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.

Instinct versus rational thought

"What kind of a fox terrier are you anyway?"

Fellow pups, does this ever happen to you?

There you are, out on a walk near the river, happily bouncing around enjoying the freedom of being off the lead, when a fox crosses your path in broad daylight, right to left, and heads off into a thicket.

Obedience training forgotten, the prey instinct kicks in and before Gail can shout "come Bertie, COME, BERTIE NO NO NO!" you have disappeared into the bushes in hot pursuit.

And then caught up in the excitement of the moment, you race around in random directions, barking joyfully, and ....  you lose the scent.

For half a tail wag, you feel frustrated that Mister Fox has evaded your clutches. (Later Gail tells you he ran back across the track, left to right, slap bang in front of her, how could you have missed him?)

But soon you relax and return to Gail, thankful that you have a superior evolutionary strategy. You are a pet, not a working dog, and most definitely not wild creature dependent on your hunting skill to survive, and back home awaits a fire, a cosy cushion, and a full bowl of tasty kibble.

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.