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Once upon a time, in a forest where moonlight painted silver paths on the moss, there lived a very big, very black dog. His fur was shiny like polished midnight, and his perky ears soft as velvet. When he ran beneath the trees, he looked rather like a friendly shadow who’d slipped away from the night sky.
His name was Padfoot.
Padfoot had once belonged to a grand, important family of sleek dogs with glossy coats and perfect posture, who liked to bark about being purebred and rules and manners and walking in straight lines. Padfoot tried to behave the way they wanted, he really did, but his paws always itched for adventure. He preferred muddy puddles, rolling head-over-tail down grassy hills, chasing autumn leaves until he sneezed five times repeatedly, and bark-laughing at his own silly jokes.
The grand dogs huffed and tutted and said he was too much—too loud, too scruffy, too silly, too different. And so, one day, Padfoot found himself turned away, left to roam the woods on his own.
At first, Padfoot pretended he didn’t mind. He chased butterflies, splashed through streams, and learnt how to catch snowflakes on his nose. But sometimes, when evening settled like a blanket over the trees and the forest grew quiet, he curled his tail around himself the way some dogs curl up with a favourite toy. Except, he’d never had a toy of his own before, and it was so very hard to be brave when he had no one to share the bravery with.
The rabbits hid when he padded by, the birds fluttered nervously to higher branches, and even hedgehogs rolled into prickly balls. Padfoot didn’t blame them; a big black dog could look frightening from afar. But oh, if only someone would come close enough to see how soft he truly was, inside and outside.
More than anything in the world, Padfoot wished for a friend.
One night, when the moon was full and round as a silver pie, Padfoot heard something carried on the wind: a low, lonely howl. Not a scary howl, but a sad, aching one, the kind that sounded like someone calling out to the sky just to check if it was still listening.
Padfoot followed the sound through the bracken until he reached a moon-lit clearing. There, sitting alone beneath the glowing moon, was a wolf.
The wolf’s fur was rugged, a little scruffy in places, with bits sticking up as though the wind and worry had ruffled him for years. His ears drooped slightly, and his eyes, so very big and gentle, looked as if they had forgotten how to trust.
Padfoot didn’t see someone scary. He saw someone who looked a bit like he felt: a little lost, and perhaps, in need of a friend. And Padfoot’s heart gave a hopeful wiggle. Maybe, just maybe, someone who looked as lonely as he was might not run away from him.
Padfoot stepped forward and gave the friendliest wag his tail could manage, even though he was feeling a bit shy.
“Hello!” he said, his voice bright as morning sun. “I’m Padfoot!”
The wolf blinked, startled. “You should stay away,” he warned softly. “Everyone else does.”
Padfoot tilted his head. “Why?”
“Because I’m a wolf. Animals think I’m dangerous. They call me Moony. And I don’t want to… frighten you.”
Padfoot sat down beside Moony, not too close, just close enough to show he wasn’t afraid.
“You don’t scare me,” he said gently. “I’m big and black and everyone runs from me too. We could be… not-scary together?”
Moony’s ears twitched. “But what if I hurt you by accident? Wolves have sharp edges.”
Padfoot thought about this, then nodded. “That’s all right. I’ve got soft bits. Maybe we balance each other out.”
At this, Moony finally bark-laughed, and Padfoot quickly decided that was his new favourite sound in the whole wide world.
They sat together that night, wordless at times, but peaceful. Padfoot looked up at the moon and quietly whispered the names he’d given the stars—“the twinkly one, the shy one, the slightly wonky one, the kind one”—and Moony listened, his eyes softening just a tiny bit with each passing minute.
The next evening, Padfoot came back.
And the evening after that.
And the one after that, too.
Sometimes he brought sticks that looked particularly excellent for fetching, hoping Moony would play tug with him. Sometimes he brought the most beautiful wildflowers he could find, carried very carefully in his mouth so as not to crumple them. He would gently place them in front of Moony, and each time, Moony’s big, amber eyes would become just a little less sad.
Moony pretended not to wait for him—but every night, just before moonrise, he found himself drifting towards the clearing, paws light with hope. And slowly, Moony’s tail began to wag when he heard Padfoot’s paws coming from a distance.
They began sharing food, too. Padfoot left berries; Moony left fish. Some nights, they curled up together, Padfoot warm as a furnace, Moony finally sleeping without shivering.
One evening, Padfoot nudged a stick towards him. “Play?” he asked gently.
Moony hesitated. “I don’t know how.”
“That’s all right. I can teach you. Step one: you chase me!”
He dashed across the clearing with a joyful bark. Moony blinked, then ran after him. Soon, the clearing rang with bark-laughter, and the moon shone just a little brighter, like it was smiling.
One night, after Padfoot arrived with a fantastic twisty stick, Moony did something unexpected: he leaned over and gave Padfoot a small, playful lick on the cheek.
Padfoot froze in surprise for half a heartbeat, then burst into delighted bark-laughter. He licked Moony right back, a happy, slobbery kiss that made Moony splutter and fail terribly at pretending he hadn’t enjoyed it.
Before long, they were rolling through the grass, paws everywhere, tails wagging furiously, play-growling and tumbling in a messy, giggly wrestle. They wrestled until both lay panting on their backs, side by side, staring up at the moon like two pups who had finally found someone safe enough to be silly with.
Moony’s eyes were shining, and Padfoot thought about just how lucky he was to have followed the sound of his aching howls on the day they met.
The next night, Moony shyly presented a smooth, pale stone to Padfoot.
“It reminded me of you,” he murmured, looking anywhere but at Padfoot. “Soft. And… nice to hold.”
Padfoot’s tail wagged so hard he spun in a circle for a whole minute.
Together, they built a cosy den lined with moss, mud, feathers, and leaves that smelled of soft sunshine. A little nest of found family; their home.
One spring afternoon, Padfoot returned with daisies stuck playfully behind his ears and made Moony a crown of flowers.
“For the wolf who forgot he deserved nice things,” he said shyly.
Moony wore it the whole night, even after it wilted slightly.
Seasons passed; the forest animals peeked from burrows and branches, curious. One brave squirrel scampered close enough to sniff Padfoot’s tail; a baby deer curled up near Moony one dusk. Slowly, the forest realised what Padfoot had known from the start:
They weren’t scary at all, not when they were together.
One quiet evening, when the moon hung low and golden, Moony spoke in a soft voice.
“I used to think the moon was the only friend I would ever have,” he said. “But now… I have you. My Padfoot.”
Padfoot leaned against him, their fur brushing, their hearts steady.
“And I have you. My Moony. You saw me when no one else did.”
From that night onwards, they were no longer just two lonely creatures of the forest. They were a pair of best friends and heart-companions. A little family they had chosen for themselves; each other’s warmth in the cold, each other’s star in the dark. And there is no braver thing in all the world than choosing someone to stay beside, night after night, until loneliness forgets your name.
The seasons turned, and the forest grew used to seeing them side by side: a very big, very black dog with velvet-soft fur, and a raggedy wolf with moonlit eyes who finally remembered how to smile. They padded through life together the way some creatures are simply meant to: two souls that fit, like midnight and moonlight.
In winter, they curled up so close that even the frost dared not chill them. In spring, daisies grew near their den as if the earth itself remembered the crown of flowers. In summer, butterflies rested on their noses as they napped in the shade. In autumn, they chased swirling leaves and laughed until the stars blinked awake to listen.
And if ever a creature of the forest found itself alone or frightened, it always knew where to go: to the den with the feather-lined nest and the soft warmth inside. Padfoot and Moony would shuffle over, make room, and share their home, because hearts that have been lonely before always recognise the shape of loneliness in others, and mates who have found each other never want anyone to feel it again.
And so, the very big black dog and the once-lonely wolf lived side by side, not feared, not turned away, but welcome, safe, cherished, and home.
Because when someone sees you not as scary, not as too much or too strange, but exactly as you are—and chooses you, and says yes to you every day—that is the truest magic the world has to offer.
And so the forest learned what the moon had always known:
Love does not need to look alike to belong.
Families do not need matching fur to fit.
And the softest homes are built from two lost hearts curled close together.
And Padfoot and Moony? They stayed that way forever, warm and loved, for all their days, curled beneath the watchful moon, two shadows that never walked alone again. Happily ever after, and always.
The End
