Wolf
John Cipollina, his pet wolf and getting attacked by the Grateful Dead
Excerpt from My Husband The Rock Star

John went out and got himself a wolf from somewhere. It was a baby wolf John named, aptly, “Wolf.” Wolf was a little shit in more ways than one. John didn’t attempt to train him in any way and Wolf took to emptying hid bowels on the living room floor.

“We’re not cleaning that up!” we’d tell John. But John stuck his patrician’s nose in the air; he wouldn’t stoop to so paltry a chore. Hence, one of us would get a newspaper and cover the mess, refusing on principal, however, to pick it up. The stench must have been terrible, but you know how it is when you’re living in the midst of it, you don’t smell it. We’d just let it sit and walk around the pile. Finally, someone couldn’t stand it anymore and they’d mop it up. But never John.

To be perfectly frank, the house was filthy. No one wanted to clean. We were too busy playing outside, going into town, going to the beach, and taking drugs. Cleaning was for grown-ups and there weren’t any in this gang.

Garbage piled up in a corner of the kitchen. Someone bought a big aluminum garbage can and plunked it down next to the refrigerator. If we had something to throw away while standing at the sink, we’d lob the trash or food in the general direction of the can, and if it landed inside, fine. If not, so be it. That was our general attitude. Oftentimes there would be a pretty good pile of stuff in and outside the can, irresistible to any wild creature.

I was working in the kitchen one afternoon peeling potatoes and tossing the peels towards the trashcan. Wolf click-clicked in and dug his nose into the garbage lying on the floor.

“Get out, Wolf” I hollered over my shoulder. Wolf turned his attention to me for a brief instant to growl a warning, “Back off, human!”

“Go on!” I’d scream, waving him away. Wolf growled deeper and with greater threat.
“You fucker!” I’d cry, grabbing a broom and brandishing it. A tug-of-war ensued when Wolf grabbed the end of the broom with his sharp white teeth and shook it violently until I had no choice but to let go. I was scared of him but I tried not to show it. “Get the hell out of here!” I’d rant.

“John, help me! Get your damn animal out of here!”

John wouldn’t come. He thought Wolf was adorable. But, who could blame the animal? He had good pickin’s at his disposal in that kitchen. At least somebody was cleaning up.

It was Friday night and we made our way to the city. The band was playing that weekend, as usual, at the Fillmore together with the Dead and Big Brother. We’d purchased an old white van to carry the bands’ equipment in lieu of John’s now-insufficient Plymouth.

As we crossed Golden Gate Bridge I got sick to my stomach from the smell inside. Wolf had been here and pooped as usual. It was cleaned up-for a change-but the stench lingered.

“God, John,” I cried, clutching my belly, trying not to throw up. “Disgusting!”

“Come on,” John purred. “You know you like Wolf,” he said, smiling, dark eyes glinting.

I shook my head, rolling my eyes. John was a charmer and I never could stay mad at him. Besides, it wouldn’t have done any good to be mad because he wouldn’t care. He’d just cross his long legs, light a cigarette, and grin at you over his smoke rings.

This was the night Quicksilver “attacked” the Grateful Dead, shooting them with blanks in their guns, playing cowboys and Indians, all their childhood energy aimed at each other in a playful manner. You know, “bang, your dead!” It was all in good fun. In retaliation, not too much longer, the Dead showed up late one night on the Olema farm, riding in on their horses about midnight from their place in Lagunitas. 

“Whoop, whoop!” they cried, thundering in.

"What the hell?” David said. We heard them coming before we saw them. We ran outside and cracked up, seeing who it was and all. Once inside the house, they sat around getting stoned and talking. It was great fun. That night they invited all of us to come stay with them in Lagunitas.