⏱ ~5 min reading
Once upon a time there was a little dog. His name was Beetle, because of his black fur and his cheerful little tail that flapped like a real beetle's wing. Beetle was still very young - only last spring his owner, Mykola, found him under an old linden tree and brought him home in his jacket pocket.
The owner and his wife Olena lived on the edge of the village, in a wooden house with a green fence. Behind the fence was a field, and beyond the field was a forest. Dense, quiet, full of mysterious smells.
The beetle was incredibly curious. Every trail called out to be explored. Every dimple under a tree - to be sniffed. Every smell - to follow the trail to the very end and find out who it was from.
"Bee, don't run far!" Mykola shouted from the porch. "Don't climb into the tall grass! Stay in the yard!"
The beetle barked something of its own, saying "good, good," and again raised its nose to the sky.
"It smells so delicious..." he muttered to himself.
One warm summer day, an unfamiliar smell wafted through the yard. Pungent, red, forest-like. The beetle froze. He lifted his nose. He sniffed.
"A fox!" he whispered to himself. "There was a fox here!"
Zhuk's heart pounded with joy. He had never seen a real fox before. Only in pictures in the book that Olena was reading in the evening. And here — a real fox track! Right in front of his nose!
Zhuk looked around. Mykola was watering the beds. Olena was hanging out the laundry. No one was looking.
"I'll just wait a little," Beetle promised himself. "I'll just see where she went.".
He slipped under the low fence and ran. First across the field, the soft grass tickling his belly. Then across the ditch, he jumped over it like a true hunter. Then into the forest.
The forest smelled of resin, moss, wet leaves, and—most importantly—fox. The beetle ran along the trail. Through the fir trees. Through the ferns. Through a pile of brushwood. And on and on.
The fox trail led further and further.
An hour later, Zhuk stopped. He looked around. And suddenly he realized — he didn't know where he was.
All around stood tall, tall pine trees, unfamiliar. The ground was covered with yellow needles. The sun was already setting—shining through the tops in reddish stripes. The fox's trail was no longer audible—it had become mixed with other smells.
The beetle sat on its hind legs. Its tail dropped.
“Oh,” he squeaked softly, “I’m lost.”.
He barked once. A second. A third. The forest only echoed and fell silent again.
It became scary. The beetle felt a chill run down his back. The sun was setting lower and lower. Something rustled in the grass. A black bird called out defiantly on a branch. His stomach felt empty and anxious.
The beetle chirped softly. A tear rolled down its black nose.
«"What should I do?" he thought. "How can I find my way home?"»
And then, as if from a hazy distance, he remembered his mother's voice. The mother dog, with whom he had lived before coming to Mykola, had taught him when he was a puppy:
"If you ever get lost, son," she would say, licking his ear, "don't run around aimlessly. Stop. Sit down. Calm down. And listen. Listen with your nose. Because the nose knows what the eyes don't.".
The beetle took a deep breath. He closed his eyes. He stuck his little black nose up.
He sniffed once. Second. Third.
The smells of the forest enveloped him—spruce resin, sour earth, mushrooms, someone's burrow. The beetle began to sort them out, like a housewife sorts beans into plates.
And suddenly — just — he caught it. Very, very faint. Almost not a smell, but a memory of a smell. Coffee. The same morning coffee that the owner, Mykola, brewed for himself every morning in a copper Turkish coffee pot. The smell of their kitchen.
"Coffee!" The beetle jumped up. "This is my home!"
He caught the direction—where the smell was coming from—and ran. Not fast. Not in panic. But confidently, holding his nose high.
Through the fir trees. They pricked him with branches, but he didn't pay attention. Through the thicket of nettles - it was hell, but he only quickened his pace. Through a small cold stream - his paws got wet, but he kept running.
The smell of coffee was getting stronger. Added to it was the smell of smoke from the chimney — Olena was stoking the stove. Then — the smell of bread, which she was baking. Then — the familiar smell of Mykola himself, of his jacket, in the pocket of which Zhuk had once swung as a baby.
When the first stars lit up in the sky, Zhuk ran out of the forest and saw the edge of the field. And beyond the field was his native green fence. And near the fence was Mykola, with a flashlight, shouting:
"Bug! Bug! Where are you, little one?"
The beetle snarled with all its might. Barked-barked-barked.
Mykola bent down, picked up the little lost dog in his arms. He held it to his chest. The beetle nuzzled his neck with its muzzle, licked, and whined with happiness.
"Well done, you found your way, little one," Mykola whispered in his ear. "We were so worried.".
Olena came running from the porch, a towel in her hands. She wiped Zhuk's paws, gave him warm milk and a piece of fresh bread.
“Where have you gone, you hangman?” she asked kindly.
The beetle just looked at her with big, moved eyes and - as best he could - told her everything with his tail.
From that day on, Zhuk also explored the forest. Because curiosity is good. But now he did it more carefully. And always, always listened with his nose to where his home was. Because he already knew for sure: curiosity leads to the world, but only love leads home. And a nose that remembers the smell of native coffee is the most faithful guide in the whole world.
✨ Curiosity leads into the world, but love leads home ✨