The Mad Dog and the Figs

It was poor country with barely enough grazing for the meagre flocks of sheep upon which the people relied for so many of their daily needs. Here and there a pocket of deeper soil supported a stunted growth of grain, and small olive groves were reminders of the mysteries within the ancient forests that had covered this once great land.
As I was approaching one such grove late into the evening I slackened my pace. I had heard it subconsciously for some time. Now, the howling of a lone dog, or was it a wolf, demanded my attention. It was moving in an ever-decreasing circle and I was its moving centre. I imagined it quartering the ground, sniffing the cool night air for my scent. The chilly serpent of fear slithered down my spine. Was it madness, or hunger that afflicted it? The howling echoed and re-echoed from the valley walls; the lone dog's presence magnified into a pack.
Nearby I saw a tall wild fig and I climbed high into its upper branches. The howling stopped, but there followed a silence so intense that I wanted to scream back at it. But in the night silence is the light by which we see.
I could hear the panting of the creature as it drew closer; then its movements across the ground, the click of its claws against stones. I was afraid and shook so violently that the ripe figs that were on the tree fell to the ground. But the dog did not look mad. Its coat was sleek. It appeared well fed and its eyes did not blaze. It seemed entirely unconcerned about me. Apart from a sniff of the air in my direction it set to eating the fallen figs.
I began to laugh at my own foolishness. I laughed so hard that finally I fell from the tree and landed on all fours beside the dog. The dog glanced at me, grinning as it chewed. Still laughing, I too began to eat the figs. Now the dog began to laugh and soon we rolled on the ground together with tears in our eyes.
‘I thought you were mad,' I said. 'You put fear into my heart and all the time you wanted figs!' Regaining a measure of control, I addressed the dog directly. 'But tell me, where did you learn the beguiling madness that is such clever sanity?' The dog beat the ground with its tail and roared with delight. Imagine my surprise when it replied.
'There was once a cousin wolf in this valley,' the dog began, ‘she frightened every living thing, our masters included. But we, the dogs of the villages were not afraid of our own flesh and blood and saw an advantage. When cousin wolf howled, the shepherds hid in caves and clefts in the rocks. Those that ventured out in those days were able to feast at leisure on the unprotected flocks.' Our combined howls of laughter now filled the valley from end to end. 'When cousin wolf died,' the dog continued with juice dribbling from its mouth, 'we saw at once that she would have to be replaced, for the shepherds became vigilant once more. So what do you think we did? Why, we all became wolves, of course! Cousin wolf, like myself, particularly enjoyed the sweet red flesh of the fig in its season and her howling drove many, like yourself, to roost in trees like frightened hens. I learned much from her.' The dog broke off for a moment to scratch blissfully behind its ear. 'We are wolves only at night, of course. During the day cousin wolf is invisible and none of our masters suspect that it is we that lope over the hillsides baying at the moon. "Better beware a cunning friend than an honest enemy," we say among ourselves. During the day we even help to hunt cousin wolf. But men walk on two legs and their noses are too far from the ground to know that the tracks we follow are our own.'
It was some moments after this last remark before I could regain enough of my composure to speak again. 'But tell me this,' I said eventually, 'what would you have done had I not been afraid of your howling and hidden myself in this tree?'
'Why, I should have bitten you, of course!' the dog replied. 'And you, believing me then to be truly mad, would have run far from the sea which you seek and we should never have heard of you again.'

I thought for a moment; I stood and asked, 'But now that I know the truth behind this madness, do you not fear that I shall go straight to the village and tell your masters?'

The dog shrieked with joy, dust rose from the earth as its front paws stamped the ground. Then, itself standing on its back legs, it leant, helpless with laughter, on my shoulders for it was the size of a wolf. It looked straight into my eyes and whimpered weakly, 'Dogs and wolves are not such fools as men. They will listen to you politely and there will be a long, awkward silence. You will become angry and they will see this in your eyes. You will swear it to be the truth. You will throw out your arms and hold your head as you seek ways to convince them. You will howl your innocence. Then they will declare you to be truly mad. They, fools that they are, will say that in truth you have been bitten and that your story is but the ravings of a fevered mind. Tell me, who will listen to the ravings of a madman?'
'Truly you have the bite on me there, my friend,' I agreed.
For the rest of the night the dog and I dined like kings on the fruits of lies and the labour of fear.