Tell me if you have heard this old Russian parable.

A wedding party sets out by sleigh on a cold winter’s night, with singing, the jingle of sleigh bells, and perhaps a little more vodka than was entirely prudent. The group is full of hope for the newlyweds, and the groom and bride have eyes only for each other and for what lies ahead.

They all knew wolves were bad that winter, so when the first howl came, they were not too alarmed. Their bellies were full and their brains too soaked in vodka for a single wolf’s cry to deter them from their fun.

But the first howl was soon met by others, echoing with quickening repetition. Awoo. Awooo. The wolves were forming a pack. There was no moon, but the starlight shone clearly on the snow. Soon the passengers in the sleigh could see a cluster of black wolves trailing behind them. Others dashed in and out of the trees lining the road.

The wolves were like apparitions—there one moment and gone the next. But there were hundreds of them. The gaiety of the party disappeared in an instant. A black drove came up over the hill behind the wedding party—the wolves ran like streaks of shadow, no bigger than dogs, but there were hundreds of them.

Something happened to the last sleigh. Perhaps the driver had too much to drink, but the horses left the road, hit a rut, and the sledge overturned, tossing its passengers into the snow. The wolves were quickly upon them. The cries of anguish sobered everyone instantly.

The drivers, now standing, began to whip their horses. Perhaps a little extra speed would allow them to outdistance the wolves. But with extra speed came greater risk, and another sledge overturned. The screams of the horses were even worse than those of the people as the wolves fell upon them. Nothing seemed to check the wolves. The bride and groom clung to each other, their vision of an unlimited future and long life darkened by the reality of survival.

The lead driver, a man named Eugeny, reached the crest of a hill. Looking behind him, he could see only two sledges where once there had been three—and behind them, a roiling pack of wolves in relentless pursuit. The groom screamed at the sight of the sledge carrying his parents and sisters. He sprang up as if to jump, but his wife shrieked and held him back. She covered his ears so he would not hear the screams of his family as the wolves set upon them.

They were within a few miles of their village and safety. The only other remaining sledge was not far behind, but its lead horse was flagging. Beside a frozen pond, three big gray wolves came abreast of the horses and took them down. Again screams shattered the winter night.

Now the only sleigh left was driven by Eugeny, carrying the newlyweds. The wolves were gaining on them. He turned to the groom and yelled at him to throw the bride off the sleigh, hoping she would distract the wolves long enough for Eugeny and the groom to make it back to the village. The groom refused, so Eugeny threw them both off the sledge, screaming, “You loser—I could have saved you.”

He drove on into the village to the sound of bells pealing from the monastery.

I don’t know where I originally heard this story. Apparently, there are a lot of variations in literature from Russian folk stories to Willa Cather. But it is exactly what I thought about on Thursday morning when news broke that his fecklessness had fired Pam Bondi.

I thought “He is throwing her to the wolves.”

Don’t get me wrong. I think Pam Bondi gives vile a bad name. But she has been a loyal attack dog for Donald Trump. She turned the Department of Justice from the paragon of fairness in criminal investigations into a Trump sump of investigations into his political enemies.  She gleefully brought her burn-book to congress so she could insult Congressmen and Senators instead of answering questions as is required to do by statute. She protected the felon from full release of the Epstein files even after Congress passed a law requiring her to release them. And to add insult to injury protected Trump’s wealthy friends by redacting their names and surreptitiously leaving in the names of their victims to intimidate and embarrass them.

To paraphrase, Amy Poehler, this is a woman whose permanent tan is from Donald Trump’s rectoplasm.

So why do I care about Pam Bondi. I don’t. What struck me in that moment is throwing people to the wolves is his signature move as much as Pele’s bicycle kick or Michael Jordan’s fadeaway jumper.

Think about it.

He went from thinking Kristi Noem was doing a fantastic job in February, to firing her in March. Why? Not because he thought any differently of her job performance. But because the wolves in congress and the press were gaining ground on him.

James Mattis was the greatest secretary of defense of all time until Trump’s policies backfired during the Syria withdrawal, and the wolves were nipping at Trump’s heels. Mark Esper was brilliant until criticism of the use of military force during protests made the wolves howl and he was gone. I could cite many more examples, Kirstjen Nielsen at DHS, Jeff Sessions at Justice but the pattern is very clear.

When the wolves start forming a pack Trump throws even his most devoted acolytes off the sled to keep the wolves from taking him down.

You can’t argue with the strategy. Sad to say it works. Criticism of DHS and ICE’s gestapo tactics will be tamped down to give the former MMA fighter, plumber and poster boy for anger management classes time to re-evaluate and reassess their tactics. This despite the fact that the man setting the policy has not changed. Calls for the Justice Department to comply with production of the Epstein Files, questions about the legality of criminal prosecutions against Laetitia James, James Comey and others, clamor to release Jack Smith’s report will all fade into the background as the search for a new AG progresses.

That is the bad news.

The glimmer of hope comes from the end of the Russian parable. Instead of being greeted as the man who survived the wolf attack, Eugeny was reviled. His own mother spit on him and said she would never look at him again. He was forced to leave his village. But he could not escape the story. Everywhere he went people knew the story and when they found out it was he who threw the bride and the groom to their death he was run out of town on a rail. He died alone and as abject lesson of cowardice and dishonor.

We can only hope that Donald Trump’s fate is the same if not worse than Eugeny.