Cease and Desist the Licking!

This morning I discovered a damp, glittery contract on my doorstep that said, in impeccable handwriting: “Cease and desist the licking!”

It was sealed with green wax and a shamrock crown, and the paper itself smelled faintly of forest soil, old coins, and the kind of ale that makes a man sing too loud and laugh too long.

Naturally, I did what any sensible Dire Wolf Project™ pack leader would do.

I read it twice, looked around to see who was watching, and then tried to pretend I had never seen it at all.

That was my first mistake.

Because once you receive a summons from the King of the Leprechauns, life does not continue the way it was five minutes earlier.

Life becomes… well.. adjudicated.

Harassed by folklore.

A mild but relentless parade of Irish mischief until you either comply or lose your mind.

The complaint was filed “on behalf of the Kingdom Under the Rainbow,” and it accused Yeti, our white American Dirus™ dog, of being a “Category Five Moisture Event.”

It also claimed our new design, “LEPRECHAUNS FEAR ME,” had caused widespread panic among their citizens, specifically the ones “who have been previously slimed.”

Slimed, I say!

I am not exaggerating when I tell you that the King of the Leprechauns fears one thing more than anyone else on earth.

Being licked by a DireWolf Dog™.

Not because our dogs are mean.

My goodness, no.

It is because our dogs are companion dogs at heart, and when they decide you are a friend, their affection arrives like a warm tidal wave.

Their tongues are too big, generous, and enthusiastic, and the leprechauns, being tiny and extremely proud, cannot stand the indignity of being lovingly washed from head to toe in three seconds flat.

Apparently the tongue does not simply lick.

It imprints.

And one that happens, the Leprechauns can never escape it!

And according to this very official, very glittery legal document, my pack had created a crisis in the heart of Leprechaun valley.

I tried to ignore the summons, which was my second mistake.

That morning, my tea turned green.

Not “a little tinted.”

Green like a swamp.

Green like a shamrock smoothie.

Green like I was about to get audited by St. Patrick himself.

And my socks began vanishing in pairs that made no sense.

One sock from one pair, and its mate from an entirely different pair, as if the leprechauns were styling me on purpose.

My phone started autocorrecting “DireWolf” into “Dairy Wolf.”

Dairy.

Wolf.

I opened my laptop to work on today’s Inner Circle email and heard a faint clink, like tiny mugs being tapped together in celebration, followed by giggling that sounded like it came from underneath my floorboards.

Then Yeti lifted her head, stared at the corner of the room with calm interest, and wagged her tail in that slow, confident way that says, “Friend detected.”

I saw nothing.

I heard nothing.

But I knew, with the certainty of a person who has been trapped in weirdness before, that a leprechaun was somewhere nearby.

And he was trying very hard not to be seen.

The problem with DireWolf Dogs™ is that they are not fooled by your disappearing act.

They do not care about magic tricks.

You can teleport, reappear behind the couch, pop into a potted plant, or vanish into thin air like a smug little magician.

But Yeti does not need eyes; she has a nose.

So for the next hour, Yeti gently tracked an invisible leprechaun around my house while the leprechaun did his best to remain unlicked.

It became a sort of slapstick ballet.

My dog would stroll toward a spot, tail waving like a flag.

The leprechaun would reappear somewhere else, horrified, like he had just watched a tidal wave stand up and smile.

At one point I heard a tiny voice, very dapper and very offended, say, “Madam. Control your beast.”

I looked right at the air and said, “She is not a beast. She is a companion dog. Also, I do not negotiate with invisible pranksters before breakfast.”

A pause.

Then, from the same empty air: “You shall come to court to see the king.”

That was when I realized I had options.

I could pull the design, apologize to the Kingdom Under the Rainbow, and let the leprechauns keep sabotaging my socks until the end of time.

That would be humiliating, and also I am not built for that.

I could also outwit the King in his own territory. It would be risky, but the leprechauns do not fight like humans do.

They fight like clever little attorneys with glitter in their pockets.

And lastly, I could bring my Yeti as a secret weapon, because fear is leverage, and the King feared nothing more than the possibility of being lovingly slimed.

As it happened, I chose option two… with a twist.

I would go to the King, bring a pint ale as a peace offering, and I would keep Yeti close enough to remind him what was at stake, but far enough to avoid an international incident involving drool.

We stepped outside.

Right there, glinting in the grass, was the faintest arc of color, like a ribbon that had been stretched thin on purpose.

Yeti trotted forward like she had been invited.

And just like that, we crossed onto the other side of the rainbow.

The air smelled like wet moss and hidden treasure.

It was a forest that felt older than it should have been, as if it had been waiting for a very long time for someone to step wrong and end up there.

A small stone door sat in the hillside, surrounded by ferns.

It opened before I touched it.

Inside, the King of the Leprechauns waited.

He was dapper in the way only a creature with zero insecurity can be.

He had a tiny waistcoat. Perfect little boots. A shamrock pin that looked like it had been hammered out of real gold. And he held a monocle as if it was a weapon.

I adjusted the pint of Guiness so the King noticed the gift.

He smiled like a man who had never lost an argument in his life.

“Jennifer,” he said, as if we were old acquaintances and he had not been terrorizing my socks. “Welcome.”

Yeti sat politely at my side, eyes soft, posture calm, tail thumping once against the floor like a metronome.

The King noticed her immediately and made a very subtle, very undignified scoot backward.

“Before we begin,” he said, clearing his throat, “I must inform you that leprechaun law grants you three wishes if you catch me.”

“I did not catch you,” I said.

He lifted a finger. “Ahhh… but you brought your… companion.”

He said companion like it was a curse word.

Then he smiled again, because he thought he had me.

I could see the game, though.

His wishes were bait.

His wishes were where humans usually lose to a leprechaun’s trickery.

He leaned in. “Don’t you want a pot of gold?”

A sensible person would have said yes.

A sensible person would have pictured wealth, ease, freedom… the whole fantasy.

But I have met enough leprechauns in my life to know that “a pot of gold” comes with conditions.

The pot will be too heavy.

The gold will be buried under a boulder.

The gold will appear on a mountaintop with no path.

The gold will arrive in pennies.

He would take my wish literally.

So I did the only thing you can do when a magical trickster offers you three wishes.

I got specific.

“I wish for a perfectly reasonable amount of gold,” I said, “that I can safely transport home in my vehicle, deposited directly into my bank account, with no adverse consequences, no hidden obligations, and no future sabotage of my socks.”

The King’s smile twitched.

“I also wish,” I continued, “that you and your kingdom will stop interfering with the Dire Wolf Project™ gift shop for the rest of March, including our new ‘Leprechauns Fear Me’ design.”

He narrowed his eyes like a lawyer reading the fine print.

Then he glanced at the pint I still held in my hand.

Because here is the truth about the King of the Leprechauns.

He is cunning, mysterious, and a mastermind of tiny chaos.

But he loves Guiness.

And he can be swayed by a pint.

He tapped the table with a little sigh. “You are dreadfully precise.”

“I have to be,” I said. “I run a pack.”

That was when Yeti lifted her head.

She had caught his scent.

Her ears tilted forward.

Her eyes warmed.

Her tail began to wag in the slow, certain rhythm of a dog who has decided this is her new friend and her work today is to love him.

The King froze.

Then, he disappeared.

Instantly.

And reappeared on top of a mushroom, clutching his monocle like a shield.

Yeti turned her head and stared at the mushroom.

The King vanished again and appeared behind his throne, peering out with caution.

Yeti calmly swiveled and stared at his tiny trembling body.

He vanished a third time and reappeared inside a hollow tree stump, only his hat visible like a green warning flag.

Yeti stood up very gently and politely.

She walked toward the stump with the serene confidence of a creature who believes in destiny and affection.

The King’s voice came from inside the stump, muffled and furious. “Call her off!”

The King held his breath.

Because if Yeti reached him, he would be licked.

And the King knew that his trickery would never surpass Yeti’s lickery.

For if the King was licked, he would be slimed into disgrace, and the kingdom would never forgive me, and the whole of March would become an international incident.

But if I called Yeti off now, I would prove I lead my pack.

So I planted my feet and called Yeti’s name in that calm, authoritative voice that means business without raising the temperature of the room.

Yeti stopped mid step and looked back at me.

I gave the hand signal, and she sat.

Her tail wagged once.

Patient… sweet… and ready to obey.

And in that moment, the King of the Leprechauns realized that I was not a human being dragged around by a mere animal.

I was a pack leader with a companion who listened.

The stump creaked as the King slid out slowly, brushing leaves off his waistcoat with trembling dignity.

He was holding his monocle in front of him as if it could repel saliva.

“You have… restraint,” he said, and it sounded like respect against his will.

“I do,” I said. “Now sign the truce.”

He stared at Yeti.

Yeti blinked at him, gentle as a lamb, hopeful as a puppy, as if she was thinking, “Hello. Are we friends now?”

The King shuddered.

Then he grabbed the quill, scribbled his signature, and slapped his shamrock seal onto the paper.

“Fine,” he said. “Your new design may live.”

Then he leaned in and lowered his voice. “But I have one condition.”

Of course he did.

“What?” I asked.

He pointed a tiny finger at me. “We are permitted to whisper about it.”

I stared.

He sniffed. “In our way. Quietly. Through the moss and the wind. To the humans who are already looking for trouble.”

In other words, he wanted it to spread, and he needed to pretend it was not his idea.

I smiled like I understood the game.

“Deal,” I said and handed him the pint of Guiness.

The King licked his lips and his eyes grew wide.

“How did you know real Irish Guiness would tempt any King of the Leprechauns?” he smirked.

I gave him a coy smile and turned toward the exit of the tiny hovel within the leprechaun valley.  

“I would never give away my secrets, lest you use them in the future against me.” I replied.

The King raised his glass in admiration, smiled broadly, and drank heartily.

We walked back through the rainbow, the signed truce tucked under my arm, and Yeti trotting at my side like nothing unusual had happened, like she had not just almost caused a diplomatic licking crisis in an tiny underground kingdom.

When we arrived home, my tea was normal again.

My socks were suddenly paired correctly.

My phone stopped calling my dogs dairy wolves, thank heavens.

And on my desk, where the glittery summons had been, there sat a single gold coin with a note that read:

“Do not push your luck.

Also… lovely dog.

From a distance.”

So here is the announcement for the Inner Circle, straight from the mouth of a very dapper, very terrified King of the Leprechauns.

The “LEPRECHAUNS FEAR ME” design is live in the Dire Wolf Project™ gift shop.

https://shop.direwolfproject.com/products/leprechauns-fear-me-design

And if you see a tiny green hat wobbling in the corner of your yard when you wear your new attire, do not be alarmed.

That is not danger.

That is fear.

Mostly of the licking.

Jennifer Stoeckl is the co-founder of the Dire Wolf Project, founder of the DireWolf Guardians American Dirus Dog Training Program, and owner/operator of DireWolf Dogs of Vallecito. She lives in the beautiful inland northwest among the Ponderosa pine forests with her pack of American Dirus dogs.