Frank: A Tale of Two Rats

Some photographers wait their whole lives for an encounter like this. Imagine how excited I was to have it show up almost on my doorstep.

Frank first appeared to me on March 20th and by April 16th he was gone.

He came here because the rats made easy hunting. Sadly, his life ended because of a man who behaved like one.

For less than a month, I had the rare privilege of sharing space with something truly wild, powerful, beautiful, and deeply misunderstood. What started as a strange sighting near the train tracks turned into one of the most unforgettable wildlife encounters I’ve ever had and one of the hardest endings to accept.

It actually started with rats. Not little ones either.  I mean these were the kind that make you stop mid-step and question your life choices. Baby bunny sized rats had taken over my neighbour’s place, and after talking to a few people around town, it turned out they were popping up in several spots. In a small town, that kind of thing gets noticed fast.

Now if you know anything about me, I spend a lot of time watching wildlife from my windows. I have foxes that visit regularly, birds, squirrels, crows, chipmunks and with my road, the train tracks, another road, and bush beyond that, there’s always something worth watching.

One day, I looked up and did a double take.

Coyotes aren’t unusual. Wolves, out in the open  are though for these parts.

So when I saw him crossing near the tracks, I convinced myself it had to be a coyote. Wolves don’t just casually stroll out in the open where people can see them… right?

I grabbed a few quick photos and sent them to a friend.

“Coyote,” they said. “No way that’s a wolf.”

But I wasn’t convinced. Something inside me said differently.

I set up my wildlife camera near the front of the house and started catching better footage along the road’s edge. Then he showed up right near my window.  He was close enough for real photos though late at night so I opted to capture both cell phone videos and try for camera images.  Also he was close enough for size to matter.

This animal stood well over my knee.

Suddenly, more people who I sent images to were saying what I had already suspected: wolf. Maybe even a coywolf. Either way, he wasn’t small, and he definitely wasn’t just someone’s overactive imagination.

Truthfully, by then, I didn’t care what label people gave him.

I was just grateful.  A coywolf or wolf coming around and seen, as well as photos taken, beyond words.

He was likely there because the rats made easy hunting, but for me, it felt like something bigger. I was getting to watch a wild wolf from the comfort of my own home. As a photographer, that’s the kind of gift you don’t forget.

My only complaint? He seemed determined to show up only in terrible lighting.

By that point, I wasn’t just watching for wildlife out my window, I was watching for him.

I have a little fox alarm at home. My 7-pound chiweenie was always quick to let me know when the foxes showed up outside. But before long, he seemed to sense my excitement for Frank too.

Any time that little alarm would go off, my heart would skip a beat.

I’d grab my camera and head straight for the window, hoping this time it would be him.

Every movement near the tracks made me look twice. Every evening, I found myself checking the window, hoping for another glimpse.

That’s the thing about wildlife like this, you don’t realize how much space they’ve taken up in your daily life until they’re suddenly gone.

Night visits. Dusk appearances. Shadowy movement just far enough away to make every photographer groan.  Despite going out and trying, he was always on the move.

Then finally a few daylight visits.  Sure they were far away but my long lens picked up enough clear details to confirm this was no longer a debate but an actual wolf.

One visit, he was out near the tracks, and I did what I do not recommend anyone else do: I grabbed my camera and went outside.

Carefully. Respectfully.

And with a very clear escape plan.

He watched me. I watched him. I kept my distance, and he kept his.

There was never fear exactly, more like an understanding. A quiet agreement.

You do what you need to do. I’ll do what I need to do.

I never tried to push trust where it didn’t belong. Wild animals deserve respect, not assumptions. I always spoke softly when I saw him. Calm. Gentle.

My next biggest opportunity was also my last.  That final evening, when he stood near my yard and gave me the clearest head shots I’d ever captured.  I was inside my yard, a fence the only thing that separated us.  Again, this look of acknowledgement.  I was a familiar presence to him in the area and never showed myself a threat, he seemed to know that.  I took some shots, and he gave me some looks or I liked to think he posed.  He turned and left but as he left, I thanked him.

I had no idea while this was happening it would be the last time.

Someone local shot him that night.  Not for his pelt, or to keep as a trophy.

It was in town. Out of season. No real logic or reason.

The details made it worse.  His body was just left by the side of the road.  The picture I received that morning made my heart drop.

He wasn’t just a passing visitor either, he was the father of two young ones, leaving a mother now trying to fend for them alone. I learned this detail after his death. That part sat heavy.

The anger sat heavier.

I named him Frank.

Like many animals I spend time watching, once they leave a mark on me, they get a name.

Two years later, I caught another glimpse.

Across the road, for only a brief moment, another wolf appeared. Long enough for one photo, just enough proof that I hadn’t imagined it. Then it was gone and I never saw it again.

Maybe it was nothing more than another passing traveller.

Or maybe it was one of Frank’s young ones, grown now, moving through the same stretch of tracks and bush their father once called home.

I’ll never know for sure.

But I like to think every now and then, they still patrol the old neighbourhood.

Frank hangs on my wall now, captured forever in one of those photographs, a reminder that not every wild story gets a happy ending.

Some stories arrive because of rats. Some stay because they remind you how rare beauty really is. And some leave because humans forget that not everything powerful needs to be destroyed.