It was time to take Riley out to the Farmers Market in middle of Vancouver. We were to share a loaf of sour-dough bread after two weeks of being on a rice diet. How mundane.
We went to a dock tucked away in middle of the reeds by the lake, so I could catch up on my readings and Riley wouldn’t be distracted by pedestrians walking their dogs. I took off his purple slip-leash. He wouldn’t go anywhere, and if he did– I could always grab him by his orange backpack. He laid down beside me, and rested his head on my crossed knees.
About twenty minutes later, his radar went off, ears moving in all direct. His head perked up. He glared at an indistinguishable far off object. All that was in sight was greenery. “Stay,” firmly I reminded him.
He looked back, and gave me the stink-eye, No.
“Stay. You need to stay,” reaffirming him.
No. I see something.
“You know better. You are supposed to stay here.”
Hah, no.
I reached over to grab his backpack, but it was too late: he bolted. I had no idea what he saw, until I walked out into the field. In broad daylight, he was pursuing a rabbit toward the parking lot into the thickets in front of dozens of people. “God-fucking-damnit, Riley,” hoarsely escaped from my breath as the Irish cap was thrown into the ground and nearly breaking my foot from kicking a nearby post out of frustrating embarrassment.
Picking the hat back up, I knew at this point, recall was fundamentally useless. What was more important was trying to figure out where Ri went. Scanning the horizon for a blazing orange, he was nowhere to be seen. What if he ran out into the roads? Did he get hit by a car? Did it means I have go back home without a dog? The heart raced.
Suddenly, an Elkhound-like dog came up behind me. Smiling and panting. “Good boy, you came back,” I praised him while kneeling down to stroke his face.
I always come back. You worry too much, he panted with a grin.
“I know, but we are at a park. People don’t like free-roaming dogs.”
Cocking his head, staring at me wondering if I lost my marbles, Not their problem.
“Other dogs don’t like being approached.”
Then they are assholes. Who wouldn’t want a cute puppy like me?
“But we are by a road.”
He sat down and panted heavily, Ha, I won’t get hit by a car. You know that.
“Perhaps. Don’t be so cocky. Where did you run off too?”
Come, I show you. He took a few steps, then looked back. As I got up, he paced toward a nearby juniper bush. Here.
Picking up the limp black and white rabbit, I inspected it. It was a domesticated feral. There is quite a few of them around. For some reason people think it is more humane to release their pets in the park, even though they would fall prey to stray cats, tower-dwelling hawks and street-savvy coyotes. It was a fine buck, about three–five pounds. No puncture marks. No laceration. Nothing. It was difficult to tell if he actually caught the rabbit or if the rabbit died of a heart attack.
He reared back and placed his forelegs on my knee. What’s that?
“It’s a rabbit.”
Huh?
“Rabbit.”
Okay, got it!
“Guess it’s dinner for the ‘yotes tonight,” I said before chucking it into the bush. I never cooked with rabbits before, and was ill-prepared to skin one. Maybe some day, but not now, I thought.
Hahahaha. It was fun. Then he went into the juniper to pull out the carcass and panted with a grin.
“No, leave it. Not today.”
He dropped the body, then picked it back up again, Why? It’s mine.
“Leave it, Riley. We are not taking it home.”
Hahahaha, okay! Let do this again sometimes.
“We shall. I never gone rabbiting before. I wonder how well you would take to the boomstick.”
What’s that? He cocked his head, with an inquirying shine in his eyes.
“You will find out someday.”

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