The red dog, the forest ranger’s loyal companion, began to show signs of restlessness at dawn. While Ivan Grigorievich slowly pulled on his felt boots and stretched his stiff shoulders, the dog circled around his feet, quietly whining and repeatedly darting toward the exit.
“What’s wrong with you? Did a wolf dream of you?” grumbled the ranger, fastening his flask of tea to his belt.
The dog gave a short bark, nudged the door with his cold nose, and froze. His fluffy tail quivered, like a compass needle pointing the way.
“Wait a bit, be patient,” the owner waved him off.
But the dog wouldn’t calm down. While Ivan cleared the porch of snow, the dog dashed toward the edge of the forest, darted into the thick spruce trees, then returned and sat, waiting patiently as if saying, “Come on, let’s go!”
“You’re like a commander, not a dog,” muttered Ivan. “Just need to put a cap on you.”
The dog whined plaintively, as if pleading, “Hurry, please!”
Ivan Grigorievich had been a forest ranger for more than twenty years and could easily tell when the dog was just being capricious or when it was giving an important signal. After the dog tried to lead him into the dense woods for the third time, Ivan gave in.
“Alright, you convinced me, guide. But if it’s for nothing, you’ll get porridge without meat for dinner.”
The dog jumped up joyfully, wagging his tail vigorously. The ranger checked his radio, tucked his mobile phone into his pocket, slung his rifle over his shoulder—not for hunting, but to scare away bears if needed—and locked the house.
The snow lay thick, almost knee-deep. The December forest stood still in silence, with only the occasional crack of branches. The dog walked ahead, sniffing the air, sometimes rising onto his hind legs, as if consulting the wind. Ivan followed, leaving deep prints in the pristine snow.
“Where are you taking us, adventurer?” he sighed.
The dog didn’t answer, only quickened his pace. About fifteen minutes later, Ivan heard a strange sound—something between a sob and a creak. He raised his hand, signaling silence, and the dog immediately lay down in a snowbank, ears perked. Through the trees came the sound of a child’s cry.
“Quiet,” whispered the ranger, taking his rifle off his shoulder.
He emerged onto a small clearing and immediately saw a young woman sitting on a broken stump, holding a boy about five years old. The child was quietly sobbing, and she looked completely exhausted—her hat askew, her cheeks red from the cold, her boots caked with snow.
“Hey, miss, how did you end up here?” Ivan asked softly, trying not to startle her.
The woman flinched, blinked:
“We… got lost. I left the trail, thought we’d cut through… And then the phone died, there was no signal…”
The boy buried his face in her down jacket, a tear and an icicle glistened above his upper lip.
“How long have you been in the forest?”
“Since evening,” she whispered barely audible. “We barely made it till dawn.”
Ivan whistled for the dog. The dog trotted up, sat next to the boy, and nudged his sleeve with his nose, as if to say, “Don’t be afraid, I’m one of us.”
“Good boy,” the child said quietly.
“Alright. I’m Ivan Grigorievich, the ranger here. The house is about five kilometers away. Do you think you can manage?”
The woman looked up—her gray, tired, but calm eyes meeting his.
“We’ll manage… as long as we can warm up.”
“You’ll warm up. Move slowly, breathe through your nose. Ryzhiy, lead the way!”
The way back seemed shorter. When they reached the hut, the smoke from the chimney greeted them, as if it had known about their arrival beforehand. Ivan led them inside and sat them by the stove.
“Take off your coats. Place your boots sideways so the steam can escape. Ryzhiy, follow me!”
The dog understood immediately: he ran to the kitchen and brought back a linen sack with dried bread for the roe deer. Ivan took a piece of lard and rewarded his four-legged assistant. Ryzhiy carried the treat to the corner and grumbled contentedly.
“What are your names?” asked the ranger, setting the kettle on the stove.
“Lena… and this is Artyom. We’re from the city, visiting friends. We decided to walk through the forest—navigator showed a shortcut.”
“Navigator,” Ivan chuckled, pouring boiling water into a cup. “In the city, it’s clever, but here the signal disappears, and that’s the end of the story.”
He handed the child a cup of warm rosehip tea. The boy started drinking, noisily savoring the fragrant drink.
“Uncle Ivan,” Artyom asked, “is this your dog?”
“Yes. Today, he’s our main rescuer.”
Ryzhiy nudged the child’s knees, received a scratch behind the ear, and comfortably lay down by the stove.
When Lena had warmed up a bit, she took off her scarf and looked around the hut: the old wooden planks gleamed with varnish, a map of the forest quarters hung on the wall, and underneath it was a photograph of a young woman and a boy in military cadet uniform.
“Are they yours?”
Ivan looked at the photo and nodded:
“My wife and son. My son is in the army, and my wife… she’s been gone for five years.”
Lena lowered her gaze. Ivan adjusted the log in the stove:
“Well, we live as we can. Who do you need to call? I have a flip phone, it gets signal here.”
Lena quickly dialed a number, holding the phone with both hands tightly:
“Hello, Igor? We’re at the ranger’s… yes, they found us, we’re fine. Come by the coordinates, okay… Yes, we’ll wait.”
After hanging up, she said:
“My husband will come in the morning to get the car. Thank you so much.”
“Don’t mention it,” Ivan waved it off. “In the forest, you can’t get by without mutual help.”
He took a jar of jam from the pantry, some bread, and a knife.
“Eat. I’ll wash up.”
While the ranger boiled water, Artyom was telling Ryzhiy about his toy cars. The dog listened attentively, occasionally winking with his kind eye. Lena watched her son and smiled for the first time that day.
“Ivan Grigorievich, were the dolls in the photo… made by your wife?”
“She could do everything,” he replied softly. “Sew, weave, churn honey, sing songs so beautiful you could listen for hours.”
There was a slight tenderness in his voice. Lena nodded, as if understanding everything without needing more words.
At night, the wind scratched at the shutters. Ivan made up the guests on the sofas, then laid down on the bench. Ryzhiy lay between them, alert, like a faithful sentry.
In the morning, an old UAZ with city plates honked outside the window. Ivan stepped onto the porch. A man in an expensive down jacket jumped out of the car and rushed to embrace his wife and son.
“Lena! Artyom! You’re alive!”
Ivan watched their embrace. Ryzhiy wagged his tail, as if saying, “Mission accomplished.”
The man walked up to the ranger, extending his hand:
“Igor. Thank you so much. Honestly, I thought I was going to lose my mind.”
“No need for thanks. The forest is tricky, but if you respect it, it always helps. Just don’t trust the navigators.”
“Lesson learned,” Igor nodded. “How can we thank you?”
“Put up a proper trail sign at the forest entrance. I’ve been asking the district center for years, but they never get around to it,” Ivan chuckled.
“We’ll do it,” Igor promised. “And… please take this.”
He handed Ivan a bundle of money. The ranger frowned:
“This is unnecessary. You can leave a bone for the dog, and ‘thank you’ is enough for me.”
Igor awkwardly put the money away. Lena approached and took out a small silver cross on a thin chain from her pocket:
“This is what my mother gave me when I got married. Please take it as a token of our gratitude.”
Ivan looked at her seriously and shook his head:
“This is a family heirloom, keep it. The most important thing is to keep the warm memories.”
He suddenly took the photo of his son in the military cadet uniform off the wall, opened a box, and took out a small army badge.
“Here, Artyom. My son wore this for luck. Now, let it protect you.”
The boy beamed, pinning the badge to his jacket.
“Thank you, Uncle Kolya!”
“Ivan,” the ranger corrected, patting the dog’s back.
The UAZ drove off, the engine noise fading. Ivan and Ryzhiy remained standing on the road, the snow crunching under their feet.
“Well, buddy,” Ivan said, giving the dog a pat on the side, “now you’ve got another reason to make your wife happy, huh?”
The dog barked briefly, as if answering, “Don’t worry, master, we’ll still come in handy.”
Two weeks later, a new sign appeared at the forest edge, made of hewn oak: “Lingonberry Trail. 3 km to the highway. Be careful!” Below was a metal plaque: “In gratitude to forest ranger Ivan Grigorievich and dog Ryzhiy: for making the forest a little kinder.” Signature: “The Kravchenko Family.”
Ivan read the inscription and shook his head:
“People… couldn’t resist.”
Ryzhiy joyfully jumped around, rolling in the snow and spinning, as if saying, “The service continues.”
In spring, a small interview with Ivan was published in the district newspaper. He said simple things:
“The forest is like a person. First, listen, then go. And a dog’s bark—that’s its voice too.”
At the end, the journalist asked:
“Do you regret anything?”
Ivan chuckled:
“That my wife doesn’t see how our Ryzhiy saves people. She would say, ‘It’s Moscow’s fault, you don’t train him properly.’ And then she’d still bring him a bowl of porridge.”
The ranger stroked the dog. The dog closed his eyes in bliss and finished the conversation with a loud, satisfied “Woof.”
It seemed as though the forest around them had grown quieter—listening, understanding.