FFF: The Not So Mighty Hunter

Today, we're taking part in YAM-Aunty's Final Friday Fiction (FFF). Our inspiration this month comes from words and phrases on page 87 of whodunnit 'Another One Goes Tonight' by Peter Lovesey.

Line 8: way up the hillside towards the street
Line 12: to our lads and questioned. But while Bellerby was waiting
Line 16: quote Bellerby exactly - and this could be crucial to what

Once again, you might recognise that today's so-called 'fiction' contains distinctly autobiographical elements!

Disappointment 

The heather hides the tensely muscled terrier stance,
The giveaways, the high white tail,
And then the fuzzy little face,
With black nose pointing skywards, twitching.

Domestication, training, human bonds,
The comfy fireside bed, forgotten in a flash.
A dog scents prey, wolf-memories emerge
And blood-lust fuelled, he's halfway up the hillside.

While the human, too late, spots the herd of deer.
She calls his name. But what's a name,
To a once-wolf?

The deer head ever higher,
And scatter among the rocky crags.

The dog disappears from view.

The human, knowing she cannot follow,
While waiting wonders if this could be
The final outing with her beloved companion.
Who is in his mind a hunter.
But in reality lacks stealth, endurance, balance.
And the instinct to recall
The route back to the trail.

Who might fall from a high cliff,
Or stumble while drunk on dreams of a glorious kill,
And injured, be lost to the unforgiving wilderness.

It seems an age,
But then she spots him, bedraggled, sheepish,
Trotting towards her, tail now limp,
And in that moment, mixed with her relief,
She feels the weight of his disappointment.

The End 


Click here for links to the other FFF tales.

Older and wiser?

We are all growing older, I fear.

Yesterday afternoon Gail took me for a walk round Durris Forest. It's been a long time since we were last there - over four years, I'd say.

Apparently on that previous occasion I chased a deer into the dark depths of the conifer plantation. Gail claims I "shot off like a bullet"  and did not come back when called. She says she spent ages looking for me, and was really worried 'cos it was winter and it would soon be dark and ours was the only vehicle in the car park.  

[I have to say, this is not how I remember it at all. Not for the first time, I find myself wondering if my owner suffers from false memory syndrome.] 

What is true, I admit, is that when I was a young pup I was firmly convinced I could chase down even the biggest of stags, if only given the chance.

These days I am older and wiser, and am aware that my dreams of deer-hunting were a tad unrealistic given the discrepancy in leg length. In retrospect, it was all a bit of a waste of time and energy, wasn't it?  

So anyway, Gail has decided to reinstate Durris Forest on our list of nice places for a weekend walk, hence the outing yesterday. 

Our favoured route is circuit of just over seven miles. 

It seemed shorter four years ago. And it was easier in those days to bounce into the car at the end of the walk too...

Oh deer, what a spoilsport!

Hmmm, Gail, why have you just clamped on my lead? Surely you know that we are on a stretch of our regular Torridon walk where I am normally allowed to range free?

Well little Bertie, I am most surprised you even need to ask. I just spotted a deer in the distance, before your super sensitive nostrils picked up the scent, it seems. Maybe some of your eagle eyed readers can also see him in this picture?

A deer! But how can that be? I do believe we are walking through part of the reafforestation project area, which is surrounded by deer-proof fences. 

You are quite correct Bertie, but it seems one canny fellow has found a weak link in the fencing. Or maybe he is particularly adept at the high jump. 

This is shocking. Quite outrageous in fact. That deer is trespassing! He should be chased away immediately, before he has chance to chew up the precious saplings. Gail, given that the last wolf in Scotland was supposedly killed in 1743, I think it is your duty to release me without further ado, then I can show him who is boss around these parts and he will not dare show his face again.

Gail, my lead is still attached. How ever did you come to be such a spoilsport?

If not wolves...a thought experiment

I think I mentioned that I chased some red deer up a Torridon hillside last Saturday.

My version of events (and I am sticking to it) is that, after a few minutes' excitement, I heroically overcame my lupine genetic inheritance and, obedient chappie that I am, rejoined Gail on the footpath and allowed the deer to escape my clutches. I am confident you will recognise any alternative version, for example to the effect that I got tired and panicked 'cos I thought I'd lost Gail, as a ridiculous fabrication.

Now let us consider for a moment the broader issues here.

Point number one: it is almost universally agreed that Scotland's red deer population is out of control, resulting in over-grazing of both crops and trees, to the detriment of the country's economy and ecology.

Point number two: one reason for the explosion in numbers is that wolves have been extinct in Scotland for around two hundred years, thus deer have no natural predators.

Point number three: schemes to reintroduce wolves to Scotland have been shelved, due to concerns from farmers and lack of space.

So I have been conducting a wee thought experiment.

What if us dogs were allowed to run free in the hills and take on the wolves' historic role?

Surely this would work just brilliantly.

After all, there are a lot of us pups in Scotland, so we could take turns in order that we also could fulfil our domestic pet duties. With regular exercise chasing longer limbed prey, the current canine obesity crisis would be solved at a stroke, and problems caused by dogs suffering from boredom and under-stimulation would likewise be a thing of the past. With a regular supply of free venison, plus antlers to chew of course, our owners would have to stop whinging about the cost of kibble and treats.

Yes I really am convinced that I am onto something here. I would be more than happy to organise a pilot project in the Torridon area. How about I invite Fenton up to Scotland to inaugurate the scheme? A little ceremony involving the cutting of a lead might serve as useful PR. Perhaps a prize could be arranged  for the first chihuahua to bring down a Monarch of the Glen?

The more I think about the idea, the more I like it.

What could possibly go wrong?

PS from Gail: A big thank you to all those who suggested remedies for Bertie's sore paw. I am pleased to say that time and rest worked their healing magic and forty-eight hours after the epic hike he was back to his customary bouncing self. But I have ordered a tub of 'Bag Balm' to keep in reserve for the next time I under-estimate the distance and roughness of a walk in the hills! 

Deer stalking in Torridon...

You're out for a walk with your owner. Not exactly a walk, more a galloping, gambolling frenzy of activity, all bouncing legs, flapping ears, manic tail and hypersensitized nose.

You're through the gate. The slope below the rough coastal path falls away steeply to Loch Torridon. The native trees planted a few years back are flourishing, protected from the voracious grazing of the local deer and sheep by the six foot fence.

You are let off the lead.

Your owner is happy, enjoying the rare sunshine and the midge-deterrent breeze, admiring the majestic, glacier-sculpted Torridonian mountains, lost in a Precambrian reverie.

You detect a faint, enticing whiff of large mammal. All senses now on high alert, you hear a rustle in the undergrowth, catch a momentary glimpse of antlers disappearing into a thicket of larger, older pines and birches.

You seize the forbidden moment and make off in pursuit.

You expect, half hope, your owner will join the chase. But no, she stays on the path, calls "Bertie, COME!" a few times but you affect not to hear.

You feel a pang of guilt and wonder whether to return. But the scent of the deer and the instinct to chase is strong. Your owner is out of sight.

The ground is steep and rough. You stumble between massive boulders. The trespassing stag dances lightly over the heather that for you is tough, scratchy and impenetrable. You know deep down that this is not an even contest. You are by now disheartened, panting and even trembling a little.

You think of your owner, of the bag of treats she always carries. Where is she? Suddenly the hunt seems less important.

You panic a little, zigzag back up the hill and find the path. Your spot your owner, just a few yards away, perched on a smooth slab of gneiss, waiting patiently.

You expect a treat. None is forthcoming. Your owner pats you on the head, but in an offhand, slightly frosty manner, and continues to walk along the path.

You follow, closely.

Winter camouflage for the deer hunter

Sometimes on winter walks I can hide from Gail, even when I'm right under her nose.

Although I do break cover when I need my opposable thumbed servant to open the gate in the deer fence.

Come on, where are you Gail?

And more to the point. Where are the deer?

Och well, there's always another day.