"Dolosus Lupus Equidem"
I took three semesters of Latin in high school, so I'd hate to waste it. The title of my story means "A Sly Wolf Indeed." It's my fairy tale response. As planned, I based it on "The Boy Who Cried Wolf" and wrote it in first person. The hardest part, for me, was finding the voice of the wolf and writing the first line. I know I wanted my wolf to be snarky and insufferable, but I wasn't sure about how I could do that. Where to begin in the story? In medias res? I finally settled on an older wolf, still as sardonic as he was in his youth, recalling the story. I tried it as a bedtime story to some young cubs, but I scratched that idea. What I ended up with goes along much better with his personality. Here is my final draft:
You know, a friend once asked me, “Have you ever fallen in love?” I replied, “Why, yes. I do it every time I see my reflection.” He didn’t have to be so rude with his reply. I was only being honest. I may be getting a little greyer in the fur this winter, but my teeth and my wit are as sharp as ever. These young pups nowadays have no sense of style. They tear through the countryside, their antics haphazard and sloppy at best. I’m surprised a few of them are still alive. In fact, one of my nephews--you've probably heard of him, sadly--was involved in some kind of... I don't know what to call it. There were pigs and houses. Oh, that was a spectacular mess, that was. I didn't want to even look at him for months afterwards. I barely claim him as kin now. I mean, a wolf is supposed to be a proud creature, full of cunning and stealth. Take one of my favorite hobbies, for instance. Human baiting, in my opinion, has always been an art form quite above this rolling around with pigs thing (honestly, who bothers with pigs anymore?), and it requires a good deal more skill, too. You have to watch the human, selecting him from his herd as you would one of his sheep. Then, you must carefully monitor his behavior, cautiously feeling out his weak points. It takes finesse. None of this huffing and puffing, thank you very much. Only then can you successfully execute your plan and seize a free meal, and if you do it right, you'll earn bragging rights for years to come. Why, in my younger days, I pulled a stunt so clever, so cunning, and so absolutely perfect, that my poor victim still feels the sting of it many winters later. The poor boy has never been able to live it down.
It all started when I was trotting along the forest’s edge near the village, the one by the river. A young boy had been put in charge of his father’s flock, and he was awfully anxious to prove himself. In fact, he was a little too anxious. He kept jumping at the slightest sound, as if hoping he might have a chance to use his new sling. Still wet behind the ears, he was. Anyhow, he took a notion that day to call attention to himself. “Wolf!” he cried, pointing into the forest and firing off stones from his sling. “There’s a wolf coming for our sheep!” It wasn’t me he was indicating; I was tucked away in a favorite hiding spot of mine, languidly watching the fluffy appetizers he was trying to protect. The boy’s father came running out, pitchfork in one hand, flaming torch in another. He searched that section of the forest high and low, eventually coming back in defeat. There was nothing to be found. The boy tried to hide his laughter, but the father caught him and promptly dragged him back to the farmhouse by an ear. The boy kept struggling and pleading the whole time. The father ended up watching the flock himself for the next few days. When the boy was finally trusted enough to return to his work, I happened to be in the vicinity again. He hadn’t learned his lesson, though. He repeated his call, and again, the father came running out, fearing for the lives of his lunch... Sheep, I mean. Sorry. Anyway, when the father discovered it was another trick, things got very bleak indeed for the boy. I didn’t see him for a solid month, and he limped a little when I did finally see him. It wasn’t time to make a move yet, though. When I’m in the process of carrying out a plot, I can have the patience of Job, unlike these impatient pups I complain about. I waited until the boy developed a false sense of security and let his guard down. I sized up the flock, selected my prey, and easily picked off my meal. The boy didn’t even notice me until I was carting off my haul. “Wolf!” he cried again, this time in vain. “There’s a wolf here, a real one!” No one came to the rescue. They were deaf now to the boy’s cries, and no amount of shouting was going to bring help. I escaped into the forest with my prize, leaving the boy forever branded as the boy who cried wolf. Now tell me that isn’t a clever scheme. None of the cubs I know could have pulled that off. Like I said, they have no style these days.
You know, a friend once asked me, “Have you ever fallen in love?” I replied, “Why, yes. I do it every time I see my reflection.” He didn’t have to be so rude with his reply. I was only being honest. I may be getting a little greyer in the fur this winter, but my teeth and my wit are as sharp as ever. These young pups nowadays have no sense of style. They tear through the countryside, their antics haphazard and sloppy at best. I’m surprised a few of them are still alive. In fact, one of my nephews--you've probably heard of him, sadly--was involved in some kind of... I don't know what to call it. There were pigs and houses. Oh, that was a spectacular mess, that was. I didn't want to even look at him for months afterwards. I barely claim him as kin now. I mean, a wolf is supposed to be a proud creature, full of cunning and stealth. Take one of my favorite hobbies, for instance. Human baiting, in my opinion, has always been an art form quite above this rolling around with pigs thing (honestly, who bothers with pigs anymore?), and it requires a good deal more skill, too. You have to watch the human, selecting him from his herd as you would one of his sheep. Then, you must carefully monitor his behavior, cautiously feeling out his weak points. It takes finesse. None of this huffing and puffing, thank you very much. Only then can you successfully execute your plan and seize a free meal, and if you do it right, you'll earn bragging rights for years to come. Why, in my younger days, I pulled a stunt so clever, so cunning, and so absolutely perfect, that my poor victim still feels the sting of it many winters later. The poor boy has never been able to live it down.
It all started when I was trotting along the forest’s edge near the village, the one by the river. A young boy had been put in charge of his father’s flock, and he was awfully anxious to prove himself. In fact, he was a little too anxious. He kept jumping at the slightest sound, as if hoping he might have a chance to use his new sling. Still wet behind the ears, he was. Anyhow, he took a notion that day to call attention to himself. “Wolf!” he cried, pointing into the forest and firing off stones from his sling. “There’s a wolf coming for our sheep!” It wasn’t me he was indicating; I was tucked away in a favorite hiding spot of mine, languidly watching the fluffy appetizers he was trying to protect. The boy’s father came running out, pitchfork in one hand, flaming torch in another. He searched that section of the forest high and low, eventually coming back in defeat. There was nothing to be found. The boy tried to hide his laughter, but the father caught him and promptly dragged him back to the farmhouse by an ear. The boy kept struggling and pleading the whole time. The father ended up watching the flock himself for the next few days. When the boy was finally trusted enough to return to his work, I happened to be in the vicinity again. He hadn’t learned his lesson, though. He repeated his call, and again, the father came running out, fearing for the lives of his lunch... Sheep, I mean. Sorry. Anyway, when the father discovered it was another trick, things got very bleak indeed for the boy. I didn’t see him for a solid month, and he limped a little when I did finally see him. It wasn’t time to make a move yet, though. When I’m in the process of carrying out a plot, I can have the patience of Job, unlike these impatient pups I complain about. I waited until the boy developed a false sense of security and let his guard down. I sized up the flock, selected my prey, and easily picked off my meal. The boy didn’t even notice me until I was carting off my haul. “Wolf!” he cried again, this time in vain. “There’s a wolf here, a real one!” No one came to the rescue. They were deaf now to the boy’s cries, and no amount of shouting was going to bring help. I escaped into the forest with my prize, leaving the boy forever branded as the boy who cried wolf. Now tell me that isn’t a clever scheme. None of the cubs I know could have pulled that off. Like I said, they have no style these days.