‍ ‍Down beneath the bush with Robert, belly in the leaves. Then loping forward slowly, over soft silent soil. The ferns ahead part. Feet in the lush thick grass. The night atmosphere is cool, not cold. It can’t be felt beneath such a fine coat.

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            A rustling, and there’s energy in the air, because others are out in the dark. Looking for food, feasting from garbage, as they were want to do. There is movement, and movement is energy, and it is out there, unseen in the dark. It’s the colorless world of grey scale outlines, and then feet are onto the field of small smooth stones.

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            The others, the ones with the horrible grasping hands, are out in the brush, and the air is alive because there might be a fight. There will be a fight. It would be good to fight, and run, and chase. The back arches. Robert is there, he’s ready for a thrill too. There will be a fight.

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            Jumping now up to the post, perched balancing atop a worn and prickly pillar of wood, with slivers at its apex like tacks and needles, then jumping again to the top of the fence, and then over into the adjoining sward.

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            The fountain water is running, and that’s why they’ll come there. Then there’ll be a fight. They’ll come, and it’d be a fight.

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            Crouching low, haunches up, ready to pounce.

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            The night is quiet now that all the motor cars have gone away. In a workshop the table saw is whirring, and in their hearts, neighbors are cursing, and Robert is purring.

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            Then the others are there. The great leap outwards, and the saw is whirring, and the world is turning, and the screaming, and the pain, and the thrill of it, and also the fighting, the tumbling, and the neighbors are cursing, Robert is there, and the biting, tearing, and clawing, and then the blood, and they run and it is victory, and that is a good thing.

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            It is victory.

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            Washing and drinking at the cold clear fountain with Robert in victory, and it is good. Nuzzling, and licking, and kissing among the bamboo grove along with the victory, and it is very good.

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            The man in the workshop eventually douses his light, and the saw is silent without him. He goes inside his home, and in their bedrooms and in their hearts the neighbors cease to curse. The fight is over, and the night is still alive, but it is a happy and quiet kind of alive. A fatigue of content satisfaction. An exhaustion of satisfied contentment.

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            Back home, this time under the gap in the fence and through the vegetable garden. Observing the carrots, leeks, and onions only in passing. The floor of the shed is hard bare concrete, but over and under tools and machines is the soft wood box away in the corner.

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            It’s warm inside there, curled with Robert. And there is more happy licking and sniffing before sleeping.

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Zacheriah Tucker a hobbyist historian and writer. He holds degrees in psychology and sociology from Oregon State University, and still lives in the Pacific Northwest where he enjoys hiking and exploring the outdoors. His work focuses on bringing new and unique perspectives to classic subjects. His stories take place across many different locations and time periods, trying to discover the human elements that unite everyone everywhere. (https://linktr.ee/ZATsamizdat)

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