One for The Cat

The black dog - bred for rat killing on barges, insatiably curious and with a strength of purpose that would've felled the walls of Jericho with no need of a trumpet - found the one weak spot in the latticework and stubbornly squeezed her way through, crawled under the house and emerged in the front yard. She gave me a careless over the shoulder look and then took off through the hedges, darting into the neighbor's territory - the game, as Sir Arthur Conan Doyle wrote, was afoot.

I followed, alternately cursing and calling her name despite knowing that it was a waste of time and breath and that she would return in her own time. I watched her trot across the lawns and driveways, exploring scrubs and telephone poles, piles of leaves, fallen limbs. Everything interested her until she caught sight of one of the neighborhood cats and then in an explosion of energy, she vaulted over a fence and bore down on the unsuspecting feline. The startled cat immediately turned to flee but the dog was too quick and cornered her on a window sill - she growled and hissed and let loose a scream of fury that turned my blood cold - then with a daring and accurate swat, she turned the tables and in one deadly move had raked open the dog's muzzle. The surprised dog retreated instantly and the cat leapt to a tree where she perched with her hackles raised, still fiercely shrieking and spitting with contempt.

I gathered up the black dog, now confused, pitiful and not in the mood to protest, and carried her home, soothing her with reassuring words and a soft tone, resisting the righteous urge to say I told you so. I cleaned the wound and settled her on the couch where she lay her head on my knee and concentrated on looking sorrowful for the rest of the night.

It's a shock to discover that you're not the meanest sob in the valley.