A Troubled Wolf Part 2

This is the story of what really happened to the boy who cried wolf.

After being evicted from the home I had lived in for my entire adult life, I spent months living in my truck. The misunderstood run-in with those three pigs had forced me to reevaluate where I live, but I didn’t reevaluate my drinking habits. I was hitting the booze hard " harder than ever, in fact. It was a rough time, and I figured that when things got rough, beer had always got my back. It was a stupid thought. Beer forced me out of my old neighborhood, and it was beer that would send me to jail for a few years. If only that damned kid could’ve kept his mouth shut. But I guess it really wasn’t his fault. It was an accident after all.

For the first few weeks after the incident with the pigs, I went around from town to town, spending just enough time in each to get portrayed as a monster and get kick out. I eventually came to a town I liked. It stood in great contrast to the other towns I had been in before. For one, everyone was tolerant of me. For a while at least, no one accused me of trying to kill them, and that had become somewhat of a plus in those days. I had even stopped drinking. Yep, all was fine until that kid came along. I still didn’t have any home to live in, but I parked my truck in a seldom explored field, and I was happy.

One day, I took a walk through the woods behind my field. I was in a good mood - good moods were common then - and as a result, I decided to take a longer walk then I normally do. I came upon a farmer’s field that looked to be just as untraveled as mine. I peered through the low picket fence at some goats. One goat noticed me and walked towards the edge of the field. The goat knew I was a good guy. It wasn’t scared of me in the slightest, and it even let me pet him. I smiled as a peaceful wave of happiness swept over me.

It was then that a young boy came out the side door to his house. He had taken no more than three steps out onto the field when he saw me, mistook my content smile with a hungry scowl and promptly screamed to his father that I was trying to eat the goat.

“DAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAD!” he cried. “One o’ those wolf sons of b*****s is tryin’ t’ eat the goats again.”

Upon hearing the foul-mouthed young lad’s generalization of my species, I panicked and ran. The boy chased after me with a shovel to the edge the woods. The poor goat that I was accused of trying to devour fainted, startled from the boys ear shattering scream and his rash charge. I later learned that the goat was myotonic, a fainting goat, meaning that when freaked out, the poor thing’s legs stiffen and it falls to the ground, scared out of its mind. Of course the boy tried to use this against me.

                “See dad? He made poor Billy faint.”

                “Come now son. You ran at ‘em with a shovel. Don’t you see how that would’ve scared ‘em. Hell! If you had come scream’n at me with that thing it your hand I would’ve freaked.” Inside my wonderfully concealing bush, I was happy that the dad had given me the benefit of the doubt. “There was no wolf son. If there was, the goat sure as hell wouldn’t have walked up to it so casually like that.” I frowned. It seemed the benefit of the doubt, was just disbelief. I bet the dad wouldn’t have hesitated to shoot me if he had the chance.

                I sulked back to my lonely field. My new utopia of a town would end up just like any other I guessed. I know now that it didn’t. It ended up much worse. There was still one thing in that town that I knew would appreciate me, however, and I was determined to see it no matter what. That goat.

                From time to time, I visited the farm again, each time careful to avoid the attention of that dreadfully jumpy boy. I did just that. It stayed that way for about a month. The goat became somewhat of a pet that never came home with me. It had such a wonderful smile, and it was so comforting to go there after a hard day’s work of being a jobless bum and see someone that loved me.

                Everything was going so great until one day. The temptation of the local bar was too much for me, and I went in to take a drink… or nine. I came out of that bar somewhere between slightly buzzed and completely drunk out of my mind. This was before my daily visit to the goat, and I was in no condition to evade the kid on that day.

                I stumbled through the woods for hours before I got to the farm, and when I got there, the goat was happy to see me, but I think somehow it could tell that I wasn’t in such a mentally adept state. The goat let out a few baaaaas and squeaks that meant to tell me to get the hell out before the farm boy found me, but when I’m drunk, I’m an idiot - more of an idiot than most drunk people. I didn’t get the goat’s less than subtle hint, and sure enough, the boy found me.

                He cried, “Wolf! Wolf!” and when it yielded no outside help, he grabbed his trusty shovel and charged. What I remember next is somewhat of a haze. As I’m sure you understand by now, I was completely wasted, and I’m a little fuzzy on the details. If memory serves me right, the boy trip over his poorly tied shoes and hit his head on a rock. If that wasn’t detrimental enough to the boy’s health, the metal part of shovel came crashing down onto his head. He was dead, but I was too stupid to know, and in my drunken panic, I assumed CPR was the perfect move to resuscitate him.

                I sobered up in jail.

                Seven years later, I got out of jail on parole, and I got back to my truck. It was still there, a little rusty, but miraculously still there. There was something else there however. It was pinned under the windshield wipers. It was a letter; a death threat from the boy’s sister, a girl in a bright red hood.