This morning’s run. Diesel fumes, smell of fresh-ground coffee shading into musk that made me think a weasel of some sort was about. Sunshine, so people out with their dogs, off leash in parks where they shouldn’t be. Miss B lunging for Every. Damn. Schoolbus. And. Bicyclist. My habit of just dropping my centre of gravity and carrying on will stand me in good stead some day, I just know it.
Crunching leaves underfoot, shot of spice leafsmell once or twice. Once the rain starts, it will all turn into sludge and sharper odors of rot, but for right now, it’s the clear clean scent of autumn. Squinting against the light as my feet pound, Miss B with her own ideas of the route we should be taking needing consistent correction, the thought that when I get home I can have an apple and a huge glass of water.
Coming home at a walk, cooling down, there was an explosion of noise that raised my hackles and turned B into a quivering, straining sack of fused doggie circuits. My head snapped aside, and I heard a familiar lisping chittering.
“FWEEDOM!” she screamed. “I AM THE SQUIWWEL WHO HAUNTH THE GUTTA!”
It was Moxie!Squirrel, engaged in a series of derring-do stunts with a yowling black and white cat. I’ve seen the kitty around a few times–sleek and well-fed, with a breakaway collar, she is clearly someone’s well-loved and cared for pet. This time, however, she was looking seriously worse for wear, because Moxie had…
…you guessed it. I looked over just in time to see another squirrel kick another tuxedo kitty in the head. Moxie does not possess Neo’s mad grace or crooked tail, and the head-kick was, I daresay, more a lucky break than an application of squirrel kung-fu. Moxie hit someone else’s lawn at the same time the cat did–we were about a block from home, I had no idea squirrels ranged so far. The black and white cat kept hiss-yowling, clearly unprepared for the head-bop she’d received, and Moxie made it to a convenient birch tree and scrambled up, screaming her head off about TWEASON and COWUHDS and THE SQUIWWEL TWIUMPHANT!
B strained at the leash, I dropped my weight and leaned back. The cat made a halfhearted hop, stopping when Moxie’s claws tore off lichen and a bit of bark, which fell straight into the poor feline’s face. I glanced down–yes, I was wearing shoes.
Anyway, the cat shot away across the street, taking refuge in a red-berried bush and beginning to single-mindedly groom herself as if she could wash away the shame of being fought to a standstill by a piece of prey. B, losing her goddamn mind, began to bark, and it was work to drag her away while Moxie kept scream-chittering insults.
B is still a little jumpy, and I’m hoping Moxie doesn’t get any ideas about attacking the Mad Tortie.
I’ll, um, keep you posted.