Sirko

Once upon a time there was a farmer in a village, and he had a dog called Sirko. Sirko had served him for many years: he guarded the yard, kept the hens safe from the fox, and barked at night so loudly that thieves wouldn’t even come near. But the years went by, and Sirko turned grey, and his teeth wore down, and his ears weren’t what they used to be. He could hear only as if through a pillow.

One morning the farmer stepped out onto the porch and frowned.

“What use are you now, Sirko? Somebody walked around the yard last night, and you never even barked. Go wherever your eyes take you. I don’t need a watchdog like that.”

Sirko looked at the farmer and wagged his tail just a little. Maybe he was joking? No, he wasn’t joking. The dog hung his head and trudged out the gate and away into the fields.

Sirko lay down under a hawthorn bush, rested his muzzle on his paws and sighed. And then, swish-swish in the grass, a wolf came out. Grey, skinny, tail drooping.

“Hello, Sirko,” said the wolf. “Why aren’t you at home? Why are you lying under a bush?”

“My master sent me away,” answered Sirko. “I’ve grown old, and nobody needs me.”

The wolf sat down beside him, scratched behind his ear and squinted.

“Oh, Sirko, Sirko. But you never blocked my way through your yard, the way other dogs did. I remember kindness. Listen to what I’ve thought of. Harvest is coming. Your mistress will go out to reap and lay her little baby under a sheaf, to sleep in the shade. And I’ll sneak up, pick up the bundle, as gently as an egg, and carry it off. She’ll scream, and you run after me and bark as loudly as you can. I’ll put the bundle down on the grass and slip away. And you’ll carry the baby back.”

“And what if you drop him?” Sirko asked in alarm.

“I won’t,” said the wolf seriously. “I’ll carry him the way a she-wolf carries her cubs. There won’t be a single scratch. Honest wolf’s word.”

Sirko thought and thought, and then he agreed.

Harvest time came. The field stood golden, the rye rustled, the quails called, “Wet-my-lips! Wet-my-lips!” The farmer and his wife went out to reap. The wife spread a coat under the sheaf, laid her little son on it in his white wrapping, and took her sickle. Swish-swish, swish-swish.

The wolf, meanwhile, lay in the rye, quiet as quiet, with only his ears sticking up. Sirko lay a little way off, not breathing either.

Then the wife walked away to the end of the field. The wolf pounced, hop, to the sheaf. He took the bundle in his teeth by the corner of the coat, lightly, as if it were a flower, and trotted off across the field. The baby didn’t even wake up, he only smacked his little lips.

“Oh, help!” cried the wife. “A wolf is carrying off my baby!”

“Save him!” shouted the farmer, and rushed after the wolf, but how could he catch him?

And then out of the rye leaped Sirko.

“Woof! Woof-woof! Stop, you grey robber!”

Sirko ran, his paws tangling, his ears flapping, and he barked as if he were young again. The wolf looked back, winked at him, laid the bundle gently in the soft grass, and was gone in a flash.

Sirko ran up and sniffed the baby. He was whole, warm and yawning. The dog took the bundle by the coat and carried it back, slowly, so as not to shake it.

The wife snatched up her son, hugged him tight, crying and laughing at once. And the farmer knelt down in front of Sirko and stroked his grey head.

“Oh, Sirko, Sirko,” he said. “And I sent you away. How foolish I was. Let’s go home.”

And they all went home together. At home the farmer ordered:

“Wife, give Sirko some bread, and bacon, and dumplings with sour cream. Let him eat as much as he can hold. He is the dearest one we have now!”

They laid soft hay for Sirko under the bench and set a full bowl for him every day. Nobody scolded him any more. Sirko lay in the sun, warming his old bones, and thought, “I’m well off. But how is my wolf?”

And just then the farmer was marrying off his daughter. They planned a wedding for the whole village: tables in the house and in the yard, pies, sausages, stuffed cabbage rolls, the musicians playing, the guests dancing until the floor hummed.

In the evening Sirko went out to the field and found the wolf under the same hawthorn bush.

“Come to my wedding, friend,” he said. “You did me a kindness, and now it’s my turn.”

“But they’ll meet me with sticks!” the wolf shuddered.

“Just be quiet. You’ll crawl under the table, where the tablecloth hangs all the way to the ground. Nobody will even see you.”

They crept to the yard in the twilight. The wolf whisked under the table, only his tail flashing for a moment. Sirko walked among the guests, wagging his tail, and the guests were delighted.

“Here he is, our Sirko, our rescuer! Here’s a pie for you, Sirko! Here’s some sausage!”

Sirko took it and went under the table. He took it and went under the table. The wolf gobbled it all up under there, pies and cabbage rolls and even a bone from the jellied meat. He ate so much that his sides grew round.

And a full wolf always feels like singing. He grew drowsy under the table, closed his eyes and thought, “The musicians are playing, the people are singing, so why shouldn’t I?” He threw back his head and began:

“Ow-ow-ow-ow-ow!”

The musicians stopped. The guests froze with spoons in their hands.

“A wolf!” shrieked an aunt in a flowery scarf. “There’s a wolf under the table!”

What a commotion! One grabbed a poker, another a stick, another a broom. The guests shouted, waved their sticks and banged on the benches, but nobody hit anybody.

And Sirko was right there. He threw himself at the wolf, growling fiercely, the wolf went for him, and they rolled in a ball until the dust flew. But in truth neither one bit the other. Sirko only whispered in the wolf’s ear:

“Bear it, friend, I’ll get you out in a moment.”

Then the farmer shouted across the whole house:

“Don’t hit him! Don’t touch him! You might hit Sirko! Let him chase the wolf away himself!”

The guests lowered their sticks. And Sirko growled and pressed forward, and, as if he were driving the wolf off, led him out the gate and on into the field, all the way to the hawthorn bush.

There they sat down and caught their breath. The wolf licked his whiskers and laughed.

“Well, what a wedding you have, Sirko! You’ve fed me for a whole week. Only I won’t sing there again.”

“I should think not,” Sirko laughed too. “Sing here in the field instead, as long as you like, until morning.”

They hugged like brothers and said goodbye. The wolf went off to the forest, and Sirko went home to his warm bowl and soft hay. And from then on, whenever he heard “ow-ow-ow” from the field at night, he only twitched an ear and smiled. That was his friend saying thank you.