In the holy city of Varanasi lived a washerman. All day he washed and dried mountains of clothes, and at night he slept like a stone. In his courtyard lived his two servants: a donkey who carried the heavy bundles, and a dog who guarded the house.
One dark night a thief slipped into the courtyard and began quietly gathering up the washed clothes. The donkey saw him and whispered to the dog, “Friend, this is your moment! Bark loudly and wake the master.”
But the dog sulked and did not stir. “Do not lecture me about my duty,” he growled softly. “You have seen how the master treats me — for days together he forgets to feed me, and he never notices me until trouble comes. Let him learn tonight what a watchdog is worth.”
“You wretch!” cried the donkey. “What kind of servant bargains at the hour of his master's need? Duty is not a trade!” “And what kind of donkey,” yawned the dog, “teaches a watchdog about watching?” “Then I will do your duty myself!” declared the donkey — and lifting his head to the sky, he brayed with all his might, again and again, until the whole lane rang with the noise.
The thief dropped his bundle and fled into the night. And the washerman? Torn from his precious sleep by the dreadful braying, he saw no thief and asked for no reason — he saw only his donkey screaming at the stars. Furious, he seized his stick, gave the poor donkey a sound beating, and went back to bed. The dog watched it all from the shadows.
So the donkey saved the house and earned only blows. For the world is so made: he who abandons his own duty to perform another's — however good his heart may be — reaps anger where he hoped for thanks.