Glorious Glen Tanar plus

Happy Nature Friday friends!

I'm delighted to say that we have (I hope) something for everyone to enjoy today. So please ignore that silly superstition about Friday 13th...

First of all, one for those of you who like pictures. 

It finally stopped raining and on Wednesday Gail took me for a long walk in Glen Tanar, an all time favourite place for both of us, and we have some nice photos to share.

Secondly, here's a wordy bit, for those of you who enjoy this sort of thing. 

The good news from Gail's Nature Writing course is that, after a hiccup last week when she wrote a really boring piece in which I was not mentioned once, I returned to centre stage for this week's assignment.

The remit was to write c.500 words "about an encounter you've had with nature, injecting your own feelings and opinions so that the reader can share your emotional journey". 

 

THE HUNTER AND THE HUNTED

March 2022. Dawn is breaking in my inner-city back garden. A poorly coordinated bundle of fluff is scampering about on pipe-cleaner legs. My brand new puppy Nobby is eight weeks and four days old. House-training has commenced. He’s a few yards away, snuffling in the grass, all curiosity and ill-judged confidence. I watch, enchanted.

Suddenly, I notice a large shadow moving slowly in front of the shrubbery, a dozen or so paces behind Nobby. My early morning eyes strain to make out the shape. A fox, a large one, well fed apparently… He pauses, with what feels to me like menace, at the edge of the lawn. Nobby seems unaware of the danger. 

I am paralysed with fear on his behalf. 

What to do? My instinct is to run over and scoop my precious pup into a protective embrace. But will this attract the attention of the fox? Might Nobby run away from me and towards the predator before I reach him? Would a fox attack a two and a half kilogram puppy? 

I stand there, wrought with indecision. Then, a rapid movement, and the fox leaps easily over the garden wall and disappears. 

I breathe again.

*********

July, 2023. Nobby is just about fully grown, with curiosity and confidence undimmed. His horizons now extend far beyond my back garden and he is accompanying me, together with my old friend Henry, on a hike to the summit of one of Aberdeenshire’s bigger hills. The air is gentle, almost warm. Henry and I chat amicably. Nobby has ventured off-piste into the scrubby, stunted heather. 

The broad track bifurcates and I call Nobby over, repeatedly. He fails to respond. From a distance I can see him making little pouncing movements, his elongate snout poking at something in the undergrowth. Playing with it, almost.

I lose the short battle of wills (not for the first time), accept that my naughty pup is not coming and I must go back and rein him in. As I approach closer I hear a squeaking sound and my first thought is that Nobby has found a dog toy someone left behind. The truth then dawns as I spot a wriggling little fury of tawny fur caught between Nobby’s jaws. 

Horrified, I cry “leave it Nobby!” and, perhaps to his surprise as much as mine, he lets go. To my even greater surprise, while I am attaching Nobby’s lead, the short-tailed rodent waddles off on his delicate splay-toed feet and disappears into a clump of blaeberries. He seems to be uninjured. I want to believe this.

Back home, an internet search supports my suspicion that Nobby’s prey was a field vole. The clincher is that these creatures are said to emit squeaks reminiscent of a child’s toy when scared.

Manufacturers of ‘enrichment items’ for dogs clearly know their market.

*********

I reflect on how, when Nobby was a wobbly, skinny puppy, the maternal urge to protect him from dangers posed by nature was strong within me, the responsibility deeply felt. The conflict I experience when I see him, staying true I suppose to his terrier breeding, apparently relishing torturing a tiny, harmless vole, is equally powerful, but harder to process.

THE END