This was not that. I was working with an outfit that rehabbed and released arctic wolves. I was not the only rehabber working with these particular wolves, but it was my job to check on them periodically and see how they were adjusting to being wild. One was rescued as a cub and hand-raised, and released as an adult. The other was rescued as an adult, injured, and rehabbed back to health before being released.
The release point, which was also the check-in point, was a cabin in a remote area: basic, small kitchen, bed, stove, toilet and sink partitioned off, as was long-term food storage. I was not the only person who worked with these wolves, but once released, they were my project to check on and monitor.
There's nothing like watching a full grown male white wolf in an expanse of new snow, for hoppiting through two-foot drifts and rolling in pleasure. Such joy in their being, and in me, watching them. I would arrive at the cabin, and make some human habitation noise, and one or both would appear in a day or two, come say hi, spend some time close by the cabin, playing, resting. And then wander off with purpose to do wolf things.
There was a bit near waking where the older wolf hadn't appeared for the past two visits, and I'd begun to wonder if he had died. But at my next check-in he had come, and was lying in a corner of the roofed porch. He had come back to die.
I did think that was odd, that a wolf would be more likely to go off alone to die, and that my conscious was telling me what I wanted to hear. But then I woke to birdsong outside my window. The amazing joy of watching the wolves cavort in the snow, their accepting presence, and quiet willingness to be near have followed me into waking. The images are still vivid. It was a lovely, lovely dream. Thank you, subconscious!