The Wolf at My Door

Last night I was trotting down the guesthouse steps into the garden, en route to the kitchen to snaffle some yogurt, when the wolf sprang out of the rose bushes at me. Not being a screamer, I settled for leaping straight up into the air.

The wolf regarded me, its head slightly lowered, front legs wide, and when my heart stopped threatening to tear out of my chest, I saw that he just wanted to play. So we chased each other around the garden until two other guests strolled in and the wolf bolted for one of its hidey holes. It was the first time the wolf approached me, and I felt oddly proud.