When our dog Chaga sees a squirrel, he pins his ears back, lowers his head close to the ground, and tip-toes down the pavement, laying each paw on the asphalt slowly and deliberately (stealth mode). He does not seem to realize this will not make a difference, given he’s in the middle of the street. We are taking our daily loop around the neighborhood. Wren and I pause, waiting for him to complete this well-worn story arc.
Around this time the squirrel sees him, and after a short, very still pause, sprints away, in a flurry of tiny, manic steps. Chaga chases for a bit and then gradually slows to a trot and bends back to meet up with us, and we continue on.
But sometimes, the squirrel doesn’t see him, and Chaga gets very close to eating it before it scampers up the nearest tree, bits of bark practically flying off its weenie claws. As Chaga sniffs around the trunk, the squirrel, along with it’s comrades, quacks like ducks from the branches above. I don’t know if they’re taunting him, or processing the trauma of a near death experience. I think they are taunting him. Chaga doesn’t seem to mind.