The Mouse and the Wolf

“Where did you get that scar?”

The Little Mouse squeaked her words out in a high pitched voice and grating tone that insulted the ears of the Old Wolf. The two of them padded along on the soft grass and heard the gurgling of the brook just to their left. An autumn breeze blew the chill afternoon air that portended a crisp night and possible snow. In the coming weeks, shelter would become difficult to find and food, scarce. He had felt his undercoat grow dense these past few weeks, and the Old Wolf was of the age when he was no longer surprised by the season’s movements and swings. Very little ever surprised the Old Wolf.

The Old Wolf breathed in a deep gulp of the chill air and sighed. I have seen too much, he said to himself, and nothing is new. He glanced at the Little Mouse. “The scar event was a long time ago and many runs from here. Maybe I’ll tell you about it sometime but not today...not today.” 

The Old Wolf stopped and looked off at the horizon. Wisps of clouds curled in graceful design from the jagged line of mountains like smoke from a human’s den. The Old Wolf’s eyes took on a vacant, almost otherworldly, stare, and he fell deeper and deeper into thought — memory, really — with his gaze frozen on the far beyond. 

“Why not today?” the Little Mouse asked.

The Old Wolf stood like a statue. He did not respond, and the Little Mouse wondered if something had happened to him. She squeaked out as loud as she could, “Why not today!”

“What?” The Old Wolf started and picked up his walk, remembering the brook and the breeze and the soft grass, and with frustration, the Little Mouse.

“What are you squeaking about?” he said.

“Why not today?” she repeated. “Why not talk of your scar event today? Why wait for another today, when we have today together?”

“The time is far past and the scar event involves man, and I do not wish to talk of man today — or ever, really.”

“Hmm,” the Little Mouse said. She dropped her head and scurried along next to her friend. The two walked on a bit further. The hazy, orangey glow of day faded, and the first sign of evening stars appeared in the direction of the sunset, as if chasing the giant light.

The Little Mouse persisted, “Are you afraid of man — afraid to even talk of man? Are you afraid of what man can do?”

The Old Wolf halted in his tracks and glared at the mouse. She scurried in front of the larger animal and stared into the face of the Old Wolf. The Little Mouse sat on her haunches, her tailed curled around her feet.

“Afraid of what man can do?” the Old wolf scoffed. “I am not afraid of what man can do!” He paused, then stared off again as he placed his paw out to regain his stride. 

“What then?” The little mouse scampered ahead and jumped to and fro in the path as the Old Wolf walked.

“I am not afraid of what man can do,” the Old Wolf repeated. “I am afraid of who he is.”

The Little Mouse stopped and stared up once more as the Old Wolf passed by her with his rhythmic padding on the turf. After a few paces, the Old Wolf stopped and turned his shoulders back toward the Little Mouse. The small creature sat on her back side, looking at him with a quizzical expression furrowed in her features. Her tiny string of a tail whipped this way then that as she considered his statement. Her small paw cupped her chin as if attempting to solve a riddle.

The Old Wolf glanced up at the dying light in the sky, sighed and hung his head. He turned back to the Little Mouse. “Man has done many horrible things, especially to the likes of us,” the Old Wolf said, pointing a paw first to the Little Mouse and then himself. “But I can run and I am stronger than most men. You can scurry and hide, and you are quicker than most men.”

The Little Mouse nodded.

The Old Wolf continued, “You and I do what we were born to do. We are true to ourselves and true to our creation and Creator.”

The Little Mouse nodded with greater repetition and intensity, a smile creeping across her lips.

“But man…” the Old Wolf stared up and away again, the cool air escaping his moist nostrils like tendrils of steam. He stood still for several seconds — so long that the little mouse felt he would not finish.

The smile fell from her face, and the Little Mouse dropped to her front paws, running in front of the Old Wolf until she stood between him and the direction of his gaze.

“Yes, yes,” she said. “You said, ‘But man…’ and then you stopped.”

The Old Wolf lowered his eyes to focus on his tiny companion. Companion — are they really companions, he asked himself. Are we friends, this mouse and me?

“Yes,” the Old Wolf said. “We do what we were born to do, but man does what he wills. We do not choose, we act according to our nature. The human does what he chooses to do. He is not true to his creation or Creator. He chooses, and that makes him unpredictable — very unpredictable and very dangerous.”

The Little Mouse considered this for a few moments. The water gurgled behind her and the fading light made her friend’s form grow into the hulking giant of a predator. The shadow seemed to grow ever larger before her.

Undeterred, she held up a small paw and waving with great excitement, grabbed the Old Wolf’s attention. He looked at her, waiting for her to speak.

“We all choose,” she said.

“No, I do what my nature tells me to do,” he said.

She shook her head. The Little Mouses’ eyes softened and twinkled in the twilight with both mischief and knowledge. She raised a small digit from her right paw and gave a slight nod. “But don’t wolves eat mice?”