On This Day, Aug. 11: Robin Williams dies at age 63
Aug. 11 (UPI) -- On this date in history:
In 1877, Thomas Edison described the fundamentals of the phonograph to an assistant and instructed him to build the first one.
In 1934, the first group of federal prisoners classified as "most dangerous" arrived at Alcatraz Island, a 22-acre rocky outcrop 1.5 miles offshore in San Francisco Bay.
In 1943, German military forces started evacuating Sicily, Italy, under threat by the Allies in World War II.
In 1952, Jordan's parliament ousted King Talal for being mentally unfit to rule and named his 17-year-old son King Hussein. The young king would go on to rule 43 years, until his death Feb. 7, 1999.
In 1954, a formal announcement ended the seven-year war in Indochina between France and forces of the communist Viet Minh.
In 1965, riots began in the Watts section of Los Angeles. In six days of violence, 34 people were killed.
In 1984, in an off-air radio voice check picked up by TV cameras, U.S. President Ronald Reagan joked, "My fellow Americans, I'm pleased to tell you today that I've signed legislation that will outlaw Russia forever. We begin bombing in 5 minutes." The Kremlin wasn't amused.
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In 1991, a Lebanese militant group, the Revolutionary Justice Organization, released U.S. hostage Edward Tracy, 60, who was a captive for nearly five years.
In 1993, U.S. President Bill Clinton endorsed the "Brady Bill" handgun control measure and signed an executive order banning the import of semiautomatic assault-style handguns.
In 1997, Bill Clinton became the first U.S. president to use the line-item veto, a power granted by Congress the year before.
In 1998, two boys, ages 12 and 14, were found to be "delinquent" (the juvenile court equivalent of a guilty verdict) in the fatal March shootings of four students and a teacher at their middle school in Jonesboro, Ark.
In 1999, the Kansas State Board of Education voted to drop the theory of evolution from the public school curriculum.
In 2007, the Evangelical Lutheran Church in America voted to refrain from disciplining members of the clergy involved in same-sex relationships.
In 2009, Eunice Kennedy Shriver, younger sister of President John Kennedy, mother of former California first lady Maria Shriver and founder of the Special Olympics, died in a Cape Cod, Mass., hospital. She was 88. She devoted much of her life to raising funds for, and awareness of, people with mental disabilities.
File Photo by Doug Mills/UPI
In 2014, Oscar-winning actor and comedian Robin Williams died at age 63 in Tiburon, Calif. "This is a sudden and tragic loss," his publicist said. Williams' wife, Susan Schneider, said "the world lost one of its most beloved artists and beautiful human beings." Williams' death was ruled a suicide.
In 2016, Michael Phelps became the first swimmer to win four consecutive Olympic gold medals in a single event.
In 2020, Democratic presidential nominee Joe Biden chose Sen. Kamala Harris, D-Calif., to be his running mate. She became the first female vice president when Biden was elected president on Nov. 3, 2020.
In 2021, Sicily set the new record for highest recorded temperature in Europe with 119.84 degrees Fahrenheit.
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Yahoo
3 hours ago
- Yahoo
I toured the USS Silversides, a World War II submarine that sank 23 enemy vessels and earned 12 battle stars. Take a look inside.
The USS Silversides submarine sank 23 ships and earned 12 battle stars during World War II. Visitors can tour the vessel at the USS Silversides Submarine Museum in Muskegon, Michigan. The submarine was the site of a successful emergency appendectomy in enemy waters in 1942. Christmas Eve, 1942. The USS Silversides, a US Navy submarine, is surrounded by Japanese warships on a covert patrol in enemy-controlled waters. And George Platter's appendix is about to burst. Platter, a crew member on the USS Silversides, will die if he doesn't get surgery immediately. When the commanding officer gives the order, crew members spring into action. They fashion surgical tools out of utensils from the galley. They find an ironing board to prop up Platter's feet since the table in the wardroom is too short to lie him flat. They submerge beneath the waves to create more stability for the operation, even though the submarine's batteries are only partially charged. The pharmacist's mate, Thomas Moore, has never performed the surgery before. He keeps a medical textbook open next to him the whole time. Platter wakes up during the surgery when the local anesthetic wears off, so they sedate him with ether. It leaks into the rest of the submarine and sedates some of the crew, as well. After four hours, against all odds, the surgery is successful. Platter makes a full recovery and is back on watch six days later. It's extraordinary stories such as this one that are preserved at the USS Silversides Submarine Museum in Muskegon, Michigan. Visitors can climb aboard the historic submarine, which was awarded 12 battle stars for its service in World War II, and explore its battle stations, cramped bunks, and even the operating table where Platter received his appendectomy. I toured the USS Silversides in May. Here's what I saw. Commissioned in 1941, the USS Silversides sank 23 ships over its 14 war patrols, making it one of the most successful American submarines from World War II. The Gato-class submarine measures 312 feet long and weighs 2,410 tons while submerged. Its standard crew consisted of eight officers and 72 enlisted men. After it was decommissioned in 1946, the USS Silversides was used as a teaching submarine and became a National Historic Landmark. From 1947 to 1969, the USS Silversides was used as a training vessel for the Ninth Naval District in Chicago. It was then moved to the Naval Armory and Navy Pier before arriving in Muskegon to serve as a museum in 1987. It was also used as a movie set for the 2002 film "Below." The submarine is now the star attraction at the USS Silversides Museum in Muskegon. The USS Silversides Submarine Museum is open seven days a week from April through December and operates Thursday through Monday in the winter months of January, February, and March. An all-inclusive ticket to the museum costs $17.50 for adults, $15 for veterans, and is free of charge for active-duty service members. Tickets can be purchased on the museum's website. Like the USS Cobia in Manitowoc, Wisconsin, the museum also offers visitors the chance to spend a night on the submarine. The USS Silversides is docked outside the museum in the Muskegon Lake Channel, which leads into Lake Michigan. The Lake Express ferry passes by the USS Silversides Submarine Museum on its route between Muskegon and Milwaukee. As I began my tour of the submarine, the ferry honked its horn as passengers waved at me from the upper deck. The deck featured weapons such as a 4-inch, 50-caliber deck gun, a 40-millimeter antiaircraft gun, and a 20-millimeter surface-to-surface gun. The 40-millimeter antiaircraft gun had the longest range, capable of shooting targets up to 22,800 feet away. A plaque on the deck memorialized the crew member Mike Harbin, who was killed by enemy fire while manning the deck gun. Harbin was 19 years old when he was shot in battle on May 10, 1942. He was buried at sea. The torpedo loading ramp was made of a wood called lignum vitae, which gets slippery when wet. Lignum vitae is Latin for "wood of life." The rest of the deck was made of teakwood, which is impervious to water, fire, and termites. It also doesn't float, which was crucial to maintain the submarine's covert operations if a piece broke off. Decals on the side of the submarine indicated its many wartime accomplishments. The USS Silversides featured stickers showing it sank 30 ships, but that number has since been amended to 23, Bethann Egan, the museum's executive director, told Business Insider. The USS Silversides also damaged 14 ships, cleared 16 enemy mines, and rescued two American paratroopers. The first stop on my tour was the forward torpedo room, where crew members loaded torpedoes into the six torpedo tubes. The room slept 16 crew members on bunks that unfolded alongside the torpedoes, which measured 22 feet long and weighed 3,000 pounds. Lockers above the bunks were used to store personal possessions. All of a crew member's personal items had to fit into one small locker. Colored lights were used to help crew members' eyes adjust to the dark to prevent night blindness. If the submarine was too bright inside, crew members wouldn't be able to see in the dark if they went up onto the deck at night during an attack. The lights used to be blue and then switched to red, which is why the light fixture said "blue" on it even though the light bulb was red. The shower and bathroom in the forward torpedo room were used by the officers, whose bunks were down the hall. Flushing the toilet on the USS Silversides was a 12-step process. One wrong move would cause the toilet's contents to shoot back out. Meals were plated and reheated in the officers' pantry. Officers ate the same meals as the rest of the crew but dined in the privacy of the wardroom instead of the crew's mess. The pantry also stocked snacks and coffee. The table on display in the wardroom was the original table where George Platter's successful appendectomy took place in 1942. "The pharmacist's mate who actually performed it did not technically have permission from all the way up, but the commander made the decision that this needed to happen or else the sailor was going to die," Egan said. "So he stood up for him and made sure that he was not court-martialed after." The wardroom also served as the officers' dining room and lounge. The higher an officer's rank, the fewer people he had to share a room with. Junior and senior officers served as administrators on the submarine, while the executive officer, known as the "XO," was second-in-command to the commanding officer. Officers' quarters included foldout desks and sinks. The rooms also came with storage areas where they could hang their uniforms. The commanding officer enjoyed the only private room on the submarine. His stateroom featured a depth gauge and a compass above the bed so that he could tell how deep the submarine was and which way it was facing at all times. Chief petty officers slept in a room nicknamed the "goat locker." According to the Naval History and Heritage Command, the nickname dates back to the 1890s, when chief petty officers took care of the goats kept on ships for fresh milk. Another explanation is that chief petty officers served in the Navy for more than a decade to reach their positions and were known as "old goats." In the yeoman's shack, the yeoman handled the submarine's paperwork. In addition to managing personnel records, the yeoman also kept logs of the submarine's changes in direction, speed, and depth. In the control room, crew members managed the USS Silversides' vital functions with numerous technical instruments. The bow and stern plane wheels pictured above controlled the submarine's depth and angle. The commanding officer would give commands such as "2 degrees right rudder," which the crew would repeat and execute. The ship's inclinometer worked like a carpenter's level to show if the submarine was tilting to one side or the other. Keith Gill, the museum's director of curatorial services, told BI that staff members use this inclinometer "every day" to check on the submarine. "It's almost never centered, and that's because we have some leaks in some tanks that we're monitoring and adjusting air pressure to keep water out," Gill said. The hull opening indicator light panel was known as the "Christmas tree" for its red and green lights. A green light indicated that a vent or hatch was closed, while red meant it was open. The submarine could only submerge when the board was fully lit up in green. The helmsman's wheel steered the submarine. On some World War II submarines, such as the USS Becuna, the main helm was in the conning tower above the control room. On the USS Silversides, the main helm was in the control room itself. The control room also housed the compressed air manifold and trim manifold. The compressed air manifold distributed compressed air throughout the submarine, which was used to start the engines, fire torpedoes, and surface the vessel. The trim manifold showed how much weight was in different tanks on the submarine and moved water between them to maintain the ship's balance as it used up fuel or fired weapons. In the radio room, crew members could communicate with vessels up to 12,000 miles away. Most communications happened in code. Cooks prepared all of the crew's meals in the galley. Cooks were also trained to operate the deck guns and perform other technical tasks around the submarine. Gill noted that during World War II, Black crew members were often relegated to roles in the kitchen and weren't allowed to advance beyond serving as stewards because of the Navy's segregation policies. "One of the negative sides of our past is how we treated African American citizens," he said. "They were in the military, but they were segregated somewhat. On a Navy ship, on a sub, you really can't segregate, but you can control what they're doing." The kitchen featured a piece of equipment I'd never seen on a submarine before: a soft-serve ice cream machine. The kitchen also included a deep fryer. Crew members ate meals in three shifts in the crew's mess. Submarines were known for doing some of the most dangerous work and having some of the most difficult living conditions in the military, but the Navy ensured they received the best food. Submariners also received hazard pay, the highest in the Navy. The enlisted men also slept in shifts in the crew's quarters. Newer crew members slept on the bottom bunks, which could also occasionally be used as food storage early on in a patrol. "Supposedly, they called this the honeymoon suite on top," Egan said. "I don't know if that's 100% accurate." The mattresses in the two middle bunks were placed so close together that they essentially functioned as one bed. Regular crew members showered only every 13 to 15 days in the crew's washroom. Officers showered every three to five days, while the cooks showered every day since they were handling food. The forward and after engine rooms each contained two 1,600-horsepower diesel engines manufactured by Fairbanks-Morse. At top speed, the USS Silversides could travel at 21 knots, or about 24 miles an hour. The forward engine room also contained two evaporators that distilled ocean water into fresh water. The engines are still operational. The USS Silversides' insignia was painted on one of the aft engines. The logo depicts a silverside fish smoking a cigar and holding a torpedo. The maneuvering room was crewed by two electricians who controlled the propulsion of the submarine. At full power, the USS Silversides used 4 million watts of electricity. The last stop on the tour was the aft torpedo room in the back of the submarine. The aft torpedo room was smaller than the forward torpedo room, with four torpedo tubes and room for eight torpedoes. The room displayed a real demilitarized Mark 18 electric torpedo. Electric torpedoes such as the Mark 18 didn't leave a wake, or trail of waves, behind them, making them more difficult to detect. After I finished my tour of the submarine, I visited the museum itself, which featured photos and artifacts from World War II and beyond. I particularly enjoyed an exhibit about the appendectomy that took place in the wardroom, featuring photos from the procedure. Preserving the aging submarine is no small task, but the USS Silversides remains a fascinating testament to the dedication of American service members in World War II. After running its engines in an annual Memorial Day tribute, the museum hopes to give the USS Silversides its first oil change since the 1950s this summer. Eventually, the entire vessel will have to be removed from the water and dry-docked because of leaks in its tanks. The museum applied for federal funding through the Save America's Treasures grant program, but Egan said during my May visit that they might not end up receiving it because of sweeping cuts made by the White House DOGE office. "They have not officially cut that funding source yet, but it's not looking good," Egan said. When the submarine was on active duty, the entire 80-person crew worked tirelessly to maintain the ship, and the Navy financed all necessary repairs and upgrades. The USS Silversides Submarine Museum's preservation efforts, however, are privately funded and largely volunteer-driven. "We're just poor museum people who are trying to honor the commitment that these guys made over 14 war patrols to protect our country," Gill said. Read the original article on Business Insider
National Geographic
8 hours ago
- National Geographic
Demand for wolf-dog hybrid pets is surging—and that's a huge problem
Wolfdogs are becoming a popular choice worldwide with people looking for furry companions. Conservationists are growing increasingly concerned these hybrids could interbreed with wild wolf populations, especially in Europe. Sofia Imberti, 29, spends time with her three Czechoslovakian wolfdogs in the mountains close to her home in northern Italy. Imberti works early morning and night shifts at a textile factory, rising at 4 a.m. to make time for her dogs. Drawn to the breed for its wild appearance and primitive nature, she values the way it preserves behavioral traits close to its wolf ancestors. 'They belong in nature,' she says, 'and that's where I feel at home, too.' The dogs' independence and sensitivity mirror her own rhythms. With over 40,000 followers on Instagram, Imberti now uses social media to educate others about the breed—its beauty, its challenges, and the deep responsibility it requires. She hopes one day to turn that platform into a full-time pursuit, allowing her to spend more time with her animals while making a positive impact on how the breed is understood. Photographs by Jasper Doest It started, Alessio Camatta says, with 'love at first sight.' After his beloved German shepherd died of a common genetic defect in 2006, Camatta, a soft-spoken construction worker from a town on the hillsides overlooking Venice, Italy, went looking online for a heartier new pet. Soon enough, he found a website selling an imposing but beautiful breed: Czechoslovakian wolfhounds. 'After one month, I went to get a puppy,' he says—a female, Uma, which he bought for €800. On a sunny day in early April, standing outside the imposing 12-foot-tall chain-link enclosure he built to contain his five dogs, he laughs at how unprepared he was for owning the breed. 'People,' he joked, 'don't do this at home.' Czechoslovakian wolfdogs are a controversial breed. Bred as a war dog for the Czechoslovakian military, they combine the DNA of a German shepherd and a Eurasian wolf, a gray wolf subspecies. Today, they are just one of many varieties of wolf-dog hybrids increasingly marketed worldwide as pets. With maximum weights that rival Great Danes, and personalities sometimes more wolf than dog, these hybrid breeds can be demanding—even, in some rare cases, to the point of taking their owners' lives. Breeder Alessio Camatta and canine educator Erica Cesari visit a restaurant with one of their Czechoslovakian wolfdogs in northern Italy in February 2025. Together, they emphasize the importance of exposing wolfdog puppies to human environments from an early age—a key part of preventing anxiety and behavioral issues in a breed known for its sensitivity and high reactivity. With 30 percent wolf DNA, Czechoslovakian wolfdogs are not naturally suited to crowded or unfamiliar spaces unless carefully conditioned through structured socialization and emotional safety. 'This isn't a dog for everyone,' Camatta says. As interest in the breed rises—fueled by social media and the allure of owning something wild—both he and Cesari worry about growing numbers of under-socialized animals placed in homes unequipped to meet their needs, leading to fear-based aggression, isolation, or abandonment. After purchasing that first dog, Camatta went on to become one of dozens of breeders in Italy, where a Czechoslovakian wolfdog can now fetch a price of nearly €2,000. And across Europe, business is booming, popularized by TikTok creators and shows such as Game of Thrones, whose 'direwolves' were played by wolfdogs. Camatta, who also acts as technical director for the Wolfdog Genetic Indexes Project, an initiative to responsibly breed and document wolfdogs, says that 20 years ago only a few hundred wolfdogs were sold in Italy each year. Now, it's more than a thousand, he estimates. While wolfdogs are becoming popular pets, a growing population of wild hybrids—mixes between wild wolves and domestic dogs—is troubling conservationists in parts of Europe. Historically, authorities encouraged rural residents to use guard dogs to protect livestock from wolf packs. But in places where guard dogs are left free to roam, and are not strongly bonded with their flocks, they may interbreed with wolves, according to Valeria Salvatori, a conservationist and expert in wolf hybridization at the Institute of Applied Ecology in Rome. 'If it was happening naturally, then this is evolution. But it's like global warming—it is happening at a much faster pace, because of our intentional, or unintentional, lack of care," Salvatori says. Manuel Tomasi and his wife, Sara Tonon, with their daughters Emma Sofia, 12, and Maya, 3, and their Czechoslovakian wolfdog Ronnie. Drawn to the breed's genetic closeness to the wolf, the family envisioned Ronnie as both a companion for their mountain adventures and a guardian for their home—especially in a neighborhood where break-ins are not uncommon. But what began as a practical decision has deepened into something far more emotional. 'People say wolfdogs are unpredictable,' the couple says, 'but with our daughters, Ronnie is like a brother—protective, intuitive, and completely devoted.' Manuel Tomasi and his wife, Sara Tonon, with their daughters Emma Sofia, 12, and Maya, 3, and their Czechoslovakian wolfdog Ronnie. Drawn to the breed's genetic closeness to the wolf, the family envisioned Ronnie as both a companion for their mountain adventures and a guardian for their home—especially in a neighborhood where break-ins are not uncommon. But what began as a practical decision has deepened into something far more emotional. 'People say wolfdogs are unpredictable,' the couple says, 'but with our daughters, Ronnie is like a brother—protective, intuitive, and completely devoted.' After decades of careful work to restore Europe's wolves back to their original habitats, some countries fear the animals' genes may be compromised by the introduction of dog DNA. Gray wolf conservation statuses vary by country, but the International Union for Conservation of Nature lists the gray wolf as endangered in Slovenia, where wolfdogs are beginning to infiltrate. And in most countries, the scale of hybridization is still unknown. The animals pose a particular challenge in the mountainous border regions of Italy, Croatia, and Slovenia, where wolves have recently come back from near extinction. 'We would like to protect wolves with their natural evolutionary heritage and history,' Salvatori said. 'But how can I possibly control hybridization in Italy,' she says, where 'local studies talk about 50 to 70 percent of individuals being hybrids?' Together, these trends are challenging existing regulations and protections around wolves and dogs—and in each case, beg the question: What makes a wolf, a wolf? Czechoslovakian wolfdogs at Serlupi Kennel a breeding facility ran by Serena Balliana in northern Italy, With 30 percent wolf ancestry, these dogs require structured early socialization, emotional safety, and constant attention to their individual needs. 'The first weeks are foundational,' says breeder Serena Balliana. 'If you don't get it right, you risk raising unstable dogs.' As demand for the breed grows—fueled by fascination with its wolf-like appearance—so does the number of breeders entering the market, often without the necessary experience. In Italy, no special certification is required to breed Czechoslovakian wolfdogs, and the resulting oversupply has begun to drive prices down. Balliana warns this trend is dangerous: lower prices make it harder for ethical breeders to invest the time, care, and expertise that these complex animals require. 'This should never be about volume,' she says. 'The well-being of the dog must always come first.' Balliana has lived with Czechoslovakian wolfdogs since 2005 and has been breeding them since 2017, after years of collaboration with both Italian and international breeders. A trainer and show handler, she first encountered the breed as an eighteen-year-old visitor at a dog show, and was instantly captivated by its wolf-like appearance, atavistic behavior, and natural indocility. 'I fell in love at first sight,' she says. After years of study and saving, she purchased her first dog—an infertile female—and never looked back. Reputable breeders such as Camatta maintain the percentage of wolf DNA in Czechslovakian wolfdogs at somewhere near 30 percent—just enough, he explains, to maintain a wolfish appearance and personality while making the animals suitable for domestication. In Italy, by law, each new litter must have their DNA sampled and their parentage entered in a national database. Also under Italian and international law, as well as Europe's CITES treaty, wolfdogs can only be kept as pets if they have been interbred in captivity for at least four generations. Batting away one of his dogs as he jumps and wrestles with his forearm, Camatta sighs. In Italy, he says, a 'bad canine culture' is spiking demand. Online, it's still easy to find breeders selling wolfdogs without papers, many of which may be the result of 'backbreeding' with captive wolves, purchased on the black market and imported on false documents describing them as Czechoslovakian hybrids, Camatta says. Czechoslovakian wolfdogs at Serlupi Kennel a breeding facility ran by Serena Balliana in northern Italy, With 30 percent wolf ancestry, these dogs require structured early socialization, emotional safety, and constant attention to their individual needs. 'The first weeks are foundational,' says breeder Serena Balliana. 'If you don't get it right, you risk raising unstable dogs.' As demand for the breed grows—fueled by fascination with its wolf-like appearance—so does the number of breeders entering the market, often without the necessary experience. In Italy, no special certification is required to breed Czechoslovakian wolfdogs, and the resulting oversupply has begun to drive prices down. Balliana warns this trend is dangerous: lower prices make it harder for ethical breeders to invest the time, care, and expertise that these complex animals require. 'This should never be about volume,' she says. 'The well-being of the dog must always come first.' Balliana has lived with Czechoslovakian wolfdogs since 2005 and has been breeding them since 2017, after years of collaboration with both Italian and international breeders. A trainer and show handler, she first encountered the breed as an eighteen-year-old visitor at a dog show, and was instantly captivated by its wolf-like appearance, atavistic behavior, and natural indocility. 'I fell in love at first sight,' she says. After years of study and saving, she purchased her first dog—an infertile female—and never looked back. In 2017, Italian officials seized more than 200 hybrids, illegally mixed with wolves smuggled from the Balkans, Scandinavia, and North America, across 54 Italian provinces in an operation known as Ave Lupo. Similar stings, in 2014 and 2021, removed dozens more illegal animals from breeders. Before the courts, there is often a lack of clarity over whether these animals count as wolves or dogs. In some cases, prosecutors have argued the answer is essentially 'impossible to establish with certainty,' according to the Italian news publication Il Messaggero. One seized animal, Camatta says, tested at 96 percent wolf, but was allowed to return to its owner. Italian law makes it virtually impossible to euthanize problematic animals—the state has a legal duty to care for captured strays and even dogs that have attacked their owners. In North America, meanwhile, wolfdogs can be 'very easily' purchased, according to Alyx Harris, operations manager at the Yamnuska Wolfdog Sanctuary in Alberta, Canada. On the continent, tens of thousands of wolfdogs live in captivity—far more than its wild wolf population. Currently, Harris's sanctuary has 56 wolfdogs, most of them rescued from former owners and breeders. 'The fact that you can go out and get a wolfdog with no permitting… is a bit crazy,' she says. While many North American states and provinces ban wolfdog importation and ownership, neither the U.S. nor Canada restrict the breed under federal law. Sofia Imberti, 29, spends time with her three Czechoslovakian wolfdogs in the mountains close to her home in northern Italy. Imberti works early morning and night shifts at a textile factory, rising at 4 a.m. to make time for her dogs. Drawn to the breed for its wild appearance and primitive nature, she values the way it preserves behavioral traits close to its wolf ancestors. 'They belong in nature,' she says, 'and that's where I feel at home, too.' The dogs' independence and sensitivity mirror her own rhythms. With over 40,000 followers on Instagram, Imberti now uses social media to educate others about the breed—its beauty, its challenges, and the deep responsibility it requires. She hopes one day to turn that platform into a full-time pursuit, allowing her to spend more time with her animals while making a positive impact on how the breed is understood. Harris and others in the wolfdog business say owners are drawn to these breeds for their impressive size and ferocious reputation and are often taken with the idea of domesticating something powerful, wild, and free. 'The bond is with an animal that won't be your pet, but will be your friend,' says Moira Schein, a caretaker at Mission:Wolf, a wolfdog sanctuary in Colorado. But many owners don't fully appreciate what they are getting into when they buy a wolfdog puppy, says Mike Gaarde, refuge director at Mission:Wolf. 'Around two to three years old, that's when we get the phone call. Twice a week, we get calls from people hoping we can rescue their animals,' he says. 'We have to turn down thousands of dogs.' While Harris stressed that most wolfdogs are actually 'instinctually very shy, timid animals,' in captivity, their wilder nature can make them dangerous pets. 'They like to be in big open spaces,' she says. 'They don't want to be in your house; that's terrifying for them. Even walking on the leash, you are taking away their ability to flee.' Sofia Imberti, 29, spends time with her three Czechoslovakian wolfdogs in the mountains close to her home in northern Italy. Imberti works early morning and night shifts at a textile factory, rising at 4 a.m. to make time for her dogs. Drawn to the breed for its wild appearance and primitive nature, she values the way it preserves behavioral traits close to its wolf ancestors. 'They belong in nature,' she says, 'and that's where I feel at home, too.' The dogs' independence and sensitivity mirror her own rhythms. With over 40,000 followers on Instagram, Imberti now uses social media to educate others about the breed—its beauty, its challenges, and the deep responsibility it requires. She hopes one day to turn that platform into a full-time pursuit, allowing her to spend more time with her animals while making a positive impact on how the breed is understood. Worse, Harris says, unlike other breeds, wolfdogs often 'lack an affinity toward humans.' Even when well trained, they will often seek out opportunities to assert themselves as leader of the pack. 'They don't want to be pets,' she says. Camatta's wolfdog has picked up a wolf's scent in the Cesari works with a Czechoslovakian wolfdog in northern Italy in February 2025. Initially drawn to the breed for its striking resemblance to the wolf, Cesari soon became captivated by its complex behavior and subtle communication. Specializing in canine education, she helps owners better understand their dogs—especially wolfdogs—by teaching them how to read body language and respond appropriately to everyday behavioral challenges. Cesari also trains dogs in scent-based disciplines such as mantrailing, which harnesses the animal's powerful sense of smell to follow human or canine scent trails, both for recreation and real-world search operations. In addition, she is preparing for certification in HRDD (Human Remains Detection Dog) work, aiming to apply her skills in forensic contexts. These fields, she says, are particularly well-suited to the highly sensitive and olfactory-driven nature of the Czechoslovakian wolfdog. Alessio Camatta, a Czechoslovakian wolfdog breeder, works to protect the genetic integrity of the breed at his facility in northern Italy in February 2025. What began as a personal search for a more rustic and resilient companion after the early loss of his German shepherd evolved into a scientific commitment to responsible breeding. Using a zootechnical approach, Camatta aims to balance biological health—such as minimizing inbreeding and preserving genetic diversity—with the breed's distinctive physical and behavioral traits. Alongside his colleague Erica, he focuses on the critical first weeks of a puppy's life, shaping temperament through structured stimulation and individualized care. Nutrition is also guided by scientific principles, in collaboration with specialists in animal dietetics. Driving down the gravel logging roads that crisscross the forests near Slovenia's border with Italy, Tilen Hvala keeps a sharp eye out for the telltale signs of wolves. In 2023, Hvala became one of just a handful of researchers across the continent to successfully trap and collar a wolf— in this case, six-month-old Jakob, whose movements were tracked by the Slovenian Forest Service as part of the Life Wolfalps EU Project. Just over a hundred wolves live in the small European country today, a major victory after facing near-extinction in the 1990s. 'Sometimes I wonder, when I'm driving on this kind of road, how many times they are just looking out of the trees,' says Hvala, a biologist with the Slovenian Forest Service. Sure enough, we soon come upon a wolf pack's resting place from the night before—matted leaves surrounded by scat and bones just a few hundred feet from a logging road. Tracking data is instrumental to better understanding how the area's wolf packs behave and use the landscape. It can also reveal where hybridization occurs. 'If you have high mortality rates, unstable packs and, at the same time, a lot of dogs in the environment, shit happens,' says Miha Krofel, a Slovenian wolf researcher working with the EU project. Most wild hybridization occurs in areas where wolf packs are disrupted, usually by hunting or poaching, and female wolves go searching for a new breeding partner. Federica Merisio, a longtime enthusiast of the Czechoslovakian wolfdog, shares a quiet moment with her dogs Fides and Verbena—known as Pippi—at home in northern Italy. For the past ten years, Merisio has been immersed in the world of this extraordinary breed, realizing her dream of owning her first wolfdog nine years ago. What draws her in is not just their striking appearance, but their interior world—their sharp intelligence, emotional clarity, and instinct-driven behavior. 'They are victims of their own instinct,' she says. 'But that's their greatest wonder.' Merisio believes that to truly understand a wolfdog, you must learn to observe—reading the smallest shifts in body language and energy. 'You can't just watch them,' she says. 'You have to feel them vibrate in your bones.' Living with the breed is a lifelong challenge in emotional and behavioral attunement—'too wolfish to be dogs, too dogish to be wolves.' With her two females, she continues to train in utility and defense work, a practice that strengthens their bond and mutual trust. 'Having a Czechoslovakian wolfdog means embracing not only its wild appearance,' Merisio says, 'but also falling in love with the instincts that make it so unique—and never wanting to live without them.' It was such circumstances that likely produced Slovenia's first recorded hybrid, a large, black animal that entered the country near the Italian border in 2021. In response, Slovenia took no chances, killing the animal and its offspring, save one that escaped back over the border. In neighboring Italy and Croatia—where escaped, feral, and unmanaged dogs are a much more common phenomenon—wild hybridization is a much more serious problem. In some parts of Italy, more than 70 percent of wolves have dog DNA, according to research by Sapienza University in Rome. In Dalmatia, a narrow strip of land on Croatia's Adriatic coastline, the rate is as much as 80 percent, says Tomaz Skrbinsek, a researcher at the University of Ljubljana in Slovenia. There, a so-called 'hybrid swarm' has formed after wolves colonized war-torn areas vacated in the 1990s and encountered abandoned strays. With 30 percent wolf DNA, Czechoslovakian wolf dogs retain subtle body language and movement patterns that often confuse domestic dogs. Unlike most companion breeds, wolfdogs tend to move with quiet confidence, make prolonged eye contact, and communicate in ways closer to their wild ancestors—signals that are frequently misread as threatening. 'They walk differently, they look differently,' says breeder Alessio Camatta. 'Other dogs don't know how to interpret them, and that can lead to trouble.' As a result, wolfdogs are sometimes met with fear or aggression in public spaces, making socialization and early conditioning critical. For owners, it means constant awareness—and sometimes, physical risk. Camatta and others warn that without proper training and understanding, these misunderstood signals can turn everyday walks into confrontations. In places like Dalmatia, where hybrids are not yet being tracked with radio collars, Skrbinsek worries hybridization could lead to animals that are more comfortable with humans and urban environments. That, in turn, could erode support for protecting wolves from hunting and encouraging their return. 'If you have these behaviors, these traits, in a wild animal that is wolf-like, that could spell disaster for wolf conservation,' he says. What is a wolf, really? Hybrids also raise difficult ethical questions, such as how to define what makes a 'natural' wolf. With millennia of crossbreeding between wolves, domestic dogs, and other canids like jackals, there is no standard definition for how much foreign DNA makes a wolf no longer a wolf. Some conservationists view any mixture as a symbol of 'pollution' in a once pure species. 'It's us humans that have caused that,' says Luigi Boitani, a zoologist at the Sapienza University of Rome and one of Europe's main experts on hybridization. 'It's like an extinction. It's our responsibility to do something.' But it's not known if hybridization really does produce worrying behaviors, such as fearlessness around people, or if hybrids crowd out gray wolves from their native habitat. Sara Meloni reveals the fresh puncture wounds from a recent dog attack, alongside tattoos of wolfdogs inked across her skin. Just days earlier, she and her Czechoslovakian wolfdog, Era, were attacked by a Labrador—one of several incidents she encountered in recent months. With 30 percent wolf DNA, Era doesn't move like most domestic dogs. Her head is often held high, her posture confident but composed, and her movements are measured—more observant than playful, more intentional than reactive. 'She walks through the world differently,' Meloni says. 'With a presence that says she knows exactly who she is—and that unsettles other dogs.' While this quiet confidence can provoke fear or aggression in unfamiliar animals, it also reflects the depth of their bond. The tattoos on Meloni's legs are more than symbols of admiration—they are markers of a shared journey built on trust, mutual respect, and an unwavering sense of loyalty to an animal that, in walking bravely beside her, has helped her become more of herself. Sara Meloni and her Czechoslovakian wolfdog, Era, photographed together in Costa di Mezzate, Italy, in February 2025. For the past five years, the two have moved through life as a tightly bonded pair—one human, one animal, both shaped by each other. With 30 percent wolf DNA, Era is sensitive, intelligent, and instinct-driven, requiring trust rather than training, presence rather than control. 'She changed me,' Meloni says. 'Not for myself, but for her.' Their relationship is built on mutual respect, where emotional safety flows both ways. Era's quiet confidence is mirrored in Sara's stillness; their connection is visible not just in touch, but in the space between them—a recognition of two beings who have chosen each other completely. 'It is really critical that we get this knowledge,' says Krofel, the Slovenian scientist. Without it, he says, it's hard to convince policymakers to cull hybrid wolves, or implement other measures to prevent their spread. For now, without a clear definition of what makes a hybrid, strange paradoxes have arisen. In Italy, a 96 percent wolf hybrid can be returned to its owner, but a similar hybrid in the wild, exhibiting all the behaviors of a wolf, may well be selected for a cull. These paradoxes bother researchers, too, many of whom advocate for an end to the wolfdog trade worldwide. 'I would personally ban the market, the production of this breed,' says Salvatori. For Boitani, breeding new hybrid pets simply 'doesn't make sense.' 'Humans already made the dog [through interbreeding] 10,000 years ago. Why do you want to do it again? Really, it's like playing God.' But wolfdog advocates assert the animals still have a right to live. 'These animals didn't choose to be bred,' says Harris, of the Canadian sanctuary. 'I don't think trying to cull them all is a very fair way to go about it.' At least for now, wolfdog advocates and conservationists agree on one thing—humans must improve how they handle both domesticated and wild wolfdogs. 'Education will be the key,' says Gaarde. 'What we don't understand we try to control,' he says, 'and what we can't control, we try to destroy.' Sara Meloni walks with her Czechoslovakian wolfdog, Era, through the streets of northern Italy in February 2025. With 30 percent wolf DNA, the breed moves differently—calm, focused, and highly attuned to its surroundings. 'When you build a real relationship with them, you become part of their pack,' Meloni says. 'And that bond gives them the confidence to be fully themselves.' But that confidence, expressed through subtle, wolf-like body language, often triggers misunderstandings with other dogs. In recent months, Meloni and Era have been attacked several times, including one incident that left her with bite wounds while trying to protect her dog. Still, she remains committed to the quiet strength of their connection. 'She doesn't just walk beside me—she walks with purpose,' Meloni says. 'Because she knows who she is. And she knows I do too.'
Los Angeles Times
9 hours ago
- Los Angeles Times
From rescued to rescuer: Sydney helps Eaton fire evacuees heal
Two years ago, before the Eaton fire would change my life and his, I met Sydney —half German shepherd, half Great Pyrenees and enigma with a capital E. Two days before I met him, I'd put down Lord Byron, my 15-year-old shepherd rescue, after nursing him for a year. I was a wreck. My friend Bob finally put me in his car, a la 'let's just hang out with dogs and stop the tears.' A half hour later, we walked into Westside German Shepherd Rescue where, a few feet away, stood this tall, elegant beast of a dog. We looked at each other. I was struck. I ran over, wrapped my arms around him and wouldn't let go. A nervous staffer pulled me away because he was mostly an unknown. That week, Sydney had arrived from the Apple Valley shelter. He was a runner and escape artist. Too many times. No owner. No tags. No chip. A volunteer brought him to safety in downtown's longstanding no-kill refuge for shepherds. That day, Sydney rescued me, and I took him home to Altadena. Sydney was aloof, scared, always turning away. He surveyed my house and settled into a small, three-sided doorway in a dark hallway. I was pretty sure he'd been caged his first few years. Within a month, Sydney escaped four more times. Three times he was recovered by Good Samaritans. His final attempt could have killed us both. As I careened after him in my car up Maiden Lane, his abrupt fixation on a squirrel gave me a few precious seconds to jump out, grab him by the neck, skin both my knees, and barely escape the rush hour traffic on Altadena Drive. If Sydney were a human, he might be considered a bit on the spectrum. He's stealthy, awkward around others and profoundly unaware of his beauty and power. From the moment we met, I recognized he had a special gift. In the aftermath of the Eaton fire, in an odd way, he would discover it too. On Jan. 7 , Sydney and I, along with three women and four dogs from the neighborhood, found ourselves frantically driving south to Pasadena's iconic, grand hotel — the Langham Huntington — to escape the fast-moving fireball. There were hundreds in line. The front desk managed to find a room. The last room. Exhausted, but grateful and with only the clothes on our backs, the nine of us crammed into Room 401 for the night. Syd and I chose the tiny vestibule so he could sleep in the small, dark closet, away from the crowd. The rest were glued to the big screen TV and watched the orange fire line spread fast and furious throughout the night. Early the next morning, Syd and I ran through the bustling lobby filled with pretty people, giant floral arrangements, and dozens of fire victims. Sydney's striking presence caused a stir, but he continued next to me, then out the sliding door. Two young valets wearing smart suits and tweed caps ran over. They'd been searching for Syd after spotting him the night before. Sydney weighs 75 pounds, with shaggy locks and has large ears that make his already handsome face even more expressive. 'What is that dog?' they asked. 'A German/Pyrenees mix. Check out the giant furry feet and you'll get it.' Sydney and I were heading out to see if our house had survived. I promised we'd be back soon. The streets were crowded with first responders, but we slowly made our way north until I could see our corner, our street, our house. I put on an N95 mask and gloves and entered through a broken front door. The roof was damaged, soot covered the floors and everything smelled of smoke, but the house was still there. The winds picked up, signaling more destruction, so we quickly gathered dog food, meds, a few clothes, jacket and an overnight bag. Syd grabbed Lambchop, his favorite toy, and we high-tailed back to the hotel. At the Langham, the same two valets, Rhandall and John, found Sydney and me. On their haunches, they scratched and loved up Syd. We swapped stories and I told them how Syd and I found each other. Syd, ever the introvert, could only handle a few minutes, then pulled me to move on. By now, Peggy and her two goldens had left for Palm Springs and Sally was able to move back home. Agatha had lost her house; she and her dogs would move in with friends. Our cramped room of nine turned into just Sydney and me, so we moved to Room 411, a cozy space with four big picture windows. On cue, Sydney began looking up into the trees for squirrels. I walked into the black-and-white marble bathroom and noticed, next to the tub, two silver bowls and a cushy, hot pink dog bed. I found Maria, the fourth-floor housekeeper. She'd fallen for Sydney and wanted him to be comfortable. We hugged and she became part of our hotel family. That evening, Syd and I took the elevator down to the famous tea room. Syd, unaccustomed to elevators, let alone crowded ones, had to be pulled in, then splat like a cartoon character on the floor each time there was a shift down. His act delivered laughs and conversation starters with several guests as we headed for dinner. It was packed. A mix of chic internationals, tourists, a group of young, trendy up-and-comers, and the rest of us wearing yesterday's attire. Sydney plopped down in the middle of the room, unconsciously posing, as if he were Cary Grant. Like a magnet, he drew all kinds of interesting people who wanted to meet him and hear what it was like to be us. Jess, the bartender who makes mixing drinks look like art, made me the perfect Arnold Palmer, the first of many, and served up a bowl of water for Sydney. Syd pressed his cold nose on my face at 6 a.m. every day, shaking his tushy, desperate for a walk and to see more than just me. We picked a different street or path each morning. He discovered a new world of smells, critters, and people who would, inevitably, stop and ask, 'Wow, what is that dog?' We met many standouts: Eric and Patrice from Sacramento, Nicole from Santa Monica, Miguel from Pasadena, among them. They all wanted to meet Sydney, and I was the beneficiary. Sydney began to look for his valet cohorts who were usually speeding like racehorses to fetch cars for the long line of guests. Rhandall and John always took a few minutes to grab and tousle Syd. Back inside, we'd hang around the coffee cart near the front desk, a makeshift meeting place for swapping fire stories. There were lots of us coming and going — all ages, occupations, and circumstances, united by trauma and confusion. As time went on, the once-shy Syd began awkwardly licking and kissing the hands and faces of people gathered, as if moving down an assembly line. I worried it was off-putting but, within seconds, people loved it. Syd was developing this remarkable gift of sensing people's needs and giving back to them. One afternoon, a doctor sprinted past us. He was the first speaker at a convention and was late. He yelled, 'Oh my God, what's his name?' I yelled back, 'Sydney!' after Pollack and Poitier. (I'm in the entertainment industry.) Near the end of the long corridor, he said, 'What the hell,' ran back, wrapped his arms around Sydney. This scene happened over and over again. A daily chorus of, 'Can I hug your dog? What is he? Where did you get him?' Throughout our long stay, people approached or chased this big dog without fear. Singles, families who lost homes, kids whose schools burned down. Pretty soon, Syd, with his funny feet, hockey stick legs, thick swishy tail, and ballerina-like moves, pranced down hallways and welcomed outsiders into his new neighborhood. The dog who always shied away seemed to understand we all needed contact, and so did he. He quickly learned the geography of the entire hotel and majestic outdoor gardens. I took his lead. We met nurses, an upscale bridal party, a myriad of fire attorneys, watched a 5-year-old's birthday celebration, and talked with a couple from Romania. He dragged me to the coffee shop to see Isabelle and Wilson. At night, to the lounge to find Jess, Ernesto, and Grace. One evening, while we drove back to the hotel from somewhere, he poked his head out the window, and I heard this loud, painful cry of excitement when Sydney saw Rhandall and John in the circle drive. When they approached, this time Sydney raced back and forth in the backseat, jumped out with Lambchop, and leaned into them. After a little more than two months, we were finally cleared to move back home, and Sydney and Lambchop spent their 62nd night on that hot pink bed on the marble bathroom floor. The next morning, we packed our things and took one last ride down the elevator. Sydney was a pro by then. There were bittersweet goodbyes. When we got home, Sydney ran out the back door, raced through the grass and around the jacaranda tree, hoping for squirrels. Now, months later, I marvel at how, during our stay at the Langham, Sydney bloomed. Every day, new people came, some people left, but the constant was Syd, his presence, his waggle, his ability to give unexpected joy. A new Sydney had emerged. I can't help but wonder if he dreams of being back there. Henderson is a special correspondent.
