Beatty, Zen Master of Love, and I are out hiking on the state land back behind my house. There's a trail straight through the middle that affords me views of distant canyons and him opportunities for chasing lizards, low flying birds or anything else that moves (he is, after all, a terrier.)
Beatty's usually good about exploring and running around but staying near me, so when I realize he hasn't been with me for a while I start calling him. He doesn't come. I spend the next five minutes calling him, listening for the tiny tinkling sound the tags on his collar make. Silence. I continue shouting his name, retracing my steps, to where I saw him last. Nothing. I take out my cellphone and note the time, thinking that after another ten minutes, I'll call my girlfriend Kira to come out and bring her dogs and maybe help find him. I'm not quite on the verge of panic but considering it.
Just as I am about to pick up the phone, he comes merrily racing up the trail. Although I want to grab him by the ears and scold him I know not to, since he wouldn't understand what the problem was - "Hey, you called I came, maybe not right away, maybe ten minutes later, but I showed up, aren't you pleased?"
The mystery of his disappearance is solved later, when we are on our way back to the house. Again he disappears, but briefly. Soon I see him trotting proudly up ahead with about a 1/3 of a rabbit in his mouth, leftovers from one of the resident coyotes, and no doubt the "business" that had detained him earlier.
I start to chase him, and since he's slowed by his burden, catch up quickly. He sees me coming, drops the bunny and starts frantically digging a hole - "If I dig really fast, I can bury this before She gets here, and play with it again."
As I come nearer he gives up, deserts the hole and the rabbit's remains. And I know that if I don't do something with the body, he'll indeed revisit (and possibly roll in) said remains on our next hike.
I'm grateful the coyote at least left two of the legs so I'm spared touching the more grisly parts.
Gingerly and I mean gingerly I pick the poor bunny up by its little feet (these particular rabbit feet weren't lucky ones obviously) and resume the walk home, searching for a steep edge to throw it over.
Was it really only a few years ago that I'd never heard of Moab, Utah, nor had any desire to live in a desert? I'd never hiked in my life, much less dealt with the outdoors and its animals as I do now (including the occasional pesky little snake slithering into the front hall when the weather is hot, but that's another story.) I lived in Boston, had a gorgeous condo and was a somewhat highpowered radio rep. Things are very different now. But actually I like the difference. "Yep," says what's left of the bunny, its whiskers trembling, "things have certainly changed for you. And me."
I have begun to think I'll have to carry rabbit remains all the way home and drive them into town to dispose of when I come up on the drop-off I've been looking for. I pitch the carcass as far away as I can.
Up ahead on the path Beatty turns to look at me as it sails away.
His expression is plain. "Hey, what'd you do that for? That was a perfectly good bunny!"
