The Story of the Zhongshan Wolf

In the Spring and Autumn period, Minister Zhao Jianzi of the State of Jin went hunting one day in Zhongshan. He rode with a pack of hounds and a band of skilled hunters—some wearing bows and arrows, spears and swords; others with trained hawks perched on their wrists. They charged along, shouting until the woods rang. On the road ahead Zhao’s party spied a wolf standing a short distance away. Oddly enough, the wolf rose up on its hind legs and howled loudly, as if to attract attention; standing so, it made an excellent target. Lord Zhao loosed an arrow, which struck true, and the wolf turned and fled. The hunters urged their horses in pursuit; men’s cries and dogs’ barking shook the hills and trees, dust billowed up, and in the tumult the wolf slipped away.

At that moment a certain Master Dongguo was riding toward Zhongshan on a thin donkey. He carried a sack on the beast’s back that held a few scrolls and some clothes. Master Dongguo was a Mohist scholar—one of those followers of Mozi whose creed then flourished, known for strict self-discipline and devotion to helping others. Mohist scholars wandered the land preaching universal love, serving rulers and commoners alike with ardent zeal; they were content to live in poverty and often risked their own lives in the service of others.

Hearing the uproar of the hunt, Master Dongguo saw a wounded wolf running toward him with the hunters close behind. The wolf, seeing the Mohist, wailed and begged for pity. When Master Dongguo noticed an arrow embedded in the wolf’s back, his heart softened and he felt compassion.

“Do not fear,” he said. “I will pull the arrow out for you.”

“You are a Mohist,” the wolf replied. “You are a good man. The hunters are right behind. Hide me in your sack; when they pass, let me out again. If you save my life, I will be forever grateful.”

“Poor creature,” said Master Dongguo. “How did you come to such misfortune? It is your lack of wisdom. Never mind—into the sack you go. No thanks necessary; I am glad to help.”

He took things from the sack and tried to push the wolf in. But the wolf was a full-grown animal and the sack too small. If the head went in first, the bushy tail and hind legs stuck out; if the tail went in, the neck and forelegs remained exposed. Again and again Master Dongguo heaved and shoved, turned the wolf this way and that, but could not get it fully inside.

“Hurry!” the wolf cried. “They’re coming! Bind me!”

The wolf curled up so the Mohist could tie its limbs together. After many efforts—shoving, pressing, sweating—Master Dongguo at last got the wolf into the sack and set the sack upon the donkey’s back. He saw drops of the wolf’s blood seeping through the cloth and felt pity; the animal’s flight had left a trail of blood behind, and in the struggle Dongguo himself had been smeared. He hurried to conceal the stains and turned the donkey so the sack looked less conspicuous.

When the hunters arrived, Lord Zhao asked Master Dongguo if he had seen the wolf. Standing at the roadside with composure, Dongguo replied, “No. Wolves are cunning; they would not stand upon the open road. Perhaps it is hiding somewhere in the thicket.”

Lord Zhao fixed him with a look, brandished his sword, and warned, “Whoever hides a wolf invites his own ruin.”

Master Dongguo mounted his donkey, bowed, and waved farewell. “If I see it anywhere, I will tell you. Farewell.”

Once the hunters’ footsteps faded, the wolf began to cry in the sack, “Let me out—quick! I’m suffocating!”

Dongguo quickly dismounted and untied the bundle. He stroked the wolf’s wound and asked gently, “Does it still hurt? I was truly frightened for you.”

“It’s nothing—a scratch,” the wolf answered. “Since you saved my life, might you do me one more favor?”

“As long as I can, I will gladly help. We Mohists believe universal love can heal the world. What else do you need?”

The wolf glanced shrewdly at him. “I am starving.”

“Oh?”

“You have saved me, yet I haven’t eaten in three days. If I die of hunger tonight, your mercy will have been in vain. Why not let me eat you? You would sacrifice only a bit; I do not ask much.”

The wolf opened its jaws and bared long teeth, lunging at Master Dongguo. Dongguo recoiled to the donkey’s side, trembling with fear. He tried to reason with the beast:

“No—you must not eat me!”

“Why not?”

“Because I saved your life!”

Round and round they went, man and wolf circling the donkey; the donkey, bewildered, had no idea why they tussled.

Dongguo planted himself near the donkey’s neck and said, “Let us be reasonable. Quarreling and force will serve nothing. Even if you tear me to pieces, I will not admit you are right. You think you ought to eat me?”

The wolf howled, “Of course I do. I’m starving; I have no time for your lectures.”

“Such disputes should be settled by weighing reason,” said Dongguo. “We will ask impartial elders to judge: whether you ought to eat me. Remember, I saved you.”

“All right—get on with it,” the wolf snapped. “No beating around the bush. I believe heaven made men for wolves to eat. We wolves are superior. You’ve grown weak and degenerate; thus you deserve to be prey.” Night was falling as they walked, and no people were to be seen.

The wolf exclaimed, “I cannot wait. Let us ask that old tree trunk by the roadside.”

“That’s a tree—what wisdom could it have?”

“Ask it; it will tell you.”

Dongguo bowed long to the old trunk and told it how he had risked his life to save the wolf. “Is it right,” he asked, “for the wolf to repay me by eating me? Is that fair?”

The old apricot tree hummed. “I understand,” it said. “I was once an apricot pit. A year later I flowered; three years later I bore fruit. Five years later my trunk was as thick as an arm; ten years on I was as stout as a child’s belly. For twenty years I fed my gardener and his household. They ate my fruit; he sold it in the market for gain. When I grew old and stopped fruiting he began to strip my leaves, break my branches, and cut my arms and legs for firewood. Not content, he planned to saw me into planks. People are like this. Why should the wolf not eat you?”

Delighted, the wolf leapt and lunged toward Dongguo. “How honest,” it cried. “That’s sensible. No need to ask more.”

“Wait—we still must consult two more elders,” Dongguo insisted.

“Fine,” the wolf said. “But you smell even tastier than before.”

A little farther on they found an old ox standing by a hedge, looking world-weary. The wolf suggested they question it too. Dongguo recounted their tale to the ox and asked for a fair judgment. The ox regarded him solemnly, a hint of scorn in its gaze.

“The apricot tree spoke true,” the ox rumbled. “Once, when I was young, a farmer bought me to toil his fields. While others aged, I did the work of two or three oxen: plowing, pulling, treading in the mud and water, pulling the mill, year after year. Because of my toil, his granaries grew full; he prospered and his son married; his house became respectable. But now that I am old and thin, his wife scorns me. She drives me out to sleep in the open, says I am past use, and plans to send me to the butcher. They will cure my meat, tan my hide, carve my horns and hooves into trinkets. People are like that. How can I defend man’s gratitude? I see nothing wrong with the wolf eating you.”

Again the wolf sprang forward, teeth bared. Dongguo pleaded, “One more elder—we agreed to three.”

Soon an old man with a long white beard, leaning on a staff, shuffled toward them. At sight of a real human, Dongguo rejoiced and ran to beg his judgement. “One word from you will save my life,” he implored.

The old man listened carefully, then turned on the wolf with anger. “Ungrateful creature!” he thundered. “Ungrateful beings bring misfortune upon their descendants. This is retribution; do you not know? You will father a son as unfilial as yourself. Begone, or I will take your life!”

The wolf tried to explain, “You haven’t heard me out. This Mohist tied me, shoved me into a sack—tight! I could hardly breathe. You don’t know how miserable it was inside!”

The old man said, “If that’s true, then perhaps the Mohist is to blame.” Thus human and wolf argued anew.

“I do not know whom to believe,” said the old man. “You say you saved the wolf’s life; the wolf says you harmed it. The only way to find out is to reenact it—show me how you wound and squeezed it. I must see it with my own eyes.”

“Very well,” said the wolf. Once more Dongguo bound it and stuffed it into the sack.

The old man leaned close and asked, “Do you have a sharp knife?”

Dongguo, bewildered, stammered, “Yes.”

“Then what are you waiting for? Use it.” The old man’s voice dripped scorn. “Kill it, or let it kill you. Foolish pedant!”

With a sneer he laughed, drew the blade, and together with Master Dongguo stabbed through the sack—once—and so ended the dispute.