“Gran, Who Said You Could Keep a Wolf in the Village?” called Matthew. Agnes burst into tears when she saw her broken fence. She’d propped it up with planks many times, mending the rotten posts herself, hoping to make it last until she’d saved enough from her modest pension. But it was not to be! The fence had collapsed. For ten years, she’d run her cottage alone, ever since her beloved Peter passed away. He’d been a dab hand at everything—there was never a need to call for a tradesman. The whole village had admired Peter’s kindness and hard work. They’d shared a happy forty years together, falling just one day short of their golden anniversary. Their tidy house, the bountiful garden, the well-tended livestock—all spoke of their shared efforts. Agnes and Peter had one son, George, the pride of their lives. From childhood, George had always helped around the house, fetching firewood, hauling water, and caring for the animals before his mother returned from long days on the farm. Evenings found Peter washing up and enjoying a smoke on the porch while Agnes cooked dinner. Mealtimes were spent together, sharing the day’s news; they were truly happy. But time marched on. George grew up, left for London, earned his education, and married a city girl named Lucy. At first, he visited for holidays, but soon Lucy persuaded him to travel abroad instead. Peter was disappointed by his son’s choices. “Where’s George found so much to tire him out? It’s Lucy’s ideas, that’s what. Don’t know why he needs those foreign holidays,” Peter would grumble. After Peter fell ill and passed away, George came home for the funeral, weeping with regret, and then returned to the city. Over the next ten years, he sent only three letters. Agnes was left truly alone. She sold the cow and sheep she’d no longer any strength to tend. Without a man about, the place slowly decayed: the roof leaked, rotten porch planks snapped, and the cellar flooded. She scraped by on her pension, sometimes patching things herself, sometimes hiring dubious local help. Worst of all, her eyesight began to fail. Soon, she could barely read the prices at the village shop or see its sign. The nurse urged her to go for an operation, but Agnes was afraid. Within a year, she was almost totally blind. Still, she managed her routines by memory and made do without television, listening to the news instead. What troubled her most was not having a good dog—thieves prowled abandoned houses, and she missed the security of a loyal bark. She asked Sam, the local huntsman, to find her a pup—maybe a shepherd or a collie. Sam promised, but being unreliable and fond of drink, never came through. When the fence collapsed, she had to hire him for repairs, scraping the last coins together. One day, Sam turned up with tools—and something wriggling in his old backpack. “Look what I’ve brought you,” he grinned. Agnes felt a furry little head. “A puppy? Oh, Sam, I hope I can afford it…” “Don’t send me packing, Gran! You’d never guess what I paid for this purebred shepherd,” Sam insisted. Desperate, Agnes took groceries on credit to pay Sam his due—and soon, a new lodger, named Rex, was part of the cottage. She loved him, though he grew into the size of a calf and never learned to bark. Sam waved off her grumbles—“He’s a special sort!”—as Rex scared off all the neighbouring dogs just by his size. One winter day, as Matthew the huntsman passed by, he stopped dead at the sight of the animal. “Gran, who said you could keep a wolf in the village?” he cried out. Agnes gasped in shock. “Oh heavens, that Sam tricked me! Said he was a purebred shepherd…” Matthew gravely insisted the animal needed returning to the wild before disaster struck. Though her heart broke, Agnes agreed, and the wolf—her trusted Rex—was led into the woods, vanishing among the trees. Agnes mourned him bitterly, cursing Sam for his deceit—though Sam, too, regretted the way things had turned out. That winter, when a strange man knocked, claiming to be the new owner of an old neighbour’s house, Agnes let him in out of kindness. But as she bustled about, the man turned nasty, threatening her for money. Just then, Rex—who’d found his way back—burst in, scaring off the would-be thief and saving Agnes’s life, though not without injury. Rex became the village hero. Folks brought treats, and he came and went freely, always returning to Agnes after his woodland adventures. One day, a black SUV rolled up—her son George had come home, contrite and full of concern, insisting Agnes go for the operation to restore her sight. Agnes squeezed his hand. “Alright, I’ll go. Sam, watch the cottage and see to Rex for me, won’t you?” Sam nodded, and Rex settled by the old hearth, his proper place, faithful as ever. To keep up with more heartwarming stories, follow our page! Leave your thoughts, and show your support with a like.

Gran Alice! Tom shouted, his voice echoing across the lane. Who ever gave you permission to keep a wolf in the village?

I burst into tears, hardly recognising my own voice as I gazed at the heap of broken fence planks. Id shored it up so many times, patching rotten posts, hoping it would last until I could save enough from my modest pension. It was not meant to be. The whole thing collapsed last night.

It’s been ten years now that Ive managed the smallholding alone, ever since my dear Harold passed away. He was a man with hands of gold he could mend anything; joiner, carpenter, a dab hand at all trades. While he was alive, nothing about life in the village worried me. People respected Harold for his good heart and tireless work. Wed been happy together, sharing our lives for forty years, missing our anniversary by just a day. The neat house, brimming garden, well-kept animals all thanks to our efforts.

We had one son, Benjamin, our pride and joy. Hard work came naturally to him he never needed a nudge to help. When Id trudge in from the dairy, Benjamin would have the firewood stacked, water fetched, stove glowing, and the animals seeing to. Harold, returning from work, would wash up and sit out on the porch with his pipe while I fixed supper. Wed gather every evening at the big kitchen table, sharing our news. We were content.

But time, merciless as it is, swept everything along. Benjamin grew up and set off for London, studied, and married a town girl, Amelia. They settled in the capital. At first, hed visit for holidays, but soon enough his wife talked him into going abroad each year instead. Harold would grumble, never understanding.

Whats so exhausting about life in London that our Ben needs an overseas holiday? I reckon Amelias filled his head with all sorts.

Harold became downcast, I desolate. What could we do but go on and wait for a scrap of news from Ben? And then, one spring, Harold grew ill stopped eating, getting weaker by the day. The doctors prescribed this and that, but finally he was sent home to rest out his last days. The birds returned and the wood was alive with nightingales thats when Harold slipped peacefully away.

Benjamin came for the funeral heartsick, berating himself for missing his father alive. He stayed the week, then vanished back to London. In the ten years since, hes written only three times. And so I was left alone. I sold off the cow and sheep to neighbours; what use were animals now? The cow stood by the gate for ages, listening to my sobs. Id shut myself in the further room, press my hands to my ears, and cry.

Without Harold, nothing at the cottage seemed right. Leak in the roof, rotten veranda boards, the cellar flooding I did what I could, setting aside pennies for a handyman, usually wrestling things myself after all, I was raised in a village, I could turn my hand to most things.

Scraping by was just about manageable until my eyesight began failing, quite out of the blue. One day at the village shop, I struggled to see the prices. Within months, I could barely make out the sign on the grocers door. The district nurse popped in, peered and fussed.

Alice, youll go blind! Go for an operation your sight can be saved!

But the thought of surgery frightened me out of my wits. I refused, and within a year lost most of my vision. Oddly, I wasnt too upset.

What do I need to see for? I dont watch television, just listen to the newsreader on the radio. I know my way round the house by memory.

Sometimes, especially on winter nights, I did worry. Trouble seemed to blow in more and more thieves, break-ins at empty cottages. I wished I had a good dog, something big and fearsome to scare off any wrongdoers.

So I asked Tom the poacher:

Any idea if the gamekeepers got a litter of pups? Id be grateful for just the smallest one. Ill raise it right

Tom, cocking a sly grin:

Gran Alice, what would you do with a Husky pup? Theyre for the hills. I could fetch you a proper sheepdog from the city.

A sheepdog, Tom? Wont that cost a fortune?

Not more than your peace of mind.

Well, go on then.

I went through my little jar of savings, reckoned I had just enough. Problem was, Tom was never reliable always putting things off. I chided him, but couldnt truly stay cross at the man no wife, no children, drink his only companion. Hed never left the village, didnt fancy cities, spent his days in the woods or helping folks with odd jobs. And any money he made off these chores for old widows it vanished quickly down the pub.

When the fence caved in, what else could I do but send for him? But instead of a sheepdog, Tom turned up one morning to fix the fence, lugging a bulging rucksack. He called me over, his eyes twinkling:

Gran, look who Ive brought you!

Inside, wriggling and furry, was a puppy all warm and soft under my fingers.

Tom, surely you didntnot a pup for me? I cant afford both the fence and a dog!

Well, I cant exactly take him back, can I? Do you know how much I paid for him?

There was nothing for it. I rushed down to the corner shop; the shopkeeper let me sign for five bottles of whisky on tick, putting my name in the ledger to pay later.

By dusk the fence was mended, Tom well-fed and merry, sitting at table pontificating on dog-rearing.

Twice a day at least. Get a strong chain hell be a right beast. Trust me on dogs.

Just like that, we had a new lodger I named him Max. It didnt take long to grow enormously fond of him, and the feeling was mutual. Max would bounce in circles by my feet, licking my hands, whenever I brought out his food. But something troubled me: Max shot up in size like a calf! but never once barked. It rankled.

Honestly, Tom! Youve sold me a duffer.

But whats to be done? I couldnt cast out a creature so gentle. It didn’t matter, for none of the other dogs dared yap at him. Within three months, Max had grown tall as my waist.

One day, when hunting season was approaching, Toms old mate Patrick wandered through the village to get supplies, trudged by my cottage, then stopped dead.

Gran Alice! he called. Who said you could keep a wolf in the village?

My hands flew to my chest. Id been so foolish! That scoundrel Tom had tricked me. He said it was a pedigree sheepdog!

Patrick, more serious now, insisted:

Gran, you must let him go to the woods. Therell be trouble otherwise.

Tears pricked my eyes. It broke my heart to see Max go hed been nothing but sweet, though indeed hed grown restive, always tugging at his chain. The neighbours had begun to eye him nervously. There was no choice. Patrick led Max to the edge of the woods. With one last wag, Max vanished among the trees. He was never seen again.

My heart ached for my companion and I muttered curses at Tom, but I knew he hadnt meant harm. What I didnt know: Tom had found Max as a helpless cub, orphaned by a bear in the woods. Hed brought him home and, hoping hed one day slip back into the wild, slipped him onto me, planning to bring me a real sheepdog later. Patrick ruined everything.

Tom haunted about my gate for days, unable to face me. Winter stormed in early; I kept the fire high just to keep the cold at bay.

Then one stormy night, a knock on the door. I shuffled over, groping. On the step stood a stranger.

Evening, maam. Mind a roof for the night? Got lost on my way to the next village.

And your name, love? My eyes arent what they were.

Brian.

Dont reckon any Brians live round here

Just bought the old Miller cottage, intending to move. Car broke down dreadful weather caught me out.

Thatd be Dan Millers? I asked.

He nodded.

I let the stranger in, put the kettle on. Had I known how hungrily he eyed the old dresser (where villagers kept their savings and treasures), Id never have left him alone.

I was clattering at the hob when I heard the creak of a drawer.

Whatre you at, Brian?

Oh, you know, all this talk of new money. Just helping you out, getting rid of the old notes

Rubbish! No such thing! Who are you?

He whipped out a knife, pressing it under my chin.

Dont shout, old woman. Hand over your money, jewellery, whatever youve got!

Fear gripped me, my fate surely sealed, when suddenly the door banged open. A huge wolf barrelled in and flung itself at the intruder, who shrieked only his thick scarf saved him from Maxs jaws. The thief stabbed Max in the shoulder as he tumbled away and fled.

At that very moment, Tom was approaching with the intention of apologising. He saw the stranger dash past, knife in hand, and heard me crying out. In a flash, Tom was at my side. Max lay bleeding on the floor. Tom raced for the village constable. The thief was caught and sentenced in due course.

From then on, Max was treated as a hero of the village. Neighbours brought him food, tipped their hats, and he roamed freely until he always came back to me, whenever Tom returned from the woods.

One warm spring day not long after, a shiny black Land Rover crunched up the lane and stopped outside my gate. I peered out and saw someone splitting logs in the yard my Benjamin! He threw open his arms when he saw Tom and Max trailing behind, too.

That evening we tucked into a hearty meal round the old table. Benjamin finally persuaded me to come to London for an operation, to try and bring my sight back.

Well, I suppose I must, I sighed. The grandchildren are coming up in summer I want to see them. Tom, please keep an eye on the house and on Max, all right?

Tom nodded. Max flopped down by the stove, satisfied, his head on his great paws. This was where he belonged at home, among friends.

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