The desert is a harsh place. Hot, dry, relentless. Survival of the fittest is key here, and the less-fit don't fare well. Truby and I have come across the remains of quite a few that haven't made it.
Me: Truby, look! A bone.
Truby: Cool, I'ma eat it.
I often pause and wonder at the life and death of whatever creature I've come across. Was it old, young, weak, unlucky? Did it leave behind defenseless babies? A gap in the pack? Provide more resources for those left behind? Was it afraid? Did it suffer? I always hope not. And I always dread the day I might come across human remains.
Survival of the fab-u-lous
Recently I took Truby for a little trail ride. It was midmorning and already far too hot, but a short little ride among the shady mesquite trees wouldn't be too bad.
Truby perked up when we left the ring and headed into the 'field' leading to the back of the property. But when we approached the back she stopped, staring hard into the brush. I let her stand and look, urging her forward only after she released her breath with a huff.
She tiptoed along the beginning of the trail. Quite a few piles of leaf litter and other debris was dumped along the path, waiting to be spread. Once we got past all that, she pricked her ears again and strode forward. We enjoyed the ride and circled back at the edge of the property.
But nearing home, we couldn't ignore the scene ahead of us. It showed the violent stuggle. Entrails strew around. The gutted remains face down.
I was so proud of Truby, as she quitetly observed the scene. She lowered her head to inspect the corpse. She stood bravely, perhaps knowing it was now safe. The killer was gone.
We silently took in the scene together. Reflecting on how hard life in the desert can be. How little spares us each from the same fate. This was clearly no accidental death.
I knew the killer. But I will never tell. My silence will protect Truby and myself. I hope.
Because although they she looks so sweet, the Golden is a vicious killer.
Juno: Cold Blooded Killer
