At some level I am vaguely aware that my human is talking loudly and frantically, possibly something about how he would like me to stop or come back. I find it difficult to find out the nuances of such acoustic stimuli, not when they are obscured by the olfactory hallelujah chorus emanating from the bushes in front of me.
It becomes clearer as I get closer and it’s GORGEOUS. Deer made up for a winter full of bark and buds by hitting the emerging green like mammal weed killers and pooping it as fast as they ingested it. The deposit in front of them has matured for a while, 10 days, two weeks … Goldilocks, baby, just right.
Count me in. Literally on it. All over. And it’s all about me I am great dressed in it. And I am now master of the hunt, master of stealth. The creatures I chase will never foresee their impending doom, not before it’s too late. The truth is, I’m not that much of a predator other than hunting flies, but I’m a member of the tribe of the Sons of Wolves and all that and I have my fantasies. And that’s fantastic! The vet may have taken my gonads, but what could possibly be more orgasmic than this? Oooo …
And now I’m starting to hear my people again. When I come out of the bushes, I see him right there. He seems unhappy. Wait for him to get a whiff of what I’m bringing. In no way will this brighten his day.