Wolfgang
by Michèle Praeger
Once upon a place there was a baby wolf. He was the runt of the litter, the ugly duckling. Indeed his pelage was black unlike those of his seven brothers and sisters which were grey. In addition, he had emerald irises which frightened his golden-eyed siblings and even his Mother and Grandmother. He was the black sheep of the family, a lone wolf.
One night his Mother and Grandmother conspired to expel him from the familial den. There had been rumors that that winter would be harsh, that little red riding hoods would make themselves scarce and that famine would spread in the whole state, even among humans. The loss of him would make one less mouth to feed, one unworthy mouth.
Another rumor was being disseminated in the Wolf community: Calamity Jane was back roaming the empty, deserted, frozen plains of Wyoming. She was a red ogress who favored the tails of puppy wolves, which she rubbed on her bare belly when she was feeling anxious. She was armed with two pistols and had the reputation of being a sharpshooter.
Of course, Mother and Grandmother needed a pretext for Wolfgang—such was his name—to leave willingly and even enthusiastically. They entrusted the puppy, always eager to please and redeem himself, with a mission: to bring to a nonexistent Grandfather, suffering from Alzheimer’s disease, crossword puzzles and various other brainteasers. In addition, they supplied him with wolf droppings which they told him would be transformed into gold nuggets by a compassionate fairy.
Lo and behold, as Wolfgang was battling the fierce winds of the plains, Calamity Jane appeared, towering over him, her hands firmly planted on her guns.
“And where are you going, my pretty wolverine?” she asked in a booming voice. “And what is your name?”
“I am going to visit my Grandfather who has Alzheimer’s disease,” replied the trembling puppy. “I am bringing him games to exercise his memory. My name is Wolfgang.”
The ogress was taken over by a fit of laughter. She jumped with alacrity on the frozen earth in front of the terrified puppy. “You are something else!” she yelped. Wolfgang, sensing he had given the wrong answer, rushed to say, “I also have in my backpack some wolf droppings which a good fairy will transform into gold.”
“Oh,” reflected the ogress, “this changes everything!”
Wolfgang wondered what she meant by “everything” but chose to remain quiet.
Calamity picked him up and stuffed him unceremoniously into the pouch of her parka, against her warm, ample belly. She ambled and she marched, braving blizzards and ice storms while Wolfgang was lulled into sleep and bliss.
Of course, good fairies were nowhere to be seen, preferring to frolic in enchanted European forests rather than on the bleak plains of the New World. Wolfgang was disagreeably awakened by rumblings in the ogress’s stomach. He felt her hunger and anger, and that she would soon expel him from her pouch and let him fend for himself, keeping for herself the droppings, or she would just gobble him up. As he was stretching and rubbing himself against the rumbling belly, he noticed that the angry stomach was calming down, the lungs were filling up with air again, the breathing became regular. He continued rubbing himself against the ogress’s belly. A great calm had fallen upon her as she was thus reasoning:
Keeping Wolfgang alive is a much better solution than skinning him. I’ll have a living fur to calm my anxieties and I won’t need to massacre other puppies. I can settle down and live comfortably in my wood cabin with Wolfgang for company and support. He has a tender heart and will take care of me when I grow old.
She took Wolfgang out of her pouch, wiggled him up in the air and enthusiastically rubbed his black nose against hers, which was cold and red.
They lived happy and content for a few years. Calamity had lost weight and Wolfgang had turned into a handsome hybrid, part dog and part wolf. Calamity had taught him how to knit while she read him tales from the old Continent. His favorite was “Beauty and the Beast.” His black fur had lightened to a pleasant auburn color.
One snowy night, after Calamity had gone to sleep on the couch, a book of fairytales on her belly, Wolfgang heard the piercing, fierce yet mournful wolf-song. All his senses went into alert, his fur stood on end, his ears folded back against his head, which moved side to side. He looked out of the window and saw, glowing in the dark, the amber eyes of his brethren. They seemed to be expecting something from him, some kind of Wolf action.
He turned around to look at Calamity, who was sleeping the sleep of angels. He was about to step out and join his brothers, but he knew he had to prove himself first. He snarled at his benefactress, baring his teeth. She opened her eyes; instead of the usually tender expression on Wolfgang’s face, there was an ugly and pitiless expression of hate. But it was not a face anymore. It was a snout. In the most humane way, he wolfed her down. It was the prize the wolves outside wanted him to pay, for him to join the pack.
One night his Mother and Grandmother conspired to expel him from the familial den. There had been rumors that that winter would be harsh, that little red riding hoods would make themselves scarce and that famine would spread in the whole state, even among humans. The loss of him would make one less mouth to feed, one unworthy mouth.
Another rumor was being disseminated in the Wolf community: Calamity Jane was back roaming the empty, deserted, frozen plains of Wyoming. She was a red ogress who favored the tails of puppy wolves, which she rubbed on her bare belly when she was feeling anxious. She was armed with two pistols and had the reputation of being a sharpshooter.
Of course, Mother and Grandmother needed a pretext for Wolfgang—such was his name—to leave willingly and even enthusiastically. They entrusted the puppy, always eager to please and redeem himself, with a mission: to bring to a nonexistent Grandfather, suffering from Alzheimer’s disease, crossword puzzles and various other brainteasers. In addition, they supplied him with wolf droppings which they told him would be transformed into gold nuggets by a compassionate fairy.
Lo and behold, as Wolfgang was battling the fierce winds of the plains, Calamity Jane appeared, towering over him, her hands firmly planted on her guns.
“And where are you going, my pretty wolverine?” she asked in a booming voice. “And what is your name?”
“I am going to visit my Grandfather who has Alzheimer’s disease,” replied the trembling puppy. “I am bringing him games to exercise his memory. My name is Wolfgang.”
The ogress was taken over by a fit of laughter. She jumped with alacrity on the frozen earth in front of the terrified puppy. “You are something else!” she yelped. Wolfgang, sensing he had given the wrong answer, rushed to say, “I also have in my backpack some wolf droppings which a good fairy will transform into gold.”
“Oh,” reflected the ogress, “this changes everything!”
Wolfgang wondered what she meant by “everything” but chose to remain quiet.
Calamity picked him up and stuffed him unceremoniously into the pouch of her parka, against her warm, ample belly. She ambled and she marched, braving blizzards and ice storms while Wolfgang was lulled into sleep and bliss.
Of course, good fairies were nowhere to be seen, preferring to frolic in enchanted European forests rather than on the bleak plains of the New World. Wolfgang was disagreeably awakened by rumblings in the ogress’s stomach. He felt her hunger and anger, and that she would soon expel him from her pouch and let him fend for himself, keeping for herself the droppings, or she would just gobble him up. As he was stretching and rubbing himself against the rumbling belly, he noticed that the angry stomach was calming down, the lungs were filling up with air again, the breathing became regular. He continued rubbing himself against the ogress’s belly. A great calm had fallen upon her as she was thus reasoning:
Keeping Wolfgang alive is a much better solution than skinning him. I’ll have a living fur to calm my anxieties and I won’t need to massacre other puppies. I can settle down and live comfortably in my wood cabin with Wolfgang for company and support. He has a tender heart and will take care of me when I grow old.
She took Wolfgang out of her pouch, wiggled him up in the air and enthusiastically rubbed his black nose against hers, which was cold and red.
They lived happy and content for a few years. Calamity had lost weight and Wolfgang had turned into a handsome hybrid, part dog and part wolf. Calamity had taught him how to knit while she read him tales from the old Continent. His favorite was “Beauty and the Beast.” His black fur had lightened to a pleasant auburn color.
One snowy night, after Calamity had gone to sleep on the couch, a book of fairytales on her belly, Wolfgang heard the piercing, fierce yet mournful wolf-song. All his senses went into alert, his fur stood on end, his ears folded back against his head, which moved side to side. He looked out of the window and saw, glowing in the dark, the amber eyes of his brethren. They seemed to be expecting something from him, some kind of Wolf action.
He turned around to look at Calamity, who was sleeping the sleep of angels. He was about to step out and join his brothers, but he knew he had to prove himself first. He snarled at his benefactress, baring his teeth. She opened her eyes; instead of the usually tender expression on Wolfgang’s face, there was an ugly and pitiless expression of hate. But it was not a face anymore. It was a snout. In the most humane way, he wolfed her down. It was the prize the wolves outside wanted him to pay, for him to join the pack.
