The wolf is a wily beast, a strategic thinker; the consummate dog of war. Before going into battle — over territory, rank or prey — the wolf sizes up the terrain, checks out the options and comes up with a plan.
That might not always involve dressing up in Grandma’s nightie. A pack of wolves with its sights trained on a mule deer (the hapless scrap of flesh above) may send out a decoy wolf to distract the target’s attention while the pack attacks from behind. Or the pack may set up an ambush trail: Indian wolves have been known to chase herds of gazelles through a ravine where their cohorts wait, crouched in holes dug before the hunt — a clear example of cognitive mapping. Then they leap, killing large prey by biting large chunks from the perineum area, causing fatal blood loss.
Wolf blood is most commonly spilt in gang warfare — rival packs jostling for territory. Status is key. Each pack has its generals: the alpha couple, the main hunters, are monogamous, and usually the only pair able to rear pups. The beta wolf is their second-in-command, keeping the pack in line by baring teeth, flattening ears and growling savagely; marking all fresh kills with scent, ensuring that the meat is reserved for the alpha pair; and investigating lone wolves wishing to join the pack. At the other end of the command chain is the omega wolf, whose fate it is to be dominated. Blood can be shed when this status quo is upset — when a beta aspires to be an alpha. The internecine battles of the wolves of Yellowstone Park in Wyoming would make Tony Soprano squirm.
Fighting, however, seems to be a last resort. Wolves prefer negotiation to confrontation. They use posture — tail raised, ears erect, hackles bristling — to suggest dominance, and choral harmony to imply greater pack strength.
Which makes the wolf a sophisticated and powerful foe. Grandma never stood a chance.