to him.
When the grief counselor was recommended, Wolf was already seeing three therapists weekly: one for speech, another for behavior modification, and one to monitor psych meds. If they were not able to really help him live, why should we bring in another to help him die? Between the three specialists monitoring his thoughts and the 11 in charge of his physical systems—circulatory, immune, gastroenterology, ear-nose-throat, etc.—Wolf was on 16 medications. Blood tests and bone scans every couple weeks. Untold cups peed and pooped in, refrigerated and delivered. MRIs. Any rashes? Any thoughts of hurting yourself or others? Any delusions? Have we met our goal to interact with peers appropriately 75 percent of the time? Have you developed hair on your scrotum? Let me see. Any tenderness around the nipples? I’m just going to insert this barium into your G-tube.
Home was no sanctuary. So many times he had to fast for 12 hours to prep for a test or leave a play date early because I’d forgotten to pack all the equipment he needed or cut a vacation short for an appointment or get up at 5 AM for the drive to Boston Children’s Hospital. Sleep wasn’t a refuge, for him or for me. One night, while I was having a really nice dream about trying on bathing suits (and I looked good in every one of them), the telephone, which I kept right by my head, ripped me out of my sleep. A nurse practitioner had just read the results of Wolf’s latest calcium-level test, and her voice was an insistent alarm clock.
Nurse Practitioner: “The doctor wants to double his calcium intake.”
Me: “He’s still throwing up every day. I don’t want to increase his calcium.”
Nurse Practitioner: “You have to. If it gets much lower, he could have a seizure.”
Me: “Could have a seizure. With the vomiting and nausea, he is starving to death.”
Nurse Practitioner: “I see. I’m feeling like you need to come in and touch base with the doctor. Are you feeling that?”
Me: “No. Wolf and I have up to five appointments a week, every week. I’m not feeling like I need to touch any base on an issue we’ve already gone back and forth on.”
Nurse Practitioner: “I’m going to put you on hold, because I need to get the doctor in on this… I have the doctor standing right behind me, and she says his calcium needs to be doubled.”
Me: “He can’t take it. He’s going to be throwing up ten times a day.”
Nurse Practitioner: “Well, we agree that the calcium needs to be increased, so you’re going to have to double that. We’ll call you back in a week or so and talk about how it’s going. That’s all I have for you now.”
I doubled his calcium.

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THE RIGHT TO DIE IS THE RIGHT TO LIVE - 

WOLF THE ARTIST AND HIS STRUGGLE TO SURVIVE AS HE PLEASES

One month before his 18th birthday, my son Wolf was thrilled to receive invitations from galleries in Melbourne and New York City to exhibit his paintings of mythical creatures, herbivores, aliens, religious imagery, and cities destroyed by solar flares. The bad news is that the showings are scheduled for the summer of 2013. Wolf may not be alive then. At least according to the call I received from one of his doctors, suggesting that he and I begin sessions with an end-of-life grief counselor.

Wolf was born with a microdeletion in his 22nd chromosome. The resulting medical conditions have rippled out into ever-expanding rings of pain; each attempt to fix one problem results in another. The more tests and treatments and medicines he is prescribed, the sicker he gets. The sicker he gets, the more tests and treatments and medicines he is prescribed. 

At various points in his life, Wolf has been diagnosed as schizoaffective, bipolar, ADD, OCD, and ODD, and he’s also been undiagnosed with these disorders. Finally, the doctors settled on NOS—“not otherwise specified.” The US Department of Health claims that 20 percent of Americans are mentally ill, and even questioning authority is considered by some to be a disorder. If you fell into their diagnosing hands, who knows what they would find? Wolf has never had a break from his diagnosers.

I am grateful to science for saving Wolf’s life at three weeks old when his heart failed; I am grateful to psychiatry for creating medications to stave off crises that, without intervention, could have been disastrous. I am grateful to the many giving doctors, nurses, therapists, teachers, and aides who have taken his little broken body and mind into their hands and hearts to infuse them with more life. But somewhere along the line they—and I—forgot that eventually we would have to step away and give that life back to him.

When the grief counselor was recommended, Wolf was already seeing three therapists weekly: one for speech, another for behavior modification, and one to monitor psych meds. If they were not able to really help him live, why should we bring in another to help him die? Between the three specialists monitoring his thoughts and the 11 in charge of his physical systems—circulatory, immune, gastroenterology, ear-nose-throat, etc.—Wolf was on 16 medications. Blood tests and bone scans every couple weeks. Untold cups peed and pooped in, refrigerated and delivered. MRIs. Any rashes? Any thoughts of hurting yourself or others? Any delusions? Have we met our goal to interact with peers appropriately 75 percent of the time? Have you developed hair on your scrotum? Let me see. Any tenderness around the nipples? I’m just going to insert this barium into your G-tube.

Home was no sanctuary. So many times he had to fast for 12 hours to prep for a test or leave a play date early because I’d forgotten to pack all the equipment he needed or cut a vacation short for an appointment or get up at 5 AM for the drive to Boston Children’s Hospital. Sleep wasn’t a refuge, for him or for me. One night, while I was having a really nice dream about trying on bathing suits (and I looked good in every one of them), the telephone, which I kept right by my head, ripped me out of my sleep. A nurse practitioner had just read the results of Wolf’s latest calcium-level test, and her voice was an insistent alarm clock.

Nurse Practitioner: “The doctor wants to double his calcium intake.”

Me: “He’s still throwing up every day. I don’t want to increase his calcium.”

Nurse Practitioner: “You have to. If it gets much lower, he could have a seizure.”

Me: “Could have a seizure. With the vomiting and nausea, he is starving to death.”

Nurse Practitioner: “I see. I’m feeling like you need to come in and touch base with the doctor. Are you feeling that?”

Me: “No. Wolf and I have up to five appointments a week, every week. I’m not feeling like I need to touch any base on an issue we’ve already gone back and forth on.”

Nurse Practitioner: “I’m going to put you on hold, because I need to get the doctor in on this… I have the doctor standing right behind me, and she says his calcium needs to be doubled.”

Me: “He can’t take it. He’s going to be throwing up ten times a day.”

Nurse Practitioner: “Well, we agree that the calcium needs to be increased, so you’re going to have to double that. We’ll call you back in a week or so and talk about how it’s going. That’s all I have for you now.”

I doubled his calcium.

Continue