So there I was. My stomach rumbled and ripples of hunger vibrated up my throat. Sweat cascaded down my back like a waterfall. My shirt was drenched as if I had just drowned in a pond. Rays of sunlight danced around the door as sparks of fire. Not even a tiny breeze relieved my pain. I knocked.

I guess I better introduce myself. My name is The Big, Bad Wolf. At least that is what they call me in the storybooks, and that is what most people believe. But I am not very big at all. I'm going to be 20 next week, and twenty isn't very old, and I'm not fat. I'm more on the thin and short side. And I'm defenitely not a bad little wolf. I am kind, generous, and merciful, while Red Riding Hood is the one who's bad. She is very mean and selfish, never having any mercy on a poor little wolf like me.

Speaking of Red Riding Hood, let me get back to the story. I was standing in front of her house, knocking on the door. I know this is not at all what the storybooks say I was doing, but they seriously got the story wrong. I wasn't at all trying to eat Red Riding Hood. I just wanted to steal her best hat for my dinner party and maybe just nibble on her a bit. I had barely knocked on the door a few hundred times when it flew open.

I stepped in and headed to the closet for what was soon to be my hat. But something went wrong, because the next thing I knew, I was lying sprawled on the floor with a thousand bruises over me, trying to pull a bare foot out of my ear. It was Red Riding Hood. Now she stood over me with a victorious smile plasted on her face. This expression trigged my anger (and my hunger) quiet a bit so I decided to forget about the hat and have Red Riding Hood's Grandma for a snack. I rushed at RRH'sG, but the RRH stopped me again. RRH'sG poked me with her walking stick. I flexed my claws and launched at her but fell down. She poked and poked me all the way out of the house and locked the door.

I sighed. This was terrible! What had happened to my balance and my strength? I could barely walk. Oh of course! My shoes! I had borrowed my sister's high heels for the dinner party, because I needed shoes in order to be a well-respected guest at the party, and something had happened to mine (probably Red Riding Hood ate them).

Anyway, this incident disturbed me so much, that I decided to quit the party and schedule an emergency appointment with my therapist instead. So I hobbled all the way to his office, and ,as usual, tripped over the doorway. I looked all around, expecting to see an old lady's foot in my ribs. But didn't see one. I had tripped over my own feet again. (Those high heels are messing up my life!) I crawled into the office.
Now, my therapist is a bald young man with glasses. His collar is always so starched, I don't think he can move his neck. (I've never seen him move his neck, so I bet he can't.) I don't like such sophisticated people, but I still choose him to be my therapist. His office is filled with certificates that have "best therapist of 2001" and "best therapist in WolfRidingHoodville" written on them. Also, his name is "Proffessor Therapist" and he is said to have graduated from Harvard University with "flying kites". Or is it "flying colors"? I don't know.

Proffesor Therapist sat stiffly behind his desk. He only raised his eyes to look at me. (I told you he can't move his neck.) "Sit down, please," he said in a deep voice. I groaned inside myself. Each time I come for a visit, he makes me sit on one of those backless chairs that slope down like a slide. You have to constantly push with you legs, else you'll end up on the floor. Oh, well. I'll have to make it.

I told him all about that mean Red Riding Hood and her grandma. He reminded me sternly that he was tired of my and RRH's relationship never working out. "What would you have done if you were Red Riding Hood?" he said. "Put yourself in her shoes."

I was in a rather bad mood when I staggered home. Walking on those high heels seemed like tight-roping across Niagara Falls, and sitting on that slide for an hour had turned my legs into a pair of ragged curtains. Which didn't help at all. I tried walking home but fell every two seconds. So I crawled home on my hands and knees. Fortunately, I later had to spent only a couple of centuries in the bathroom pouring gallons of rubbing alchohol on myself and massaging my poor legs.

Although I was angry and annoyed - at both my therapist and the high heels - I decided to take Proffesor Therapist's advice. After all, he had a matter's degree in Therapistology. Or is it therapology? Of course, I didn't understand the first part of his advice at all - that was probably some kind of therapist-talk - but I did understand the second part. "Put yourself in Red Riding Hood's shoes." I could do that.
So the next day, I put on the shortest shorts I could find in my closet. I returned the high heels back to my sister. I yelled at her quiet a bit and showed her every single bruise on my legs. Why had she even let me borrow her high heels? Oh, well. Then I waited for Red Riding Hood to leave to the outdoor pool: she does that everyday in summer. Finally she appeared in her sparkly bathing suit. I leaped out from behind a garbage truck, relieved to finally have a breath of fresh air. I sneaked into her house and stole her pretty red Mary Janes. They were three times smaller than my feet, but I was determined to obey the therapist. I used up all my strength pulling them on. And, I think my feet felt a little pinched.

Or maybe a lot pinched. Because that day I ended up once again sliding down Proffesor Therapist's slide, working my legs into rags. I yelled at him long and hard. His advice had been terrible. Proffesor Therapist just sat there. Evidently, he was speechless at my wisdom. It really doesn't take a terribly wise person (I mean wolf), to realize that it's not a good idea to wear shoes that are three times too small. Now I have a thousand foot diseases. Achille's foot, Athlete's career, foototosis, and what-not else.

I think I'll have to spend the rest of my life going to foot doctors and trying to find cures. "Big Bad Red Riding Hood," I thought, "Uneducated, foolish therapist."

"Good, little me."