The winter has well and truly gone… It is March 2015 and the sun is well and truly out, although there is a distinct lack of green danglers on the trees. Even in the lovely sun the trees bereft of their danglers look a bit grim still. The waters in the river are muddy, and fast flowing, which still makes it look like an awful mix of tea and hot chocolate, (which are fine on their own, but as a cocktail?) Still, the sun is shining, and no more of the ‘orrid cold weather!
Hooman decided we would do the usual, and go and inspect the river, giving me ample opportunity to stretch my legs on short sprints, and clambering up trees after wildebeests.
The open fields are nice. You can see for miles, and if an edible is caught in the open, the odds are I will chase it down like one of those lesser cats, (the Cheetah – Ed), and store it in my tummy. Hooman is always worried that one of those big birds with the claws will swoop down and whisk me away on a short holiday. They circle above the fields looking for edibles. Surely an apex predator like myself has nothing to fear from such creatures. Hooman says they are called ‘Raptors’. Well, that doesn’t sound frightening at all.
*See note at the end of the post about this picture
Once at the river, the path is sandy in places, so as usual I have to sit in it, roll around, and try to make some sort of tactical bunker with which to ambush edibles from. I haven’t had the greatest success from this tactic, but hooman says I should keep trying.
Obviously I have almost perfected my sandpit hunting technique, and in the following picture, I am only just visible.
After only catching a walnut shell in my sandpit hunt, I had to change tack. I decided the trees were the best place to go. They have those funny flying mice things, and the other flying twittering things. Bird things are tricky little peskys. They flap their flappers and end up far to high for me to jump to, so I have to wait for them to land in my mouth.
Once the tummy has been filled with either a wildebeest, or moth, we wander down towards the river, which is quite full at this time of year, and icky coloured. Normally you can see the bottom, and any fish that are swimming about, but not at the moment. Wally, being the woeful hunter that he is, tends to stand on the side of the river waiting for a flying fish to emerge and jump in his mouth. This has not proved successful.
I am far more professional on my riverside patrol. I will slowly make my way along the bank, listening for the telltale CROAK of a frog. Hooman says a strange people called the ‘French’ eat frog’s legs, and that it tastes mostly of ham, and gravy, and I would really enjoy it. Frogs are notorious to catch. They make all the noise in the world until you come within striking distance, when they cease all mutterings, and frogs on the other side will pipe up, confusing your poor maligned hunter. I will get one one day! *Shakes paw at the sky*
It is hard work patrolling, eating butterflies and chasing sticks for a small cat. Sometimes you just have to have a little sit down for 10 – 20 minutes. Hooman does not approve of this, and will do his ‘walking away pretending he is going to leave me’ thing, but he knows as well as I do that he always comes back. He’s like the common cold.
Trees are funny. Some are smooth, some are wrinkly. Some are tall and straight, some are short and crooked. I’m not sure which is my favourite. I doc like the cherry tree at home, as it has the killa villa on it. This tree I am on is weird. One trunk is like the face of a very old hooman, and the other is quite smooth and nice. This must be an ‘indecisive tree’.
The quest for the capture of a crocodile goes on. Hooman said that there is a crocodile in this picture. I waited for ages, but could not see it, so could not put it in my tummy. They should have flown north again after migrating south for the winter. I did not see them flying north or south, so maybe hooman is mistaken?
I take pride in my appearance. I groom, even on walks. I take care not to walk in mud, or cover myself with rubbish.
Wally is different. he seems to relish getting himself as dirty as possible. The odd thing is that he hates so much having a shower. He will hide in his bush in the garden whilst hooman tried to tempt him out with promises of gold bullion, or cheese. He ends up all spiky, and crunchy, not too dissimilar from a muddy armadillo.
Alongside the river there is drainage for the pond. I was examining this. Hooman told me it is the exit for the channel tunnel, and if I wait long enough frogs will come out of it. I saw no toll booth.
I don’t think Wally has the existential ponderences I do. The only thing he really seems to have to worry about is running too far from hooman and getting shouted at, or catching his lolling tongue on a spiky branch as he passes it at full speed. I think it is easier being a dog. There is no pressure to be a furocious predator, and no-one laughs when they fail to bring down a vicious butterfly or grasshopper. Instead, they get a free pass. This is dog-privilege.
We encountered danger. In the far, far field there was a roving band of sheep. These had no been spotted since the previous autumn. Wally had to be put on a lead, and I stood out front on point in case anything went down. It all got a bit ‘West Side Story’ at one point.
Once the sheep were scared of by my presence, we carried on, and headed home via the wood alongside the pond. hooman said I was to be very wary of snakes that disguise themselves as bits of wood. Obviously I am not scared of something that has no legs!
And so we went home… Wally off his lead again, out front sniffing for things to be sniffed, and myself following along behind, studious as ever, showing hooman my laser dot.
Until next time, happy foraging!