The Hunt

It’s late spring, and a warm breeze drifts through my window. I can hear my dog in the yard, the tags on his collar jingling as he romps around, occasionally sniffing one of his many tennis balls and making a mess of his paws by digging in the dirt. Kirby has always been a digger, and is the only dog I’ve ever known to and burry his prized possessions the backyard. He zigzags along the grass, and then sniffs the clematis lining the fence of the yard, Kirby’s stump of a tail frantically wagging. Suddenly, his body becomes rigid. A low growl escapes from his muzzle. Kirby’s interest in the clematis escalates, as his growling transforms into high-pitched barks. He then begins to paw at the plants in a frenzy. His barks are rapidly increasing, from a curious few to a series of alerted yelps, signaling that he has found an astounding treasure. With his paws caked in dirt and his muzzle blackened from mud, Kirby emerges from his finding with a baby rabbit in his mouth. The only visible parts of the unfortunate creature are its tiny legs, which feebly twitch and kick in a pathetic attempt for freedom. From my window, I see Kirby take his prey and run around the yard in a victory lap. From his jaws the weak rabbit squeaks a grotesque, ear-piercing cry for help, and I know that spring has faded into summer.