The Hunter and the Hound

There was once a man who lived alone on the edge of a vast forest, with only his infant child and a loyal hound for company. His wife had passed the winter before, and the weight of survival—and fatherhood—rested entirely on his shoulders.

One morning, their food stores ran empty. With no other choice, the man slung his pack over his shoulder and prepared to hunt. Before stepping into the forest, he knelt beside his child’s crib, looked the hound in the eye, and spoke just one word:
“Protect.”

The day passed in silence, the kind that settles over snow-covered land when breath itself is a threat to warmth. As dusk fell, the man returned, weary from the cold and empty-handed.

But something was wrong.

The cabin door hung crooked from its hinges, torn open. Inside, chaos reigned. The table was overturned, blankets scattered, the crib knocked on its side. Blood smeared the floor.

And beside the crib stood the hound—mouth stained red, tail low, eyes unreadable.

In a flash of panic and anguish, the man drew his sword and struck. The blade cut deep, and the hound howled out in pain. It collapsed to the ground, still reaching toward him with its eyes.

And then, from beneath the silence, came a sound that shattered him.

The cry of a child.

He rushed to the crib, flipping it upright with trembling hands. There, curled beneath a wool blanket, his baby lay unharmed.

Next to the crib, lifeless and torn apart, was the body of a wolf.

The hound had done exactly what was asked of it. It had protected the child with its life.

The man fell to his knees, grief spreading through him like frostbite. He buried the hound that night beneath the pine tree behind the cabin.

He never smiled again.

The Lesson

Assumption is a silent blade—sharp, swift, and often aimed at the innocent.
This story is not just about a man and a dog. It’s about all of us.

It’s about the moments when fear overrides trust. When appearances outweigh truth. When reaction eclipses reflection.

In a world moving faster than we can process, we’re constantly asked to decide, to judge, to respond. But the wisest among us learn to pause, to ask, to wait for clarity.

The cost of assumption is not always visible. Sometimes, it is buried beneath a pine tree—unseen, but never forgotten.

Concept Word

Assumptive Regret

The quiet sorrow that arises when we act without full understanding. It is the ache of irreversible action taken in the absence of truth.