Some people commented on his name, which meant “lion.” Then Father would reply that the lion’s job was not to see but to hear. Others said we should not have called the dog Arsylang, but Börü, which meant “wolf.” To which Father would answer: “That would mean calling the wolf by its name ten or twenty times a day and drawing it near—who would do that?”

Suddenly I felt like seeing Arsylang run. So I ran backward and called out in one breath, “Arsylang, Arsylang, Arsylang!” and then, “Tuh-tuh-tuuh!” Here and there barking rang out, and all of a sudden the dogs came charging. I watched how Arsylang ran: he stretched and pressed low to the ground, his tail flat and straight. He tore past the dogs that had taken off ahead of him, and he was now in the lead. I ran a bit further and crouched beside a burrow that a marmot or maybe even a fox could have easily slid into. When Arsylang arrived, he landed with his muzzle right in the burrow and, whimpering and scratching with all four paws, tried to squeeze the rest of himself into it as well. Grass and soil, still damp from the night’s dew, flew up in lumps. Then came a dry layer of soil which crumbled into dust and grew into a little cloud. I called Arsylang by his name, and he stopped straining. But the excitement wouldn’t let go of him for a long time: He continued to whimper, and his fur stood on end.

I got a fright.

Then Grandma arrived. She walked toward me with little toddling steps. Because I didn’t want her to drag herself so far from the ail for my sake, I called, “tshuh!”, gave myself a slap on the bottom, and galloped toward her.

The dogs followed me. Arsylang soon caught up and trotted along beside me. The other dogs stayed behind, none passed us.

Grandma stopped. She had grabbed the top end of her short birchwood stick with both hands and was leaning on it when we reached her.

“What was that? Was it a wolf?” she asked softly, with that little smile on her lips that rarely faded. “No, not a wolf,” I said, unsure of myself. “Maybe a fox or just a marmot.” I felt a little hurt that Grandma would ask me a question I had to answer with a lie.

“Where have you been, Grandma?” I asked sullenly, partly to fend off the shame that was bound to come, and partly to counter that shame by keeping alive the feeling of hurt so I would find it easier, for the first time ever, to keep a secret from her.

“I had to relieve myself,” Grandma said humbly.

“So long and so far away?”

“I went behind the hill. My legs are getting on.”