Wolf stories

Idaho sold many thousands of wolf hunting permits for a harvest of 220. (Aren't terms like "harvest" great? We're not killing things, we're "harvesting" them; at least animals are dead when we eat them.) Within 24 hours of harvesting, the hunter must notify Fish and Game. Within five days, the hunter must give the skull and pelt to DFG. Once the allotted number of skulls have been collected from a given unit, the unit will be closed and hunters will be responsible for calling in to determine whether the unit is open.
WHAT?
Think about Idaho hunters: set up "camp," which involves either a 40' camper with cook tent, butcher tent, and lounge tent extensions or a flatbed trailer with enough wall tents to shelter a township; a week before the season opens, move in with a truck full of beer, beans, bacon, and potatoes (if you're health conscious); hunt until the supplies run low in mid-October and there's room to bring the game to a processing plant before refilling the pickup with beer and beans; break camp on the last possible day, either because snow threatens passes or the season ends. Remember that the typical Idaho hunter approaches wolf killing about like a Carolinian approaches NASCAR: it might not be a sanctioned religion, but a great many people who consider themselves devout do not have nearly the zeal.
I expected each of the thousands of tags to be filled on the first day, thereby permanently removing the state's decision-making power in terms of wolf hunting. But surprisingly, only five animals have been killed, statewide, in the two or three weeks since season opening. Five reported animals. But rifle season hasn't opened, so the big wave of hunters hasn't gone out. And I would bet quite a lot that packs lose much more than the isolated few critters.

So it's midnight and I'm in the WRX, approaching Canada just under escape velocity. At the edge of my headlights, I see a hole in the night: a nonreflective something my mind initially identifies as yearling bear, but an inky sort of coal black that absorbs light. And it's walking into the road.
For one, the anti-locks work pretty well. For two, when I get close, I see some mangy farm dog--on either side, fenced fields with periodic driveways intersect the highway--that stands about eye level. But I'm in a sports car, right? So eye level isn't that high.
Heh.
Eye level is the top of a mailbox.
Wouldn't it be funny if the ponytailed California kid (unrelated police story: they didn't cancel my CA driver's license when I got the Idaho one over a year ago) killed the first wolf in the Panhandle?