"Just Because There's a Wolf at the Door...

...doesn't mean you have to let him in!"

Anywhere else, that would be a mixed metaphor. Not at my guesthouse, where I heard that phrase shouted by the Australian manager's wife.


The manager's pregnant wife had returned to Kabul and did not appreciate the wolf's attempts to get into bed with them. The wolf, in turn, had become more aggressive, particularly with the manager's wife, who now had his spot on the bed. Finally, she laid down an ultimatum: "It's me, or the wolf."

The manager shot me a beseeching glance.

I carefully examined my fingernails.

"The mother of your child," she growled, a steely glint in her eyes.

And so when I returned from Kunduz, the wolf was gone. Not, sadly, to a wolf refuge. We were never able to get transport for the wolf out of Afghanistan. Instead it went to a friend of the owner's, who was keeping an adult wolf at his home in Panshir.

My friend, the manager (who shall continue to remain nameless), has been making jokes about wolf skins and wolf-paw keychains, but it's a facade. He's the Hagrid of Kabul: over-sized, hairy, and complete with his own pumpkin patch (it's a Harry Potter reference, for those who haven't read the books). And like Hagrid, he's a soft touch with animals, no matter how obnoxious they may grow to become.