Tell me, reader, have you ever heard of a fairy tale in which the wolf is the "good guy?" The one who is picked on, eaten, tricked, or pursued for no reasonable purpose? No?
The truth, though you are most inclined not to believe it, is that we are the victims. And we all survive to tell of our trifles, despite the so-called "endings" of these little children's tales you're all so apt to believe.
Take my cousin, for example. He had finally separated from his pack. He was out on his own, ready to find a girl and start a pack of his own. It was about time he'd be the alpha, having always been shoved around and given the last measly scraps of the meal. He, not any other, would be the big, bad wolf the pups would fear. The one who got to eat first, pick a mate first, and have as damn many pups as he pleased.
After going through the shame and humiliation of abandoning his fellow pack mates, he found an uninhabited spot in the forest and settled down. He marked the territory—his territory. No one with a sense of smell would dare cross through it.
Apparently, that Little Red Riding Brat lacked a sense of smell, despite her offensive, dramatically hooked nose.
Too lazy to stick to the main path, she cut through the forest and came trampling right through his home one day. Her clumsy, oversized feet flattened the foliage that concealed him from his prey and kicked dirt into his den. She even slashed crudely at the trees, scarring them with inch-deep markings to help her find her way home. When he emerged from his den, with dirt in his eyes and fur, to see his mangled surroundings—was he to sit back and accept it? No!
He confronted her. Asked her to be more careful and to fix what could be salvaged. She stood there, picking crudely at her teeth (did the story lead you to believe she was a dainty young lady? Figures), and laughed in his face. She brushed him off, mumbling something about visiting her grandmother, and walked off. Can you blame him for his actions following this encounter?
But his story is taking too long. I have my own to tell.
I am acquainted with these details because I was with him when it happened. I, a better friend to him than any other family member, also dislodged from our pack and joined him on his quest for a family. It was only days after we had settled down that the aforementioned events took place.
At the time there were a few lumberjacks nearby. We weren't sure what they were up to; we only knew that there were too many to chase away if they got too close to our home. We soon found, though, that they were clearing an area for houses to be built not far from us.
There were no small animals in the area and we were getting hungry. And it just so happened that the houses were soon inhabited by three pigs.
Don't give me that look. Wolves need to eat, too. Sometimes that involves some unhappy processes, such as your slaughtering of cows and chickens and fish for your own diets.
It didn't help for the little pigs that they were intruding on our home. When I said they weren't far, I mean it: they were only a few trees away from us, threatening to overtake our territory if more of them were to come.
But we understood the need for a home, so we tried to ignore them the best we could. We went on with our daily routine, scouring the forest and scraping up what little food we could find. My cousin was beginning to grow restless, and often complained that having a full meal was his main motivation for leaving the pack; now, he was getting less than he did then.
We persisted, though, and tried our best to ignore the plump delicacies trotting about next-door. I even suggested going vegetarian, though that only worked for a day or two before we grew violently ill.
It wasn't until the pigs started pelting rocks at us that we changed our minds. Yes, rocks. Had everyone lost their sense of decency?
It turned out they were actually piglets, fresh from their mother's care. They had just left home and were on their own for the first time, still with much maturing to do.
Sick of being abused, I volunteered to approach the issue while my cousin kept guard over our home. The alpha from our previous pack was on the lookout for us, ready to force us from our dens at any moment. But when I knocked gently on the first house, afraid of tipping its delicate frame over (who builds a house out of straw, anyway?), and asked to speak to its owner—what response did I get? A rather snide one.
"What!"
"Little pig," I called, "Little pig, let me in."
"Not by the hair of my chinny chin chin!" it sneered.
Flabbergasted, I cleared my throat and tried again. Still the same mocking, sing-songy answer.
Hmph! What an attitude. I huffed in exasperation and was surprised to see the house teeter.
That's it, I thought!
"Pig, let me in, or I'll huff, and I'll puff, and I'll blow your house down!"
"Bite me!"
That was it. I came from respectable breeding; I wasn't to be subjected to such crude manners!
Drawing a deep breath, I coughed and hacked on my first try, and cursed my age. A cackle came from within the house, along with a snide remark about graying fur.
My second try proved more successful; the house collapsed with a squeal. The pig was busy munching on an apple, and the sight of it was too much to bear. I devoured it before I could restrain myself.
My more primal instincts took over then, causing me to howl in satisfaction. My cousin came running and found me, surrounded by straw, licking blood from the fur surrounding my lips.
I explained my actions and we continued on to the second house, built of similarly feeble sticks. The same process took place, and at the culmination of the struggle my cousin was satisfied as well.
We decided to move on to the third and final house and to split the prize. But this one was made of a sturdy brick.
I know the tale. You were told we (or I—the story completely leaves out my poor cousin) blew foolishly upon the bricks, right? Wrong. We knew better than that. Instead, we used our combined strength to take down the door, with the intention of feasting on the third pig.
Now, we weren't dumb. We understood why the third pig would want to avenge his brothers, and we still don't blame him for it. But the way in which he did it was simply cruel.
He wasn't in the house. He had known we were coming, and waited outside for the right moment with the lumberjacks. As soon as we entered they charged in, captured us with a net, and forced us into cages far too small for our bulky frames.
We were certain, at the time, that they would kill us. I can't say for sure that our fate was much better.
We now reside in a zoo, where we are forced to act "tamely" and allow little brats similar to the one in the red cape pet us and pull our fur and squeeze us tightly around our necks. Our nighttime habitat is small and fenced in, with scraps of meat thrown in at regular intervals to keep us from growing hungry and attacking the children. Next to us, in all their hefty glory, are the pigs—the family of the ones we'd murdered—who, protected by barbed fencing, regularly pelt stones at us in vengeful remembrance of their loved ones.
Yes, reader, pity us. And be happy you were not born a wolf.