The forester fed a thin she-wolf during 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 to its power but weakensonce-solid snow begins to melt, turning into treacherous slush of water, mud, and ice. Forest paths, once walkable or even skiable, now become nearly impassable swamps. This season is harsh, transitional, as if nature hesitates between life and sleep.
For animals, March is equally unforgiving. After months of hunger, with food supplies depleted, many creatures are pushed to their limits. Some hibernate, hiding from the cold and starvation, while others risk futile hunts. Only the strongest surviveand even they often struggle.
In a remote hut amid endless pine and larch forests, Pyotr Yemelyanov, a forester with thirty years of experience, sat at a wooden table. He knew every bush, every trail, every gust of wind here. His life was intertwined with the taigahe felt its breath, heard the whispers of trees, and read tracks in snow as others read books.
Now, he was filing another winter patrol reportdry words, numbers, notes. Outside, sleet fell, mist draped the forest, and a biting wind howled down the stovepipe, making the flames flicker like a living thing.
Then, a sound jolted him from his thoughtsnot wind or creaking wood, but a wolfs howl. Long, deep, filled with more than just a call. It carried pain, loneliness, despair and maybe hope.
Pyotr set down his papers and approached the window. In the gray haze, a wolf stood at the forests edge. Young but emaciated, her ribs visible beneath a dull, matted coat. Her movements were slow, careful, as if each step cost great effort. Yet, despite hunger and exhaustion, she held herself with dignity.
*”Whats left of you, beauty?”* Pyotr muttered, squinting.
The wolf didnt flee. She stared at the hut, occasionally whimperingnot a threat, but a plea. Her gaze held no malice, just exhaustion and something like trust?
Pyotr knew the rules. Thirty years in the taiga had taught him: dont interfere, dont feed wild animals. It disrupts balance, makes them dependent. Yet, something about her touched him. Maybe her fearless eyes, filled with stubborn hope. Or her pride despite frailty. Or memories of his own hungry, lonely days
With a sigh, he walked to the freezer, unwrapped a chunk of elk meata gift from an old hunterand stepped outside. The wolf tensed but didnt run.
*”Here, beauty,”* he said, placing the meat ten paces away. *”Eat. Youve had it rough.”*
He retreated to the porch and watched. Hunger won. The wolf crept forward, snatched the meat, and retreated to eatslowly, deliberately, as if knowing more would come.
*”Havent eaten in a while,”* Pyotr mused. *”Wheres your pack? Or were you cast out?”*
After eating, she took the remains, gave him a long lookmemorizing his facethen vanished into the woods.
She returned the next day. And the next. A ritual formed: meat on snow, cautious approach, silent gratitude. By spring, she grew stronger, her coat glossy, movements confident. But she kept her distance.
*”Smart girl,”* Pyotr said. *”Knows to fear humans.”*
By May, her visits dwindled. By June, she disappeared.
*”Guess shes managed,”* he told himself. He missed her.
Two months later, in July, the taiga bloomed. Returning from patrol, Pyotr heard a howlnot mournful, but triumphant.
On the forest edge stood the wolf. Healthy, proud. And beside hertwo fluffy pups.
*”Well, look at that,”* Pyotr whispered. *”A mother now.”*
It all made sense. Shed been pregnant, starving not just for herself but her unborn. His meat had helped her survive.
The pups tumbled playfully. One ventured toward the hut, but a low growl from their mother called it back.
They locked eyeshers filled with silent thanks. Shed brought them to show him: *This is what your kindness did.*
*”Grow strong,”* he murmured.
The wolves howleda melody of gratitude. Then they vanished into the forest, one pup wagging its tail like a puppy.
Neighbors later spoke of a new wolf familyclever, wary, avoiding humans but causing no harm.
*”Good,”* Pyotr said. *”Wild is how they should stay.”*
But he was proud. Somewhere in the taiga ran two wolves who might never have lived without a few kilograms of meat and a kind heart.
That winter, Pyotr stocked extra meat. Not for wolvestheyd learned to survive. Just in case.
Because the taiga has its own rules. One of them: help those in need, human or beast. Kindness comes backsometimes in the most unexpected ways.
And deep in Siberias forests, a wolf family remembers the scent of a good man, avoiding his landnot from fear, but respect. Some people earn gratitude. Even wolves understand that.
