Now then. Once there was a young dog called Fridolin, and he was born in a shed on a farm - the result, if truth be told, of his mother's little indiscretion with a stray of no particular breed at all. When the farmer discovered this mishap, he took every last puppy, stuffed them into a sack, and drowned them in his pond. But luck was with Fridolin's mother, for she had already decided to move her children to a new home, and Fridolin was the very first pup she carried there - a sheep-shed some twenty minutes' walk from the farm. When she went back for the rest, she found no children waiting for her. Only the farmer, stick in hand. She saw the trouble coming and ran, fast as her legs would carry her. And fate, as fate so often does, dealt swiftly with that heartless farmer: chasing after the bitch, he tripped over a tree root and came down so clumsily that he broke an arm and a leg.

Serves him right, you're thinking, aren't you? Well, quite.

But Fridolin's mother had a hand in the farmer's misfortune too, for now she had no home and no master, and had to fend for herself. So she took a leaf from the vixen's book - the vixen who lived in the wood nearby - and began helping herself, by night, to the odd chicken from the farmer's yard, just to stay alive. The farmer cursed that poor, innocent vixen loud and long, never once suspecting the true culprit.

So Fridolin grew up without a proper home - and truth be told, he never much missed one. But he did learn to give people a very wide berth indeed, and any human dwelling besides. Until, one day, it happened: a holidaying family took rooms at one of the nearby farms, and their children went exploring the whole countryside round about. And so it was that they came upon Fridolin one day, while his mother was off hunting for food. The children were utterly taken with the sweet little fellow, and only wondered why he seemed so terribly afraid. All through their holiday they kept coming back, and slowly, slowly, Fridolin came to trust them.

Now, Fridolin was dreadfully hungry. His mother hadn't returned in two whole days, and he'd had nothing to eat. So when the children came again, tempting him with a few titbits, the eldest boy finally scooped him up and carried him off. The parents were none too pleased to see their offspring come dancing home with a scruffy little mongrel in tow, but the children begged so hard that they were allowed to keep him. And so Fridolin came to live in the town.

Well, that was a different life altogether from anything Fridolin had known! First he was bathed — in soapy water, of all the indignities! Then blow-dried, which was worse still, all that hot air blasting through his fur! But afterwards he was given a basket with a lovely soft blanket to sleep in, and fed something entirely unfamiliar to him. Still, it went down well enough, and he curled up quite contentedly in his new basket. He was given a collar too, which itched something terrible. The children took him to the park every day, and that was new to him as well — he had to learn to walk on a lead, and the traffic frightened him half out of his wits. And not only the traffic - all those legs, all those smells, the stink of motor-cars... it was a strange and frightening world indeed. And he had to go to the vet, where he was examined, given his jabs, fitted with a chip, and given a name - Micky.

After a while, though, the children hadn't much time for him any more - back to school they went. The parents, too, were mostly out of the house, and apart from short walks morning and evening, Fridolin was left to his own devices. He grew sadder and sadder, and all his joy in life seemed to drain away. Then came the day he would ever after think of as a dreadful betrayal: after a long talk between the parents the evening before, the father packed up Fridolin's basket, his blanket, and his food bowl early one morning, loaded the lot - and Fridolin besides - into the car. He drove a long way, until at last he stopped at a motorway service station. There he let Fridolin out of the car, walked him a little way down into the green verge, and tied him to a lamp-post. He set the basket and the rest beside the dog, then turned, walked back to the car, and drove away.

Fridolin's whole world came crashing down. There he lay, tied up, with no food, no water, and not a single kind hand to stroke him. The day passed. The night passed too. And by the next morning Fridolin was so parched with thirst that he first barked, and then could only whimper.

At last, just when he had sunk into the blackest despair, a car pulled up, and a man and a woman climbed out. They followed the whimpering and found the poor little dog.

"Well, that's a disgrace, that is!" cried the woman, crouching down to stroke him. Fridolin could barely move for thirst - the man took his bowl and went off in search of water. Fridolin drank greedily, for as long as he could, then licked the man's hand in gratitude.

"We're taking him with us!" the woman declared.

"But we can't keep him - we're hardly ever home ourselves!" the man protested.

"Of course we can't keep him, but we can take him to the shelter - at least there he'll be looked after. I can't fathom what people are capable of doing to a helpless animal!" the woman said, quite indignant. And so Fridolin was loaded into the car once more, along with all his worldly goods, and off the pair of them drove. Their next stop was a good-sized place with a field and several buildings, where they were met by kindly folk. Once the couple had explained how they'd found the dog, he was taken in and put into a roomy pen with a sturdy barred door. His basket was set inside once more, his bowl filled, and a little water dish set beside it.

And once again he was given a name - written this time on a little sign by the door of his pen - and this time it was, would you believe, Fridolin himself. So the days passed, one after another, and the other dogs in the neighbouring pens chatted with him a little, telling him where he'd ended up, and how long they themselves had been waiting for someone to fall in love with them and take them home. And nobody came - only, very rarely indeed, a dog would be taken.

Fridolin grew sadder and sadder still, and lost all appetite for food - only water would he take. Then one day, something happened that opened up an entirely new path for him. As every day, his pen was being cleaned, and while it was, he was allowed to run about with the other dogs in a fenced yard. But what nobody had noticed was this: the gate was shut, as always, but this time the lock hadn't quite caught. Fridolin discovered the door was only resting shut, and in that moment, memories of his mother came flooding back to him. He looked about - no one was near - and slipped through, and in a trice he had run off into the nearby wood. And he remembered...

This wood smelled different from the one he'd grown up in, but it smelled good all the same. And there were plenty of creatures about - perhaps he might find a friend? For the moment he felt hopeful, but dreadfully anxious too, and when something larger stirred nearby, he darted like a flash into a heap of fallen leaves, with only his face still peeping out. A magpie sat on a branch above him, looking him over, and laughed quite openly.

"Well now, you don't look very brave, do you!" she cackled.

"I don't feel very brave either. I'm quite new here, and I've only just run off from the dog shelter. And now I'm frightened nobody here will like me, and someone will do me harm."

"Well, I shan't promise everyone will be delighted to see you, but I can promise you this - nobody's going to harm you. Wait there, I'll fetch my friends!" And the magpie set up such a racket. First more magpies came, then a raven, and only after that did a few other creatures appear. Among them was a vixen, whose own cubs were long since grown, and she looked the little dog over with great interest.

Of course, he had to tell them his whole story, and the woodland company listened with many an "Ah!" and "Oh!"

"Hm," said the badger at last, "that's a sorry tale, that is. You'll have it somewhat better here, mind - but mind you don't go hunting in this wood. Get your food from the farms, not from among us. Keep to that, and you'll find no enemies here."

Fridolin promised this most solemnly, cross his heart, and so he crept out of his leaf-pile and let himself be properly introduced to his new friends. The vixen, meanwhile, had turned the matter over in her mind, and now spoke up:

"If he's willing, he may come along with me. I'll look after him and see he's fit for the wood. That way he'll learn the rules, and where he can find his food besides."

Everyone agreed to this, and Fridolin went off with the vixen to her den. She taught him how to conduct himself in the wood, who might be his friend and who was best avoided altogether (the old boar, above all!), and where food was easiest come by.

"You must be ever so careful," she told him, "for people have no patience at all with the likes of us, who go hunting for our supper. Those hens and rabbits are THEIRS, and they guard them jealously. But I'll show you how to manage it all the same!" she smiled.

And so it went. It wasn't long before Fridolin knew every creature in that wood, and with some he struck up firm friendships, while others he simply left in peace, and they him - and so he lived a good life in the wood. Through the winter he sheltered in the vixen's den, and the vixen herself became a loving companion to him.

Ah yes - I very nearly forgot: Fridolin grew into a fine, strong dog, and he loved his vixen with all his heart. And so, should you ever wander into that wood and hear something stirring, don't be too surprised if you spy a few small foxy little pups at play!