Translated by Ivayla Pesheva

The following text is a spoof of the original Grimm Tale “The Wolf and the Seven Little Goats,” further popularized by American writer Richard Scarry.  Another children’s tale is mentioned in the text “The Three Little Pigs” first included in The Nursery Rhymes of England (London and New York, c.1886), by James Orchard Halliwell-Phillipps.

Once upon a time there was an old (even ancient) goat in the woods, which instead of goatlings had seven Swiss antique clocks (‘twas because she was a watchmaker and no self-respecting ram would take her). One day the goat thought she would go to the village to buy milk for her clocks (“Why do we need milk?” – they squeaked one over the other. “This broad has totally gone mental!” “Tick-tock!,” added the smallest clock, a gold one, 14 carats).

In the same woods lived the Wolf. He had just recently gone through heartbreak with Little Red Riding Hood and after stomach surgery, performed by the Huntsman following the last quarrel with Red, he felt particularly down and weak. That’s why he lay in his den resting. But… (damn it, can’t I for once relax without a “but,” murmured the wolf while squatted in the bushes next to the goat’s hut)…but the ticking of the old goat’s cursed clocks spread far and wide across the whole forest day and night with a ghastly sevenfold dissonance, not giving him even a moment’s peace.

And so the wolf gradually became obsessed with an incontrollable hatred for the little ticking thingies. They followed him everywhere and mercilessly wriggled through every corner of his brain. At moments he even caught himself humming the ticking sound under his nose.

At last he knew it was the final straw and the Wolf started planning what to do to rid himself and the forest of the antique clocks and – why not? – of the goat herself, who was so old and gristly that she wasn’t even good for food.

As a skilled hunter, the Wolf went to check the goat’s den for himself first. He spent a few days in surveillance, systematizing her habits. And they were disgusting. All in all, by the end of the third day the Wolf was so horrified by the goat’s habits that he was ready to leave, never come back and perhaps even move to another, quieter forest. But out of the blue came a wonderful opportunity – the Goat took two enormous cans and set off on the road to the village. In all certainty she would be gone for at least an hour! The Wolf suddenly snuck up to the house and pressed his ear to the door. The ticking was so loud that his face crumpled with disgust. He even managed to catch something of the clocks’ conversation – the old biddy had gone out for milk and the perimeter was clear.

The Wolf decided to improvise. He knocked on the door and spoke as he had heard the goat speak: “My children, I am your mother, open the door for me to come in and grease your cogs with superb-quality machine oil.”

“You are not our mother!” – in came a hysterical shriek – “You are some sort of disgusting pervert!”

Oh, thought the Wolf, so I’m a pervert, now am I? Just open the door and then we’ll see….

But he realized his mistake. The old goat always bleated with a shrill slobbery voice, and he couldn’t do anything but growl.

He wondered what to do. He had no time to lose and he had to think of something fast.

“I could drive two nails into my throat and then you’ll see how nice my voice can be!” he decided and ran off to get some nails. In ten minutes his snout was sticking out of the bush, the Wolf looked around suspiciously and crawled over to the house. He opened his mouth and a high-pitched squeaky voice came out, to the horror of the feathered inhabitants of the forest that were perched on the tree branches around the house.

“Children mine, I am your dear mother, please open the door  and let me grease your cogs with superb – quality machine oil!”

“If you ask me you’re just a hairy gypsy pervert!” One silver Zenith pointed out, who was observing him from the window to the door.

The wolf went blind with rage. Oh wait, the old goat’s coat is white! Chalk! Where can I find some fucking chalk?!?

Fifteen more minutes had gone by when a white, coughing wolf with a nice voice came out of the woods. He made his way to the door and shouted as loud as he could: “Your mamma, if you don’t open up this time, I’ll turn your house into splinters and remember the Three Little Piglets who wouldn’t give in last year…oh, how they ended up…”

But all this sounded ridiculous and rather funny – with this gentle voice the Wolf didn’t seem at all scary.

“Hahaha!” chuckled the clocks from inside the house. It was like a red veil fell before the eyes of the Wolf, he clutched frantically the heavy blacksmith’s hammer which he had taken with him to deal with the clocks, he lashed it and hit the door so hard that a thousand wood splinters flew into the air.

The cacophony of those pesky voices quieted down. The antique clocks ran to hide wherever they could find, but alas, the Wolf always found them recognizing their ticking noise and put them on their backside on the big table in the kitchen where he smashed them into salt, tiny cogs and springs. There you have it, six clocks were already in one pile together! What about the seventh? The Wolf was sure he had seen seven clocks. One particularly small and ghastly was missing.

Circling around the house quietly, the Wolf began snooping. There it was! Aha, the brood had hidden in the big grandfather cuckoo clock! And it thinks I won’t recognize it because of the ticking of the big clock? It thinks it’s clever as a fox, but it’ll see… Ouch! And it bites? The Wolf took out his bleeding finger and sucked on it. Your momma…And he took apart the grandfather clock, his eyes glistening in delight, he smashed and smashed and smashed!

The little Omega wanted to run, but he caught up with her. It’s dial turned aside in sadness, the glass cracked with a sound gentle to the ear.

At last the Wolf stood up, took a deep breath and smiled happily amidst the silence – nothing was ticking anymore.

And right at this very moment loud steps could be heard and one annoyingly well-known voice inquired: “What happened here?”

The Wolf’s fur bristled to the tips of his tail – it was the Huntsman.

The Huntsman accompanied by the scared goat entered the house and saw the crushed clocks. The goat suddenly had a heart attack and died on the spot, causing the Wolf a certain disappointment, who would have gladly strangled her himself. And the Huntsman died as well, because apparently the Wolf waited, hidden behind a door, and hit him in the back with the hammer, yelling!

“Surgeon, oh surgeon, sew your fucking head back together if you really are a masterful surgeon!” – he hadn’t yet forgiven him for the stomach operation.

In the end the Wolf spilled kerosene all over the floor and burned this cursed place down. This way he managed to give a happy ending to all the readers and spectators, and to the whole forest as well, who had been suffering from the ticking of the clocks and the noble wish of the Huntsman to kill all animals and hang their head over his fireplace.