or the second time in less than a year, residents of Victoria in western Canada have found themselves in thrall to a wolf. Standing in a hotel lobby, this wolf is a mixture of driftwood, sea shells and dried kelp. Weighing nearly 70kg (150lbs) and standing five feet tall, the sculpture is a tribute to Takaya, the celebrated wolf who lived on a scattering of wild islands less than two miles from the city centre. The unlikely story of his eight years of self-imposed isolation captivated locals, some of whom would paddle by the rocky outcrops and windswept trees hoping to glimpse the animal. But one day in late March, the crack of a hunter’s rifle brought an end to a narrative that had come to represent society’s complicated relationship with the elusive predators. In the months since Takaya’s death, artists such as Tanya Bub have worked to preserve his memory. “It’s turned out to be quite an emotional piece,” she says, after spending three and a half weeks assembling the likeness. “There’s this very strong element of resurrection in driftwood art, because it was a living tree, then it died. It spends all this time in the water, on the beaches. When I collect it for art, I sort of make it alive again.” Other artists have also worked to ensure Takaya is remembered: there is a mural portrait of him on an old lighthouse and dozens have painted and sketched him. The Songhees First Nation, on whose traditional territory the wolf lived, is working with the British Columbia government to have Takaya’s pelt returned so it can be interred in a ceremony. “I always thought his story was remarkable and gave an insight into a quiet life: one that helped us better understand – and respect – our place on Earth,” says Cheryl Alexander, a photographer who documented much of Takaya’s existence. After his death, she received a flood of tributes from 14 countries, including videos, sketches, paintings and letters. Eager to preserve his memory, Alexander commissioned Bub to recreate the wolf from driftwood gathered from the islands he once roamed. But as she worked on the sculpture, Bub says she grew frustrated with the project, feeling nothing could complete it. “I kept on making it, tearing it apart, recreating it. Eventually, I just realised I was trying to bring this animal back,” she said. “But I couldn’t bring him back to life.” For Alexander, the months since the shooting have been filled with a desire to give meaning to Takaya’s death. In the weeks leading up to it, Takaya had been spotted approaching dogs and their owners along a strip of road in the forest, displaying a curiosity that appeared to have come from gradual habituation to humans. In late March, he walked towards a hunter who had parked, with his dogs, along a logging road. The hunter killed him. “Takaya was shot because he came to trust people,” says Alexander. In British Columbia, hundreds of wolves – which are seen as vermin that must be eradicated – are killed for sport each year. Hunters usually only take the pelts, discarding the remains. Channelling growing outrage – and changing perceptions – Alexander and local conservation groups have started a petition calling for a moratorium on wolf hunting in British Columbia that has so far received more than 65,000 signatures. While Takaya’s legacy has aligned neatly with the aims of conservation groups, his curiosity – or lack of fear – has left open difficult questions about the relationship locals had fostered with the wolf. “People were, understandably, infatuated with this beautiful animal living at the edge of its ecological niche, surrounded by humans on this tiny little island,” says Chris Darimont, a wolf expert at the University of Victoria and the Raincoast Conservation Foundation. “But they likely didn’t appreciate what sort of fate he was likely to meet. He sadly learned that close and persistent contact with human beings never led to any serious harm.” Because conflicts between humans and wolves overwhelmingly result in the death of the wolf, fear is a necessary element for survival. While sport killing is often the focus of advocacy campaigns, Darimont is hopeful that the public realises that persistent encroachment of humans into once-wild areas poses a far greater and existential risk to wildlife, including wolves. In some cases, the mortality level is so high that carnivore populations are barely hanging on. He points to the location where Takaya was shot: along a logging road, which cuts through land that once was forest. “Humans are increasingly asking so much from animals. And the reality is, there are limits to how much they can respond,” he says. “If Takaya had lived the more typical life, he would have been gone by the time he heard the rumble of a truck’s engine.” Alexander disagrees that Takaya had become habituated to humans, or lost his wildness. She points to the post-mortem that showed he was a healthy male in the twilight of his life. He had recently eaten a beaver and, apart from cracked ribs, was in good shape. “He was a wild wolf, right to the end,” she says.