Spring has finally sprung in Seattle, although the weather remains volatile, alternately sunny and hailing, or sunny with teeming rain at the same time. Mike and I got caught in a couple of downpours. But all the wet and (a bit) warmer temperatures brought the park alive. Way down at my level, the smells are off the charts, and thus I’ve been sticking my nose into every hole and grass clump I can find. One afternoon I took off so fast after a bird that I rousted from the grass that I yanked my rope leash right out of Mike’s hand. While I was futilely chasing that bird, I suddenly realized that my favorite bunny thicket was only a few yards away–and I was much closer to it than Mike was to me. So I reversed direction, and in a flash I was gone, baby, gone.
Although I didn’t catch any rabbits in there, I did find a great place to dig–a soft, well-covered area that smelled particularly sublime. In the process, however, I got my rope hopelessly tangled between the thick and thorny blackberry vines. Even if I had wanted to stop digging–which I clearly did not–I wasn’t going anywhere. Did I bark or whimper? No. I just continued digging.
So Mike left me there, went home and soon returned with his double-layered, rubber-faced garden gloves and heavy loppers and cut a path through the prickly undergrowth. Soon he could unwrap my rope, and I was free, free at last.
That night Heather made Mike promise he won’t let me off the leash AT ALL while all this burrowing and nesting is going on in the park. That means no chasing squirrels, no running after my bouncy blue balls, and absolutely no horsing around with Frank and Stanley. None? Well, we’ll see about that.
In the meantime, more than a week has passed since I caught anything more than a stick. My competition for these tasty treats, on the other hand, continues to roam the park unabated. Eagles, hawks, herons and raccoons have a free reign. Mike and I frequently see a heron lurking around the fields just below the old Army chapel, walking slowly and deliberately while closely watching all the holes in the ground. I’ve tried to stare it down, but the guy never blinks. This week the Seattle Times ran a Page 1 photo of my buddy with a prize he stole from practically under my nose. I do all the work, and he gets all the glory.
All I can say is: It shoulda been me with that real fine vole, it shoulda been me.