A forester fed a skinny she-wolf in 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, but its grip loosenssnow once packed tight begins to thaw, turning paths into treacherous blends of mud, slush, and ice. Trails once safe for walking or skiing now resemble impassable swamps. This transitional season is unkind, harsh, as if nature hesitates between sleep and awakening.
For animals, March is among the toughest months. After months of hunger, with food scarce, many are exhausted. Some hide away, while others risk futile hunts. Only the strongest endureyet even they may falter under such strain.
In a remote cabin nestled among endless pines and larches, forester Pyotr Yemelyanov sat at a wooden table. With thirty years in the taiga, he knew every bush, every whisper of the wind. His bond with the forest ran deephe read tracks on snow like others read books.
That day, as he wrote his winter patrol report, wet snow drizzled outside. A gray haze veiled the forest, while a biting wind howled down the stovepipe, making flames flicker like living things.
Then came a sound that snatched him from his thoughtsnot the wind or creaking wood, but a wolfs howl. Long, deep, layered with something beyond mere call. In it lay pain, loneliness, despair and perhaps hope.
Pyotr rose and approached the window. Through the fogged glass, fifty meters away, stood a she-wolf. Young but gaunt, ribs visible beneath her dull, matted fur. Her movements were slow, labored, yet pride lingered in her bearing.
“Starving, beauty?” Pyotr muttered, squinting.
She didnt flee. Instead, she met his gaze, emitting soft whinesnot threats but pleas. No malice, just weariness and trust?
Thirty years had taught Pyotr the rules: dont interfere, dont feed wild animals. It disrupts balance. Yet something about her moved himher unwavering gaze, her dignity despite weakness. Maybe it echoed his own past hardships.
With a sigh, he fetched a frozen elk shanka gift from a hunterand stepped outside. The wolf tensed but held her ground.
“Here, beauty,” he said, placing the meat ten paces away before retreating. “Eat. I see youve had it rough.”
She hesitated, then hunger won. She ate slowly, methodically, as if savoring each bite. Afterward, she took the rest, gave Pyotr a long lookmemorizing himand vanished into the woods.
She returned the next day.
Pyotr heard her whines at dawn. Smiling, he brought more meat. The ritual repeated: meat on snow, cautious approach, grateful departure.
This continued all spring. Gradually, she grew strongerher coat glossy, her steps sureyet kept her distance.
“Clever girl,” Pyotr mused. “Knows humans arent to trust.”
By May, her visits waned. By June, she vanished.
“Things mustve improved,” he told himself, oddly missing her.
Then, two months later, a howl echoednot mournful but triumphant.
On the forest edge stood the she-wolf, now robust, beside two fluffy pups.
“So youre a mother,” Pyotr whispered.
Now he understood. Shed been pregnant, starving for two. His meat had saved herand her pups.
She met his eyes, gratitude unmistakable. Shed come to show him: *See what your kindness did.*
“Grow strong,” he murmured.
She howledno longer mournful but melodic. The pups joined in, their voices high and lively.
The song lasted a minute, yet to Pyotr, it felt eternala hymn of thanks, of life enduring.
Then she turned, leading her pups away. One even wagged its tail like a pup.
“Go on,” Pyotr smiled. “The forest is yours.”
He never saw them again. But sometimes, distant howls carried to his cabin.
“Theyre thriving,” hed say.
Hunters later spoke of a new packwise, wary, keeping to themselves.
“Good,” Pyotr agreed. “Wild things should stay wild.”
Yet secretly, he took pride. Those pups mightve never lived without a few kilos of meatand a kind heart.
That winter, Pyotr stocked extra. Not for wolvestheyd learned to survive. Just in case another soul needed help.
For the taiga has its own laws. One is simple: help those in need, human or beast. Kindness returns, often in ways unimagined.
And deep in Siberias woods, a wolf family remembered the scent of a kind manavoiding his land not out of fear, but respect. Because some hearts earn gratitude. Even wolves understand that.
