The Old Hound's Last Hunt

An old hunting hound, once the finest and fiercest in his master's kennel, joined a hunting party as he always had, eager to prove he still had it in him despite his advancing years. When the dogs cornered a powerful wild boar, the old hound lunged in first as he had done a hundred times before — but his teeth, worn and weakened by age, could not hold their grip, and the boar tore free and escaped into the underbrush.

His master, furious at losing such a prized quarry, scolded the old hound harshly in front of the entire hunting party, calling him useless and worthless, threatening never to bring him along again. The old hound, wounded more by the words than by any physical injury, finally spoke up in his own defense.

"Master," he said, "do not judge me only by what I am now, without remembering what I once was. In my prime, no boar in this forest ever escaped my jaws, and it is that same courage, undiminished by age, that sent me in first today even though my body could no longer finish what my heart still willingly began. Judge the failure of my old age against the service of my youth together, not my weakest moment alone against nothing at all." The master, ashamed of his harsh words, softened at once, and kept the old hound in comfort and honor for the rest of his days, understanding that a lifetime of loyal service deserves to be weighed in full, not erased by the limits of old age.