Chapter 4: Road Kill

Dusk, evening.

Sloshing with all the water I’ve consumed, which was not the alleviation for hunger I had hoped, I begin the night trek along the highway median. Hunting the median seems logical to me, for several reasons. Any animal crossing the highway, from either side, has to cross the median. Then be exposed crossing the pavement to finish getting completely across. Maybe I don’t see them when first crossing into the median, but leaving the median strip, they will certainly attract my sharp eyes. My eyes are very sharp, and my vision very acute. My breed is among the gazehounds or sighthounds. Yet my long nose is very sensitive, too. Only about ninety percent as sensitive as a blood hound but nearly fifty percent better than short nosed dogs. Still, compared with humans, I have fifty times as many receptors in my nose and the portion of my brain devoted to interpreting odors is forty times larger than humans have. My eyes are uniquely designed to detect movement, and automatically trigger chase without my conscious decision.

There! The armadillo curls into an armored ball. Frustrating. I’m confident I can dig it out of its shell with some effort.

There! A small deer leaps onto the road surface and stops to look over it’s shoulder, checking and sniffing for danger. Forget the armadillo, the deer is a larger meal, or perhaps two.

Within minutes, I have brought it down. Juicy and delicious. Literally, I am wolfing it down. Swallowing huge chunks of flesh I’ve ripped loose, without bothering to chew. One hind quarter is ripped loose but not savaged, I set it aside. The hide is left on intentionally. This portion I will take with me when I leave. I will leave when I have devoured the entire carcass with the exception of the picnic haunch to take away. A very satisfying meal it is, and I rest to digest it, and my tummy is quite distended. Ah, life is good. Hunting and exploring. A dogs life? Sport for kings! I feel kingly.

Later, I ate to satiation again and then rested again with my stomach overfull. Feast and famine, a true hunter’s diet.

Darn buzzards! Get away from my kill, foul critters. There are too many buzzards and they are too determined. I retreat. Reclaiming my saved haunch, I run off with it in my mouth. It’s getting lighter now. Dawn will be full light soon, then the sun will rise.

Arrived at a crossroads, or rather an exit off the highway. Decision time. My nose map has two divergent trails of dots from here. I have been to both destinations, but only once each.

One goes towards the city, and the other towards grandma’s farm. That is her name. I know because Virgil called her grandma and she responded to the name.

By the way, my name is Clurt. Short for Celert, I’m named after a famous Irish Wolfhound with that same name in a poem from ancient history, or so I was told. Virgil shortened it to Clurt. My full pedigree name is far too long to remember. That’s why it’s written on my papers, so nobody needs to bother remembering it. Virgil told me that bit of info too.

Which way to go? The more attractive destination in my memory, is the farm. Well, hopefully my family is visiting grandma. I’ll see.

With my venison haunch firmly gripped in my jaws, I depart the highway via the exit ramp. The narrower blacktop road running beneath the highway overpass, has ditches on both sides. Fortunately, in the shade of the overpass, some water remains in the side ditches. Scummy water but wet and it quenches my thirst. Better than nothing, choosy isn’t an option. Again carrying the haunch, I trot down the road towards grandma’s farm. My mouth is full of meat and my heart full of hope. Please family, please be there

Hope you are enjoying.

Yob