Read The Dog for Free Online Page B

bilberry, letting the
    warmth sink into his fur. If he lay still for a long time he
    sometimes caught sight of a beaver's head gleaming in the
    light, cutting straight through the water. He always followed
    the beavers with his gaze but didn't move or become agitated.
    It was impossible to get near them.
    By the passageways along the banks where the beavers
    came ashore there was nothing for him. He picked up their
    particular scent and the smell of their droppings. There were
    no fish scraps, not a single feather, either, but they left
    stripped branches everywhere.
    The loud splash of a large, flat tail sometimes awakened
    him. He liked lying there listening to them. The sound of
    their gnawing could be heard from far off. When they
    thought they were alone they poked around on the shore.
    They were clumsy on land. He couldn't see them, but he
    could hear their heavy bodies and the twigs that snapped in
    their jaws.
    The sun was low in the sky. It was no longer warm but
    stung in his eyes as it played among the trunks of the spruces.
    He liked lying there listening to sounds that signalled neither
    flight nor a threat. He and the beavers had nothing to do
    with each other, but they were there, in the same evening
    sun, by the same dark water that glowed in its reflection. He
    liked the sounds they made, their company.
    A vole in the grass. He heard it a moment ago. He recognised
    the sound of the hindquarters, heavy and sliding. It's not the
    scampering of a mouse.
    He's standing tense, head lowered. His ears are cocked
    forward, the cartilage stiff, the hairs raised.
    They're both stock-still now, but as soon as the vole at his
    feet moves, he'll pounce. Down there is the warm world of
    the grass with its whirring and humming, but he's only listening
    for one distinct sound: the vole. It's there
    somewhere, blinking, its heart pumping blood, listening,
    every hair in its grey-brown fur on end.
    The dog remains still so he won't lose the scent. The wind
    off the lake blows through the meadowgrass; the pasture billows
    and shimmers, blinding him. But he doesn't move. In
    the jumble of sounds under and above him there's only one
    sound he's waiting for.
    He never tires. A vole that's not threatened moves straight
    through the grass, perhaps towards its nest. It may freeze
    warily in its tracks but will start moving again. The dog often
    misses when he tries pouncing in the cover of grass, but his
    ears never lose track of a vole that has come to a halt somewhere
    beneath him among the coarse stalks of wolfsbane.
    Now. A faint sliding. The cow parsley doesn't move, but
    that's where it came from. The dog is poised for the strike.
    His nose and front legs dive into the grass. He's got it, but
    only for a moment. Frenzied wriggling under his front paws.
    Then it scurries between his legs. Two more tries. It's injured
    and can't get away. Now he bites and the tiny, warm body
    goes limp between his jaws.
    He takes it with him out of the grass, lying down under a
    spruce at the edge of the forest. With his paws he pins the
    vole against a root, tearing at it with his front teeth until the
    fur rips open.
    He's not especially hungry. The pasture is full of voles and
    he's become skilled at finding them, though he's still somewhat
    clumsy when he pounces. But after a few hours of
    hunting in the morning he's no longer so eager that he gobbles
    them up right away. He carries off his prey, tears at the
    fur for a long time, leaves bits and pieces.
    The strong wind blowing off the lake creates a little tempest
    in the crown of the spruce. The sound makes him
    sleepy. He dozes, eyelids heavy. The pasture rustles in the
    wind and blades of grass gleam when it combs them apart.
    The tiny birch leaves shimmer, too, catching the sun. Birch
    saplings sprout up here and there in the heavy grass, an invasion
    from the forest.
    White flecks swirl across his field of vision. He knows
    what they are. Butterflies don't have much taste.