I strolled once down a forest path—as we’d all been advised by Frost—well off the road most travelled.  The world around me was silent, as forests are often wont to be, and yet still more-so than one would expect.  Dead, I suppose, is the best way to put it.  

I had come seeking solitude, but I hadn’t considered this possible turn of events.  The sort of aloneness I had intended for myself was the sort brought about by haughtily ignoring passers-by.  This is difficult when there isn’t anyone to ignore.  I could cease to pay attention to myself, but that would just be silly.    

Some time after I had grown tired of lamenting my solitude and had moved onto more interesting topics, I looked up from watching feet long enough to notice two figures strolling down the path towards me.  From a distance they seemed normal enough, but upon closing the gap further I was proven wrong.  My companions, though they seemed entirely unaware of my presence, looked like two creatures out of a children’s story, but larger than life and thrice as repulsive.  Wolves, in my experience, do not walk upright on their hind legs for long periods of time, and they most certainly do not wear clothes.  One sported an impeccable tweed jacket and seemed to be attempting to impersonate Sherlock Holmes, though the deer-stalker hat sat rather awkwardly on his furry brow.  The other, against all reason, wore a bright red sweater adorned with a pattern of Scottish terriers.  

“—all I’m saying is that it isn’t fair.”  Said the one wearing the hat.  His voice was very nasal for a wolf, as if he had a head cold.

“And how is that not fair?”  Replied the one in the sweater.

“That isn’t the sort of thing that can be accurately quantified.  It occurs on more than one level, conscious and subconscious, and everything in between.  Just because I don’t know, doesn’t mean I don’t know.  Suggesting otherwise is practically slander.”

“What?  I’m dragging your name through the mud by not even using it?”

“Exactly.”

“No one knows your name.  You don’t have one, and neither do I.  At least, not a name of our own.”  

“But telling everyone that—“

“Fine, do you want to settle this once and for all?”  The wolf wearing the sweater appeared to register my presence for the first time then.  He grabbed my upper arm in one paw.  “Excuse me, sir, I was wondering if you could settle an argument for my friend and I.”

I looked between him and his friend in the hat, the friend looked rather pouty (though I admit it was somewhat difficult to tell).  I nodded my agreement.  “I guess.”

“Good.  Now tell me, what is the first thing that comes to mind when you think of the Big Bad Wolf?”

“What?”  I looked at the wolf in the sweater, greatly puzzled.  “What does that have to do with anything?”

“Just answer the question.”

“Ah. . . the story of Little Red Riding Hood?”

“Ah hah!  I told you!”  The wolf in the sweater exclaimed, clearly victorious.  “I’m more popular.  Eat your heart out, my friend.”  He addressed the wolf in the hat.

The hat wearer wasn’t just pouting now, he looked like he was about to cry.  
I stood stunned as they continued on their way; clearly I was once again quite forgotten.  

“The three little pigs aren’t going to like this, you know.”  Said the one in the hat.

“And I care why?  If they try anything I’ll just eat them.  You should anyway.  They’ve had it coming for long enough, giving you such trouble with your lungs like that.”

“But that’s how the story goes.  It’s supposed to end that way, it always will.”

“So it is.”

I shook my head and continued on my way; grateful, for once, for my solitude.