On the first day, I hid in the roadside bushes and watched the stray dogs.
They wagged their tails, rolled on their backs, acted cute—
and humans gave them food.
It looked so easy.
Why couldn't I do it?
On the second day, I gathered my courage and approached a parked jeep.
The driver was busy taking photos and didn't notice me.
I tried mimicking a dog's movements, wagging my tail hard—
but my stiff wolf tail only made a sound like a branch snapping.
The driver suddenly turned around.
A scream: "A wolf!"
She leapt into the car, slammed the gas pedal, and sped off in a cloud of dust.
I was still frozen in that ridiculous pose,
tail stuck mid-air like an actor who'd forgotten his lines on stage.
On the third day, a herdsman passed by on horseback.
He stopped to drink water.
The smell of his beef jerky hit me so hard my stomach twisted.
I lowered my head and crept closer carefully.
He looked up—
and saw my eyes.
Those eyes that belonged to a wolf.
"This wolf's eyes are too fierce," he muttered, scowling.
He grabbed a stone and threw it at me.
I didn't even get halfway through my attempt before being chased off.
Three failures in a row.
Hunger softened every inch of my body.
The night wind sliced into me as I curled beside the highway, staring at the flickering headlights.
"What exactly is the problem?"
I stared at my reflection in a car window.
Those eyes—
too sharp, too wild.
Anyone who saw them would step back instinctively.
So I tried the "tilted head" trick.
I tilted my head to the side, exposing the softest part of my neck.
But the result looked like…
a complete idiot.
Not gentle.
Just stupid.
So I practiced.
Facing the window, over and over again.
Sometimes my neck hurt so badly I couldn't lift it, but I kept trying.
Until one day, I finally found a barely "obedient" angle.
Not natural, but at least not instantly terrifying.
Even so—
Humans still kept their distance.
Some screamed.
Some called the police.
I couldn't even get close.
"Maybe I need something special."
I lay down, stomach growling loud enough to vibrate the dirt beneath me.
A truck passed by.
The driver tossed out a piece of leftover bread.
It fell into a drainage ditch, soaking in mud.
I hesitated for a second before crawling over to eat it.
The faint sweetness reminded me of the egg-yolk pie—
and I realized something:
—Just acting like a dog wasn't enough.
I needed humans to notice me.
To stop.
To approach.
I needed to become… interesting.
So I began watching every car that stopped.
Tourists taking photos.
Kids who liked teasing animals.
Adults drawn to anything strange or unusual.
"Interesting…"
I repeated the word quietly.
Then a bold idea suddenly came to me.