The Completely Mildly Entirely Mostly
(short version)

Based on Isaiah 11:1-10, natural enemies coexist under the reign of Spirit-shaped harmony.

This was not the sort of valley Wolfington had in mind, but then again, he had never read the fine print. The Valley Council had issued a decree: all predators and prey must coexist peacefully. The announcement came with flourish: a Latin reading from the “Lex Pacis” (because nothing says serious governance like dead languages), and a pamphlet from the Ministry of Silly Grazing, a department apparently responsible for ensuring no wolf accidentally offended a lamb before precisely 3:01 pm.

Wolfington, the valley’s grumpiest wolf, glared at the scroll as if it contained a personal insult. “This peace is as stable as a one-legged stool on a trampoline!” he muttered. The Kookaburra, perched on a nearby gum tree, cackled raucously, echoing every word as though providing a laugh-track for the absurd tragedy that was Wolfington’s life.

Lambina, the valley’s most annoyingly cheerful lamb, approached with the sort of confidence reserved for those who have never met a wolf who could sulk with such dramatic flair. “Perhaps,” she said, “but at least it doesn’t bite you in the ear.”

Wolfington’s ears twitched. “You, little furball, are clearly mocking me.”

“Me? Never,” Lambina replied, pretending to examine her hooves with exaggerated innocence. “I only speak in pastoral metaphors and harmless puns. Like ‘graze and bear it.’”

The valley was in chaos, if mild, orderly chaos counts. Possum, the bureaucrat, scuttled past, dragging a cart overloaded with forms, each requiring three signatures and a diagram of grazing patterns. “Form 42B, subsection 3A: Has the wolf expressed a grumble exceeding three decibels? Please tick yes or no,” Possum squeaked. Wolfington growled, but no forms were going to stop the law of absurdity from taking hold.

Continue reading the full story here.

The Completely Unauthorised, Mildly Confusing, and Entirely Avoidable Tale of Wolfington the Mostly Harmless

Based on Isaiah 11:1-10, natural enemies coexist under the reign of Spirit-shaped harmony.

This was not the sort of valley Wolfington had in mind, but then again, he had never read the fine print. The Valley Council had issued a decree: all predators and prey must coexist peacefully. The announcement came with flourish: a Latin reading from the “Lex Pacis” (because nothing says serious governance like dead languages), and a pamphlet from the Ministry of Silly Grazing, a department apparently responsible for ensuring no wolf accidentally offended a lamb before precisely 3:01 pm.

Wolfington, the valley’s grumpiest wolf, glared at the scroll as if it contained a personal insult. “This peace is as stable as a one-legged stool on a trampoline!” he muttered. The Kookaburra, perched on a nearby gum tree, cackled raucously, echoing every word as though providing a laugh-track for the absurd tragedy that was Wolfington’s life.

Lambina, the valley’s most annoyingly cheerful lamb, approached with the sort of confidence reserved for those who have never met a wolf who could sulk with such dramatic flair. “Perhaps,” she said, “but at least it doesn’t bite you in the ear.”

Wolfington’s ears twitched. “You, little furball, are clearly mocking me.”

“Me? Never,” Lambina replied, pretending to examine her hooves with exaggerated innocence. “I only speak in pastoral metaphors and harmless puns. Like ‘graze and bear it.’”

The valley was in chaos, if mild, orderly chaos counts. Possum, the bureaucrat, scuttled past, dragging a cart overloaded with forms, each requiring three signatures and a diagram of grazing patterns. “Form 42B, subsection 3A: Has the wolf expressed a grumble exceeding three decibels? Please tick yes or no,” Possum squeaked. Wolfington growled, but no forms were going to stop the law of absurdity from taking hold.

Rules had been enacted that were simultaneously ridiculous and terrifying: wolves were to wear scarves during council meetings, and any wolf caught glaring at a lamb risked a fortnight of marshmallow tickling. Wolfington’s snarl deepened. He was a wolf of tradition, and tradition did not involve cotton scarves or marshmallow-induced humiliation.

The first real test of this “peace” came at the river, where lambs grazed peacefully, and wolves had… well, Wolfington had ideas. Ideas that involved sneaking a carrot past Lambina without being noticed. He failed spectacularly. The Kookaburra cackled. The carrot fell in the water, floated away, and a passing platypus stared at him as if to say, Really?

Soon, the valley faced a minor disaster: the river had flooded the main grazing patch. Animals from all corners gathered, and the council insisted on immediate cooperation. Wolfington balked. Cooperation? With lambs? Unthinkable. Yet, as absurdity often does, it demanded participation.

The solution involved balancing logs, moving water in teacups, and negotiating with an impatient wombat over dam placement. Wolfington, flustered, toppled into a haystack. Lambina rolled her eyes but guided him patiently, her calm wisdom cutting through the ridiculousness.

“This is madness,” Wolfington said, dripping with hay and mud.

“Yes, but also effective,” Lambina replied, glancing at the successfully rerouted river. “Peace works best when grudgingly accepted.”

By now, Wolfington began to notice small benefits. The shared food meant fewer hungry evenings. The reduced tension in the valley meant more sleep. And perhaps most importantly, the lambs weren’t actively plotting his demise, which, after decades of wolf logic, felt… pleasant.

Still, old habits die hard. He grumbled, muttered puns, and glared at Lambina. “I suppose this arrangement is slightly less horrifying than anticipated, but I maintain my right to be annoyed.”

“Of course,” Lambina said with a mischievous wink. “Just keep it under three decibels, or Possum will have forms for that too.”

The Kookaburra cackled louder than ever.

As evening fell, the valley was calm. The sun reflected off the water, the flood had been managed, and for the first time, Wolfington didn’t feel like the world was conspiring entirely against him. He had participated in absurd teamwork, survived ridiculous regulations, and even smiled slightly—though he would never admit it aloud.

And just as Wolfington settled into the most restful grump of his life, a council official on a unicycle appeared, announcing the next decree: mandatory synchronised dancing at dawn.

Wolfington’s jaw dropped. “This valley… truly tests my patience.”

Lambina trotted past, whispering with a grin, “Yes, but at least it doesn’t bite you in the ear.”

The Kookaburra laughed, Possum filed another form, and the valley—mad, harmonious, and slightly ridiculous—breathed in peace for the first time, however grudgingly.

Even a grumpy wolf could learn that sometimes, absurdity and cooperation go paw-in-hoof.