I found a feather in the regional park—a beautiful rust-colored plume with black and white stripes. I reached down to pick it up, then hesitated. Birds are notoriously filthy animals—often regal and resplendent, sure—but they are infested with fleas and mites. Still, the feather was perfect, and I knew how dapper it would look in my cap. After examining it closely for icky things, I stuck it in my hatband and sang, “And called it macaroni!”
I passed a happy family on Sandhill trail. The father, his face pink from the sun, complimented me on my feather as his young ones ran ahead, emanating squeals of laughter.
“Thank you, friend,” I said. “I found it moments ago down the trail.”
A fluffy white dog, looking like a miniature lamb, ran off-leash alongside the frolicking children. I cautioned the family to keep an eye on their little lamb; hungry coyotes were known to stalk these lands.
“They’ll snatch that doggie up!” I said and winked.
They thanked me but did not put a leash on their little lamb-dog. Perhaps I should have insisted, but what business was it of mine?
From up on the ridge, I could see the entire town below, nestled neatly within the bosom of the surrounding green hills. A hawk stirred the sky in wide circles, searching for mice and snakes. I wondered what it would be like to be a cold hunter searching for prey. I shuddered. As these thoughts stirred in my head, the hawk dove, disappearing behind the hill to the valley below.
I heard a yelp, and when the hawk reappeared, ascending until it was just above me, I saw the little limp lamb-dog within the hawk’s talons; it looked like a child’s stuffy.
The family ran up the slope to save their friend—their little lamb—but it was too late.
I’m unsure what compelled me, but I took the feather from my hat and yelled to the hawk, “I have your feather! Spare the lamb-dog!”
A drop of warm blood fell to my cheek as a gust of wind blew my feather from the ridge. I tried to wipe the blood from my face with the back of my sleeve, but it only smeared; some of it spread to my lips.
On my way home, I considered what I’d witnessed—that poor dog, that poor family. I licked my lips absentmindedly, immediately admonishing myself for being so careless. My mouth filled with the rusty taste of the dog’s blood. The blood of the lamb-dog.
The following day, I was hesitant to return to the regional park after the previous day’s violence. Still, the accommodating weather and desire to feel connected to the world demanded my presence. So, I put on my sunscreen and wide-brimmed hat, grabbed my walking stick, and set off to explore.
On the cement path leading up to the trailhead, you couldn’t spit without hitting a brush lizard. They darted from dandelion to lupine, from fiddleneck to vetch, their little bodies moving side to side like babies playfully crawling away from their doting mothers. Above these crawling babies, hawks circled.
In the park, I saw cows, turkeys, a ring-necked snake, turkey vultures, and a coyote sticking its head out of the tall grass on a hill, sniffing at the wind. It was a thriving landscape; I took in its beauty; I bore witness.
The climb up the hill was steep, and when I reached the peak, my hat blew off and into the brush. I left the trail and was stunned to find my hat beside the remains of the little lamb-dog, lying in a patch of orange poppies. I almost wept, but this was nature—this was natural. What business was it of mine?
“You okay?” said a man behind me on the trail. I squinted back at him through the sunlight from where I crouched. I’d seen this man before; he was a fellow appreciator of our beautiful regional parks. I’d always envied the vibrant yellow and white feather he wore in his hatband.
“Yes, thank you,” I said. “My hat blew off. The wind up here…it’s different.”
“Indeed!” said the man. “Have a nice day. Watch out for coyotes!”
I waved in acknowledgment. Then I had a thought—no, not a thought—I had a feeling.
“Looks like one of those coyotes got to this little dog,” I yelled to the man. “I think it might still be alive!”
The man, looking concerned, made his way through the brush to where I crouched over the lamb-dog’s ravaged body. He crouched alongside me and looked at the picked-over animal; its fur was matted, and its belly was split open like a Thanksgiving turkey.
I stood and pointed. “It’s still breathing.”
The man looked closely at the mangled body. “I don’t see how it could be breathing,” he said.
I lifted my walking stick and hit the man as hard as I could over the head. He fell to the ground, moaning but conscious. I hit him again, and my stick broke in half. He lay motionless beside the lamb-dog. I took the yellow feather from the man’s hatband, put it in my hatband, and sang, “And called it macaroni!”
Thank you for reading my ode to nature.
Is our naturalist a cruel man? He was going to trade his beautiful feather for the lamb-dog’s life. Sure, he killed a man for a feather, but who among us hasn’t?
I’m sorry the dog died. Truly. I am. I have no control over what happens while writing a story any more than I have control over the appetites of a hawk. But after a story has been exorcised, well, that’s a different matter; I am no longer bound by honesty. So, let’s amend:
The next day, the family of the poor little lamb-dog who’d been snatched by a hawk, received a call saying their lamby was found alive at the top of the hill in the regional park. The caller gave his address, and asked the family to come pick up the light of their life, the little lamb-dog.
Love, naturally - Seany
If you enjoyed that tale, perhaps one of these might taste nice:
Caged
At the edge of town, in a large field, a crowd had gathered to watch the man erect his tent. There was no barrier preventing them from watching up close. Still, they kept their distance, because where there was previously nothing now there was something, and they were afraid of losing it. Tom was afraid of losing it.
You got me going twelve ways from Wind in the Willows to Silence of the Lambs, or should I say 'Lamb dogs,' with that story. First of all, you did an outrageously good job with the settting and descriptive details: plants and critters. All of that, did not prepare me for the horror to come, but when it came I said, "Sean! He's done it again! You have a highly original quirk in your writing that works so well - especially with the very good concluding comments. Bravo!
Another strong piece. I like your style and approach very much. There’s no dead weight. It’s all story, humming along. Some thematic undercurrent? “Blood of the lamb”, “I bore witness”. Interesting.