A fable from 2008:

A Political Fable.

The old bear had kicked the bucket. The bear cub left as master of the forest was still too young, and so many of the animals felt a taste of liberty. The boar, the goat, and the sprats splashing about in the river were picking apart the deceased’s bones at full volume, not forgetting to mention the heir in the process. From the neighboring forest, a striped tiger squinted thoughtfully—unlike the others, he remembered the old ruckus with the wolf pack all too well, when he’d had the luck to end up on the bear’s side and see the clubfoot in action. And he understood that it was no accident the current wolf was trying not to sour relations with the bear. On the other hand, the cub was still a bit too small, and his forest was vast—oh, so very vast.

So, just in case, he amiably promised the goat, the boar, and the sprats his protection, in exchange for them giving the cub a hard time—let him sit in his den and keep his head down. They, interpreting this in their own way, grew utterly brazen and raised such a squealing in the forest about the crushed and devoured brethren and the ruined raspberries that even the tiger’s ears sometimes rang. Plus, the cub’s rather unimpressive scuffle with the mountain jackal—which he’d won by the skin of his teeth and only on points—added to the shouters’ courage. And while the boar, due to his natural laziness, only squealed along for company, and the sprats bubbled among themselves and weren’t particularly audible from under the water, the goat, owing to his hot temper, shook his horns excitedly and threatened aloud to gore the bear.

Thunder struck unexpectedly—whereas before the goat had simply roamed around the den and bleated belligerently, to which the cub only grumbled in annoyance, now he decided to bring to order the chipmunk living near the den, who had long been an eyesore. The chipmunk, as it were, out of old habit, was friends with the cub, but the latter hadn’t been seen for a while, especially since the tiger was winking approvingly from the neighboring forest...

But this time, everything went off-script—unexpectedly for all, a paw shot out of the den and landed such a blow on the goat that he, bleating loudly, flew clear across the forest. Then the cub emerged from the den, having in the meantime grown almost to his father’s size, and went looking for where the goat had flown. And, judging by the look on his muzzle, it certainly wasn’t to apologize.

Everyone suddenly felt very unwell: the goat was racing through the forest with his horns twisted into a braid, demanding that the forest community save him from the aggressive bear. The roused boar squealed anxiously, not so much out of solidarity as from the nasty feeling that he might be next in line. The sprats darted about so frantically that the river practically boiled—the old bear had loved to fish, and if the young one took after his dad...

The tiger, to whom the goat’s complaints were chiefly addressed, sat in philosophical rumination: on one hand, the goat was an ally, even if a goat; on the other, the bear’s claws were long and his teeth were oh-ho-ho, even if smaller than his father’s. Why, the wolf, after tasting those claws, had sworn off ever coveting other clearings again, even though the affair had seemed promising and at first they’d managed to drive the bear all the way back to his den.

The wolf himself, though he didn’t show it, was smirking inwardly. Unlike the rest, he kept his relations with the bear not exactly friendly, but even-keeled—he didn’t poke into the bear’s garden and didn’t risk getting a clobbering between the ears.

Also not risking a beating was the rooster—simply because, due to his size, he couldn’t peck much anyway. So now he was darting about over the agitated forest, trying to make peace with everyone. It wasn’t working particularly well, though—the goat was too frightened, and the bear was so fed up with everything that he chased the goat without paying any mind to the rooster’s squawks from somewhere above.

Behind them, at a respectful distance, ran the boar, squealing excitedly—he’d long been given hints that the young bear might ask for the return of that oak grove on the bank which the old bear had let him use simply because he didn’t eat acorns. But in that same grove lay the bear’s favorite fishing spot, from which the boar had driven the cub out of sheer spite. Now his old sins might be brought up and the grove taken away entirely. And, judging by the goat’s situation, there was little hope in the tiger.

The sprats were in a sheer panic: on one hand, they were the majority in the river; on the other, the river divided two forests, and if anything went down, all the commotion happened right over their heads, regardless of their wishes. Moreover, even the most clueless sprats understood that for any shore-dweller, they were simply light snacks—and who listens to the opinion of a snack?

Meanwhile, the raccoon, whom the goat had also caused no small amount of grief, out of solidarity with the chipmunk, and honestly, taking advantage of a convenient moment, brazenly erased the goat’s territorial marks on the path leading to his den. On one hand, it was justified by the goat’s beastly behavior; on the other, even a hedgehog could see that the goat currently had much bigger things to worry about. Besides, he too was friends with the young bear, and the bear silently approved of his actions, which added considerable boldness to the raccoon: the tiger was far away, while the bear was right nearby, and if anything happened, he only had to reach out a paw, as he just had.

In the bushes, the hare quietly rejoiced—despite the disgruntled squealing of the other animals and the tiger’s suggestion to leave a nasty mess on the bear’s doorstep, he continued to maintain neutrality and, as the goat’s example had shown, not in vain. Now he could calmly nibble his grass—the prospect of a showdown with an enraged bear, unlike for various goats and boars, was not in his cards. And that, damn it, felt wonderful.

https://sgtmadcat.livejournal.com/24526.html