Big Bad Wolf

It’s me, the big, bad wolf. Or Wolfie, as my friends call me. Not Big Bad Voodoo Daddy, that swing jazz band from the last millennium. They were cool. But they’re not me. I’m cooler.

Me. The big, bad wolf. Real and scary. Legend of story and song. Source of under the bed, childhood nightmares the world over.

I’m everyone’s favorite baddy.

Heard it all my life. Though it has had certain benefits, it isn’t a fair description of who I truly am.

Granted, I haven’t always behaved like a lap dog. But you have to believe me when I tell you I got a bad rap too. Like that whole ration of lies about me in sheep’s clothing. What a crock.

I mean, can you honestly see me in a wool suit? Not my style, man.

Wool is itchy as hell. It shrinks. And don’t get me started on cleaning and pressing. You think I have time to pick up dry cleaning? Give me a break.

My cousin, the werewolf… not really a wolf, but he thinks he’s one. Always makes jokes about how ‘ruff’ I have it. Get it? ‘Ruff?’ Never mind. He’s nothing better than a flea-bitten coyote, if you catch my drift.

But I digress…

I never got any respect.

Despite the fact I’m immortalized in movies and literature. What’s a wolf gotta do? Cry?

And BTW, it’s not enough to be a wolf? I’ve got to be a big one? Not puny? And bad? Not a sweetheart? I’m not bragging when I tell you I’m good at what I do.

Seems like I’m being set up for failure from the get-go.

But, okay. I fit the bill. I’m the biggest and baddest and, oh yeah… I’m a wolf.

Can’t you see I never get an even break? It’s stacked against me.

I’m sure you’ve heard the stories where I’m dispatched by some sniveling little shepherd boy. Or by that snot nosed red haired, hoodie wearing tart, or… Oh no! A woodsman! A what? Every village needs a ne’er-do-well with an axe, lurking in the shadows.

And I hope you know he didn’t bother with anesthetics performing surgery with that axe to save grandma. She was tough and salty, I’ll have you know.

But I’m always the villain. Right?                                                                              

Well, they’re all lies. Lies! If they weren’t, would I be here, blushing and abashed, to tell you the truth?

Don’t get me started on those three little pigs. I know. Cute as a silk purse.

But get real.

But for me, no one would’ve heard of them, except as someone’s BLT. Yum.

Most heroes would be nobodies without a nemesis to vanquish. But do I ever get a simple thank you? Wouldn’t you agree that an equitable distribution of credit is long overdue? Sheesh!

So, anyway, the little pigs, Ziggy, Figgie and Jiggy. Always with the cute names. Thank God, Huey, Dewey and Louie were taken. Why not Noah, Tom and Edgar? Perfectly legit. But no! What parent…?

Anyway, they were gunning for me from the start. I came to inspect their new construction. I’m an inspector. They pretend to be developers. Get real.

So, I show up at Ziggy’s new ‘house.’ If you could call it that. Built of plastic straws, any self-respecting haystack would deny kinship. A multitude of permit violations clamored for attention. Citing them meant I’d be the bad guy. No way around it.

I told him why I’d come. Ziggy was clueless and distrustful.

He said, “You government guys are all the same. Taxes eating me alive.” His voice was like nails on a blackboard.

“I’m not from the tax office, Ziggy. Just here to inspect your construction. Ensure it’s up to…”

“Go away. It’s fine. Does everything I need a house to do.”

“Ziggy, I can see code violations from here and I haven’t been inside.”

“Go away. You’re not coming in. Not by the hair on my chinny chin chin…”

Always with that annoying saying. What does it even mean? I checked a box on my inspection form – ‘Uncooperative.’

Defiant, he stared at me with those squinty, piggy eyes.

I lost my patience. Pulling out my handkerchief, I feigned a sneeze and watched as the hovel collapsed in a cloud of dust. No need to huff or puff.

Shocked, Ziggy’s mouth dropped open. Before I could ask if a cat had his tongue, he ran up to Jiggy’s house. The way he squealed, you’d think I’d called him a boar.

I finished my notes and doggedly loped up to Figgie’s. Though the mode of construction was more professional, it was still sub-standard. Basically, the house was a pile of sticks. Someone ate a lot of popsicles.

Reporting it makes me the villain. But hey, it’s the job. I didn’t get the name, ‘Big Bad Wolf’ for nothing.

Figgie tried distracting me by hamming it up. His charm was lost on me. I was there for a job but not a schmooze job.

He told some old jokes and even did a little dance. His hoofing made a hog on ice look like Fred Astaire. He embarrassed himself. Always, the old tricks, like a dog returning to its own… why do they do that? Never mind.

Pigs. What can you do?

My work has certain expectations. Trying to razzle-dazzle past a shortfall just wastes my time.

I told him, “I can’t complete my report without seeing inside.”

“Not by the hair…”

I stopped him before I had to hear about his hairy chin. Enough! Get a shave.

I countered with one of my favorite tricks. Rarely use it anymore. At my age, huffing and puffing takes a lot. Get lightheaded. Need to sit down afterwards. But this demanded it.

I set my clip board down and braced myself. Figgie protested. He wouldn’t shut up.

It was too late. I blew his house down. Hearing all that clatter felt good.

Next.

Figgie also high-tailed it up to Jiggy’s house. Expecting me, Jiggy met me out front. His brothers had locked themselves inside the red brick cottage. Jiggy’s place looked like a fortress.        

I hate to admit it. Jiggy was actually cute, for a pig.

I felt he knew the real me. Very expressive, his attitude had me grinning from ear to ear. Whatever superficial differences we might have had, we saw eye to eye. Pig to wolf. This was just business. Nothing personal.

The others were a bunch of squealers.

Jiggy was straight with me. He showed me around and pointed out things he thought might be an issue. He impressed me.

When done with the exterior, he tried to let me inside. But Ziggy and Figgie had locked us out. Jiggy had seen their act before and appeared as weary of it as I was.

Jiggy shrugged. “Left my keys inside. You could go down the chimney.”

Same ol,’ same ol.’ But doable.

He boosted me onto the roof. I clawed my way up to the stack which emitted a thin trail of smoke. Putting my superior lung capacity to use, I dove in and made my way down the chimney.

Ziggy and Figgie had a roaring fire going by the time I reached bottom. I could hear their giggles as I clambered past the flames and onto the floor. My tail was sputtering and smoking like a sparkler on the 4^th of July.

No surprise, it was a pig sty in there. I rolled around, growling and whining until Jiggy collared me and dragged me out the back. He trained the hose on me and soon I was soaking wet, and not even smoldering.

I smelled like BBQ. And never felt so humiliated. My hair was singed and covered with mud.

Figgie and Ziggy stood laughing on the porch.

They yelled, “Hey hot dog… Be careful, you don’t wolf your food.”

What a howler.

Jiggy apologized for their behavior and asked what he could do.

“Nothing at this point. Par for the course in this line of work. Your place appears to meet all your permit requirements. You pass.”

I signed off the report and gave him a copy.

I won a small victory over the brothers. The city cited Ziggy and Figgie for building without a permit and being not up to code.

Call me bad.

Hah!