Cone Dog's Chase

My dad was a policeman, and I remember him saying that everyone had a bit of larceny in his or her heart.

Maybe that means every creature has a trace of killer instinct. I would never have thought it of Cone Dog, though.

On our recent morning walk, I saw a new side of him. That's for sure. Normally, Cone Dog is the gentlest of beasts. He is a Great Dane who trembles at Chihuahuas.

His collar says "Bad to the Bone," but it's just not true. He was rescued from an abusive situation, and it's as though he is always a bit unsure as to whether the world means him harm.

Anyway, Cone and I were rustling through the leaves on a back trail in the woods by the big swamp. Suddenly, a huge, fat gray squirrel was in our path, not 10 feet away.

"Squirrel," I yelled. Cone charged at it. The squirrel, roused no doubt from a morning dream of endless caches of walnuts, leaped up a big, dying ash tree.
Cone Dog and I stood at the bottom, gazing up. "Get that squirrel, Cone," I cried. Do you suppose the killer instinct is in me?

Three turkeys, hidden in the cattails, took off for quieter climes with a rush of feathers and a little irritated squawking. The squirrel decided at that moment to leap into a tree with more limbs.

Looking like one of those flying squirrels you see in the cartoons, it launched its body toward the second tree and missed the branch it was aiming for. Falling somewhere around 30 feet directly at us, it seemed, the squirrel hit the ground with a thud and took off running for the hills.

Cone Dog was right on its heels. They charged down the leafy lane, across the creek and were gone. Within five seconds, though, here they came back toward where I stood (with my camera still firmly placed in my pocket).

Cone Dog was cruising. The squirrel was looking like a gray blur. One good lunge, and I swear Cone could have had that little critter in his mouth. At the last moment, the squirrel had a good idea (for a change ) and leaped up the oak tree where Rick's deer blind is. Climbing to safety, it never looked back.

Cone Dog stood at the base of the tree, looking up, panting, his feet black with swamp muck, contemplating his missed opportunity.

A couple of times on our way home, I whispered "squirrel" to test his newfound sensitivity, and he definitely looked up. I guess the old, timid Cone Dog will not be replaced anytime soon with a raging stalker of squirrels.

But he did get a little taste of the chase.