Little Red Riding Hood was not the naïve girl everyone imagined. She was precocious, remarkably astute, and carried a notebook labelled: “Observations: Woodland Creatures (Highly Scientific)”
Her grandmother often described her as erudite, which Red understood to mean “extremely knowledgeable—though occasionally difficult at dinner conversations.”
As she walked through the forest, Red made meticulous notes about every rustling leaf. When the Wolf appeared, pretending to be friendly, she immediately noticed his conspicuous grin and wrote: “Suspicious. Possibly carnivorous. Definitely in need of dental improvement.”
The Wolf attempted conversation. “Where are you going, little girl?” Red gave a reticent shrug. “Just delivering food. Nothing particularly interesting.”
The Wolf, growing impatient, rushed ahead to Grandma’s house. Fortunately, Grandma was extremely prudent. She believed in preparation, caution, and—after one unfortunate incident with a fox—over-engineering. So, when the Wolf tried to sneak in, he was promptly entangled in a rather effective arrangement of yarn, bells, and furniture.
Red arrived shortly after and observed the situation calmly. “I caught him fairly,” Grandma said. “A scrupulous capture. No shortcuts.”
The Wolf, now thoroughly embarrassed, adjusted his position. “I will change my ways,” he declared. “I shall become a vegetarian. A very zealous one.”
Red considered this. She was highly adept at judging character, and after a brief pause, she wrote in her notebook: “Wolf: dramatic, but potentially reformable. Requires supervision.”
From that day on, Red became the forest’s most pragmatic problem-solver, resolving disputes, organising supplies, and occasionally advising wolves with complicated life choices.
The forest had never been so peaceful—or so carefully documented.
