A Shaggy Dog story
Usually, he waited until the sun had completely set before venturing from the burrow. Today, the residual heat radiating from the ground beneath his paws should have served as a warning that he was setting out too early. But it hadn’t.
Usually, he obeyed his natural instinct and avoided open expanses of ground, remaining close to the building, flitting imperceptibly in the protective shadow of the house, close to easy escape routes and away from interested eyes. But he had been tempted into the open by the pungent scent of a few scraps of discarded food on the driveway, entangled within greasy white paper. A mixture of inexperience and desperation had placed him in this dangerous situation.
With the swelling of his family tree, the humans had noticed his and his siblings presence in recent weeks, and the easy pickings in the house had been restricted; the routes into the kitchen blocked with wire and plaster which even sharp teeth could not gnaw through. Traps had been set; tempting but deadly. He had seen the effects on an older sister – her body lifeless, legs splayed unnaturally, her skull crushed with a steel bar. He now tended to avoid any temptation within the house that seemed to be too good to be true, preferring instead to scavenge around the perimeter of the house and its immediate environs. Food was becoming scarce, and he was becoming increasingly hungry.
He had been cautious, of course he had. Instinct had got him this far in life, and wasn’t about to desert him entirely now. When he had set out for the remnants of food, he had seen and smelt no sign of any potential predator. He had reared onto his back legs and sniffed at the air, before scurrying across the ground and slipping under the cover of the paper that contained his prize. Only tidbits remained; a few strands of brown lettuce, a torn scrap of bread and rich, greasy grey meat, but it was enough to tide him over, to sate his hunger for a while at least.
He should have sensed the cat approaching from the west. He could blame the direction of the wind, the reek of the food, the paper obscuring his view, any or all of these, but none of them were valid excuses. When he sensed the feline’s presence; albeit too late, he bolted for cover, but the cat was already too close, and rounded on him with a soundless bound, blocking his route back to the relative protection of the house.
The cat was familiar to him. It didn’t belong to this house; to set up a burrow so close to such danger would be foolhardy in the extreme, but it was a regular visitor to the garden, lounging in the sun or strutting imperiously across the top of the wall at the side of the building. He could smell its fur, its musky odour, and the unmistakable reek of day old fish on its breath as it padded carefully towards him. He reared up momentarily on his hind legs; to an outsider almost imploring this feline fiend to be merciful, in reality attempting to appear bigger than his 9cm frame. A pitiful attempt. His only option was to run. To run fast. And to hope.
And usually he would. But he was distracted by a loud rustle behind him, accompanied by a downdraft of air that ruffled his fur. A new smell filled his nostrils; a mixture of mineral and decay. The cat was momentarily distracted too, and backed off a foot or two, letting out a frustrated mewl as she did so. The mouse turned to the side, keeping both antagonists in view, every muscle tensed, every sinew strained, ready to flee for his life at the slightest opportunity.
The new arrival hopped forward, cocking its sheeny black head slightly and taking in the scene. This was, all in all, an interesting proposition.
The crow had been drawn in by the sight and smell of meat. It was easy to find in this part of town, and fulfilled a certain need with little effort. He had seen the mouse and the cat as he had come in to land, and was by no means blasé about the whole situation. Cats were potentially dangerous, but he had faith in his size and strength, and his ability to take to the air if the cat did decide to attack. Even so, he kept his distance, his keen eyes flitting between the petrified rodent and the watchful feline before him. It wasn’t usual for him to take living things. He tended to stick to discarded food and animals that had met their end on the city’s busy roads. Easy pickings. Little danger. But this mouse was little more than a scrap of flesh and pelt. It would be dead with one well-timed blow, and would provide welcome sustenance for a hungry bird. Failing that, there was the chance of clearing up what the cat was likely to leave behind. Cats were wasteful, lazy predators, their instincts and appetites dulled by domestication, and the Corvus was more than happy to pick at what remained when the cat had wandered off to digest her partial meal in the sunshine. Even if the cat carried its prize off intact, there was the consolation of the remnants of meat still nestled in the white paper at his feet…
The cat was rather enjoying herself. She knew mice frequented this part of her domain; indeed, she had captured one just a few days before, biting off its head and crunching its skull between her teeth before carrying the remainder home as a gift for her humans. It had not been met with the gratitude she had expected, true, but she was willing to give it another go. They would learn, in time.
She had seen the mouse from her hiding place underneath the bay tree in the front of the garden; a brief blur of grey brown speeding across the ground. She had decided to stalk it on a whim, more in deference to her nature than out of any real need. She had food on tap at home, available with just a few plaintive mewls and yowls. It was perhaps not of the same freshness or quality, but it was generally palatable, and there was the added benefit of being fussed over a little and assuming the most comfortable seat in the warmth and comfort of the living room. They seemed to forgive her bloodsports very quickly. Humans were so very easy to manipulate.
Now though it had become a question of feline pride. She had no desire to allow the mouse to escape its fate, but she was aware of the danger posed by her competitor. She had taken several birds in her time; small, scrawny, peeping things that always promised far more than they delivered. Beneath their feathers was disappointingly scant meat. Good sport though, and as gifts for her humans they at least provided a little variety. She had never attempted to bring down a bird as large as this one though. She glanced briefly at its large beak and curved claws. They could deal her a nasty injury, and she had to consider whether the risk outweighed the potential prize.
The mouse was well beyond fear, and well into the realms of sheer panic. His tiny system was flooded with the impulse to escape, to find a crack in the earth; a hole into which he could disappear, but it was hard and unyielding beneath his velveteen paws. He now recognized the black-cloaked predator – he had never seen one so close, so big, but had heard their distinctive croaking call, and watched them wheeling in the sky above his head. It was an undeniable winged threat, capable of swooping down on him even if he escaped the clawed clutches of the cat.
His prospects decidedly bleak, he started to scurry quickly back to the shadow of the house behind him, hoping he could somehow evade capture. The cat gave chase, making up the ground in just a few bounds. The mouse halted, feinting right then left, trying to misdirect his pursuer, to throw her off his trail, but the cat easily shifted her lithe body to within pouncing distance, each paw placed on the ground with expert deliberation, her haunches raised, her murderous eyes glaring at her prey. Behind him, the crow hopped forward; a grim spectator to the sport. Next, the mouse headed for the bushes on the far perimeter of the garden, but again his tormentors quickly outflanked him, both ready to deliver the killing blow, but each one wary of the threat of the other.
Their combined presence had both saved and condemned him. A straight race with just one pursuer gave him a chance of escape; with two at such odds with each other he was untouchable but hopelessly trapped. The three of them were held in a grim danse macabre for a minute or more, the cat poised and impassive, her rich green eyes trained on her prey. The crow was more animated, cocking its head and reassessing the situation with each new move.
Eventually, with every possible direction of travel attempted, his heart thumping in his tiny chest, the exhausted little mouse was ready to surrender himself to fate, in whatever form it took.
It was the dog that resolved the issue.
But that’s another story entirely.
Copyright Phil Hudson 2014
Photo credit: <a href="https://www.flickr.com/photos/dullhunk/7095792663/">dullhunk</a> / <a href="http://foter.com">Foter</a> / <a href="http://creativecommons.org/licenses/by/2.0/">Creative Commons Attribution 2.0 Generic (CC BY 2.0)</a>