The Wolf in Sheep’s Clothing

Moral: Deceivers often fall victim to their tricks.

A wolf disguises himself as a sheep to prey on unsuspecting lambs. However, his plan backfires when the shepherd, fooled by the disguise, mistakes him for a sheep and captures and kills him instead.

An Alternative Ending to The Wolf in Sheep’s Clothing

The wolf stood on a ridge at dusk, watching the sheep mill about in the dim meadow below. Their gentle bleating carried on the wind like whispers of burdens they could not name. He had found the tattered fleece of a sheep not two days dead, birds of prey having done their deed, and he slipped into it now under the failing light. The wool stank of old blood and new earth. He bore it like a cloak cut from the trust of the dead.

He descended into their midst with slow, careful steps. The sheep stirred but did not scatter. In that falling dusk, he was another body pressed close by hunger and the promise of peace. The shepherd shed his cloak and settled into his shelter for the night, his dog curled at the door. No one kept watch over the flock but the faint moon and the silent shapes of the hills.

The wolf’s breath caught in his throat. He was among them now, close enough to smell the warm grease and the faded sweetness of clover on their wool. He thought of the dryness in his mouth, the ache in his belly, and of how easy it would be. He could maim, kill, and feast long before they knew what horror bore down upon them.

But he did not.

He settled in their circle, the fleece draped over his shoulders, his golden eyes narrowed to slits. The sheep pressed against him, and for a time, he remembered how the world was when he was a pup—small, trusting, cradled in the thick coat of his kin. Something old and unspoken stirred in him, and he closed his eyes. He felt them breathing, felt the faint beat of hearts that knew no guile.

Twilight no more, the wolf lay in the dark, surrounded by the quiet of a sleeping flock. He knew it was a lie he wore, that this borrowed fleece was not meant for him. But in that moment, the warmth of those docile creatures pressed close around him, and it softened something sunk deep inside him.

He waited until the first star broke free of the twilight, then rose. The fleece slipped from him, falling to the filth like a shroud. The sheep stirred at his sudden movement. One opened its eyes and saw him—not as a shepherd nor as kin, but as the wolf he was. She gave a hollow bleat that cut the night’s silence.

The wolf looked down at the fleece lying empty in the dirt. He thought of the birds of prey fixing to have another deed done. He could see the fear bloom in the sheep’s wide eyes. He did not bare his teeth. He did not lunge. He turned instead and climbed back toward the ridge, his shadow long and ghostly in the moonlight. Behind him, the field quivered with fear.

Before the first light broke upon the land, he slipped into the wilderness, the stink of the dead fleece clinging to him. The cries of the sheep rose behind him and were lost to the barren wind. The shepherd stayed his hand and made no move, as one who has known long the futility of wrath. Not this night, he thought, and he went out into the desolation beyond the bounds of men.

April 25, 2025