Wolf dogs find haven in New Hampshire sanctuary

Now Keating, having given you time, has emerged to stand beside you. Keating is deep-chested, with a snowy beard, a scroll-brimmed hat that might be the first thing he puts on every morning, and a cowboy's walk – a little stiff-legged but still easy over the ice patches and ruts.

He looks like a man who doesn't have much use for town. He says of Wayah matter-of-factly, "She was owned by a gang of drug dealers in Providence [R.I.]. They thought, 'What could be a tougher watchdog than a wolf?' But when the DEA came, the wolves were too smart and just hid in the back until it was over. Somebody asked if we could take them. She was in bad shape, but she's turned the corner now." He looks at you to see if you've understood. Another corner turned. He pauses. "Ready?" And he leads you off to inspect and feed the inhabitants of Loki's acre-sized pens.

Alongside comes a rackety little ATV driven by Keating's helper, Dan Hazlett, pulling an old wagon with frozen hamburger patties and chicken pieces. The two men toss the chunks over the fencing of each enclosure. The wolf dogs come to the sound and smell, and Keating talks to them, calls them by name, whispers in baby-talk. Sometimes he enters a pen, behaving carefully. ("To go in, you gotta be able to act like a wolf," he says.) He has assembled each of the packs like a matchmaker, placing alpha and subordinate animals to cohere. He's good at it. The wolves will live to be 15 or older at Loki (wild wolves live to be 6 to 8). They've escaped destruction and found a home.

Which is exactly, you realize later, what Keating has done, too. He lives on the property in a hard-worn trailer next to the pens, the air inside it thick with the damp overheatedness of close quarters in harsh weather. "My paycheck," Keating calls the trailer. He takes no salary, instead drawing just a provided subsistence. Loki, a nonprofit, functions annually on a budget of $60,000 to $100,000, which comes from donations.

But the trailer, the landscape, the wolf families – all of it for Keating is a turned corner of its own. Twenty years ago, he'd gained notice during a New Hampshire government inquiry into the wolf dog problem, which was growing even then. He loved the animals – he'd made a personal study of wolves for a couple decades already – and people began saying, "Hey, he seems to know what he's talking about, let's give him the problem." So Keating started taking in the animals people brought to him.

"What was I doing [for work] then?" he says, repeating a question. "Oh, a little bit of everything – welder, mechanic, school bus driver, whatever." He laughs. "I was waiting to find what I was gonna do with the rest of my life."

And what he found was this. He saves wolves.

"These are good lives now," Keating says as he walks among them, as he enters another pen and the animals jostle against him roughly and lick his face, mouth his fingers, and moan. "This is what they need."

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