Wart hogs at the Meadow of Beruna

This is the Meadow of Beruna,
where we reconnoiter weekly and labor on the fortress.
I warn my workers regularly to be aware, to beware
the rustling in jungle thicket that is a sure sign of
the wart hogs; the wart hogs whose black hearts show no mercy.

The wind rustled but nay, the tone was different; my ears perked; a leaf snapped.
Machete at the ready,
I whispered quietly to the workers;
whispered for them to step in front,
for should there be peril, I would of course need 
something between me and the beasts.

The disloyal serfs reneged on their previous commitment to protect me at all cost; I vowed to reduce their wages from zero rubles to something less.
The beast stepped into view; at first I thought it was a werewolf (slightly less sinister than wart hog), but it turned out to be different sort of canine. 

The dog quickly showed affinity for my daughter, who christened him "Bob." Despite aggressive looks at our hot chocolate, he behaved, although he wanted nothing to do with me and the boy. The girl, that is who he wanted to frolic with. She tossed a billion sticks into the air;
he caught three.

We said farewell but he spoke only Welsh, 
for he followed us to doorstep, through thicket and vale
and fog and wart hog nests.

Finally, we had to part. "Au revoir, Bob,"
we chimed cheerfully.

"Ffrindiau hwyl fawr!" he woofed, and he had eyes
only for her.

"I found him, so can I keep him?" she asked.

No. I said. He belongs out there, in the world, where he is a guardian to the weak.

See you at the Meadow of Beruna soon, Bob.