I nearly thirsted to death in Nanaimo. That gave me paws. Panting, I considered humans’ strange relationship with water.

Imagine wearing a thick black fur coat like mine in the summer sun, with nothing but your long, sweaty tongue to cool down sixty kilos of wolf body! That was me at the end of a long, sticky afternoon on the pavement outside the Nanaimo library, waiting with my Pack Leader for the third member of our mini-pack to emerge from that deliciously cool building—I could smell the coolth every time the door opened.. We hung around hot, dry downtown on such a day, instead of swimming and socialising with more sensible humans and canines.

“You can’t go in there,” said Pack Leader, pointing to a picture stuck to the glass doors. “See? No dogs allowed.”

I’m not going to take out a book, I explained. I’ll just visit the water closet for a long, clean, cold drink.

Pack Leader was absorbed in reading poems stuck to the windows. I decided to handle my own problems.

You could smell the harbour from the library plaza. I could just toddle down to the water’s edge and be satisfied with a sweet-and-sour drink. Harbour water tastes weird from all the pee and gasoline from the humans’  floating dens. Ten minutes later, I’d probably be thirsty again, but some moisture’s better than nothing. I took matters into my own paws and trotted away.

Around the corner a powerful aroma appeared like a vision of dinner, overpowering all thoughts of water. Hot meat! Eggs! Soup! Somebody in that building was cooking up a feast! On impulse I slipped through the doorway.

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