The ranger fed a skinny she-wolf over winter, and by summer she appeared at his doorstep with an unexpected “gift”!
March, especially in Siberias harsh climate, is never an easy month. Winter still clings stubbornly, though weakeningthe dense snow begins to melt, turning into a treacherous mix of water, mud, and ice. Forest paths, once safely traversed on foot or skis, now become near-impassable bogs. Its a harsh, unforgiving season when nature seems torn between life and slumber.
For animals, March is equally brutal. After months of starvation, with food supplies depleted, many creatures are pushed to their limits. Some keep sleeping, hiding from the cold and hunger in their dens, while others risk venturing outoften in vain. Only the strongest survive. Yet even they may falter under such trials.
In a remote lodge buried among endless pines and larches, forester Pyotr Yemelyanov sat at a wooden table. With thirty years of experience, he knew every bush, every trail, every gust of wind in these woods. His life was entwined with the taigahe sensed its breath, heard the trees whisper, and read tracks in snow like pages in a book.
Now, he was filling out another winter patrol reportdry words, numbers, notes. Outside, sleet fell, a gray haze shrouded the forest, and a biting wind howled down the stovepipe, making the flames flicker like something alive.
Then, in the middle of his routine, a sound jolted him from his thoughts. Not the wind or creaking timberit was a howl. A wolfs howl. Long, deep, carrying more than just a call. There was pain, loneliness, despair and maybe hope.
Pyotr set down his papers, rose slowly, and went to the window. Through the fogged glass, a figure stood at the forests edge, fifty meters awaya young she-wolf. Ribs showed beneath her dull, scruffy fur; her movements were sluggish, as if each step took immense effort. Yet despite hunger and exhaustion, she held herself with quiet dignity.
*Poor things starved half to death,* Pyotr muttered, squinting.
The wolf didnt flee. She stood still, staring at the lodge, occasionally making soft, pleading soundsnot threats, but requests. Her gaze held no malice, only exhaustion and trust?
Thirty years in the taiga had taught Pyotr the rules: dont interfere with nature, dont feed wild animals, dont make them reliant on humans. It upsets the balance. But something about this wolf moved him. Maybe her eyesno fear, just quiet resolve. Or her proud stance despite weakness. Or maybe memories of his own lean, lonely years.
With a sigh, he shook his head and opened the freezer. Inside, wrapped in old newspaper, was a chunk of moose meata gift from an old hunter. A good three kilos, enough for days.
Pyotr stepped onto the porch, meat in hand. The wolf tensed but didnt run. She waited.
*Here, girl,* he said, placing the meat in the snow ten meters away. *Eat. Looks like youve had it rough.*
He retreated and watched. The wolf hesitated but finally crept forward, snatched the meat, and backed off before settling down to eatnot greedily, but steadily, as if savoring every bite.
*Been a while since she ate,* Pyotr noted. *Wheres her pack? Or was she exiled?*
After eating, the wolf picked up the leftovers, gave him a long looklike memorizing his facethen turned and vanished into the twilight.
She returned the next day.
Pyotr heard whining by morning. Peering out, he saw her in the same spot, waiting. He smirked.
*Hungry again?* He fetched more meat.
The ritual repeated: meat on snow, cautious approach, a grateful glance, then disappearance.
This continued all spring. Weekly visits, her strength returning, fur glossier, strides firmer. But she never came too closealways kept her distance.
*Smart girl,* Pyotr would say. *Knows to fear humans.*
By May, her visits dwindled. By June, she was gone.
*Guess shes doing alright,* he told himself. Hed miss those morning visits.
Two months passed. Julys heat breathed life into the taigabirds sang, flowers bloomed, berries ripened. Returning from patrol, Pyotr heard familiar sounds.
A wolfs howlbut not mournful. It was triumphant?
He stepped outside and froze.
At the forests edge stood his she-wolfstrong, sleek, proud. And beside her, two fluffy cubs, each the size of a large pup.
*Well, Ill be,* Pyotr whispered. *Youre a mother now.*
Now he understood. Shed been pregnant when she first camestarving, weakened, thinking of her unborn pups. His meat had helped her carry and feed them.
The cubs tumbled playfully while their mother watched, dignified. One wobbled toward the lodge, but she growled softly, and it scampered back.
For minutes, Pyotr and the wolf locked eyes. Hers held gratitudedeep, wordless. Shed brought her young to say: *Look what your kindness made possible.*
*Fine-looking pair,* he murmured. *Grow up strong.*
The she-wolf howled againnot a lament but a melody. The cubs joined in with high, thin voices.
It lasted just a minute, yet to Pyotr, it was the most beautiful musica song of thanks, of life enduring.
Then she turned, leading her cubs into the trees. One pup paused, wagging its tail like a overgrown puppy.
*Go on,* Pyotr smiled. *The forest is yours. Ill remember.*
He watched until they vanished into the green. Back inside, he couldnt focushis mind replaying the sight: the proud mother, her cubs, their trusting eyes.
He never saw them again. But sometimes, at dusk, distant howls would echo through the taiga, and Pyotr would smile.
*Growing up well,* hed say.
Hunters later spoke of a new wolf family in the areaa mother with two grown cubs. Clever, cautious, avoiding humans but never threatening.
*Good,* Pyotr said. *Wild things should stay wild.*
Yet secretly, he was proud. Somewhere in the taiga ran two wolves who mightve never lived, had it not been for a few kilos of meat given freely.
That winter, he stocked extranot for wolves (they could hunt now), but just in case. Who else might come seeking help?
The taiga has its own laws. One of them: help those in need, human or beast. Kindness finds its way backsometimes in the most unexpected ways.
And deep in Siberias woods, a wolf family remembers the scent of a kind man, giving his land a wide berthnot from fear, but respect. Some people earn gratitude. Wolves understand.
