A tired, decrepit, gouty lion wished to find a cure for hoary eld—and kings don’t like to hear a thing’s impossible.
He called for every species’ doctors to be sent; they came in droves, with nostrums and medicaments.
“The fox alone absents himself,” the wolf at bedside sneered. “What nerve!”
The lion ordered that the summons be, if necessary, carried out by force.
“Use smoke to roust him from his den,” the wolf suggested.
When at last presented to the court, the fox knew instantly what part the wolf had played.
“Your Majesty,” he said, “I wonder if the reasons I’ve deferred this pleasure haven’t been misunderstood. The fact is, I was on a pilgrimage. Not only did I tender prayers and offerings to speed your convalescence, but I also questioned scholars, specialists, and experts in the healing arts about this languor you so cruelly suffer from. Their diagnosis was unanimous: old age has robbed you of your vital warmth. The cure that they prescribe is to enwrap yourself in steaming wolfskins freshly flayed. —What luck! I see there’s one who ready stands to serve his king as remedy—and robe.”
The lion liked this medicine. The wolf was skinned alive and quartered on the spot. He made a lovely dressing gown—and, too, delicious stew.
Whoever backbites hurts himself: to slanderers come just deserts.