Do you think humans know that we talk about them when they’re not around ? I’ll bet they think we stick to our own kind and just sniff a lot and use our instinct and rummage in their bins and run like Hell at the sight of a gun or a megaphone or a sword after we’ve done a little dance for them.

They don’t kill us all you know. Some of us are bred or captured for the purposes of testing that humans feel the need to do. Or Fur farms. That one worries me. They won’t make me smoke cigarettes till I puke but my fur will still look good on someone.

Circuses man. The old fashioned kind where they humiliate us for the delight of small humans. They make us live like criminals; all tied up and made to perform when the whip is cracked. Miserable.

Don’t talk to me about bullfighting. Just don’t, ok. Some of the humans don’t like that either and pitch in at the end but it’s too late then for El Torro.

Oh, how rude. I’m Frankie, by the way. I’m a fox, yeah, so I know all about hunting and being chased for miles by a pack of animals who’ve been trained to think I’m a threat and that the only way to limit my influence is to corner me and rip me to pieces. I am no threat of course and the humans in red jackets and silly hats will just say it’s sport and that makes it ok. I’d like to be the one in the red jacket and let them tell me, above the rabid like barking, as their limbs tear off, that’s it’s just sport.

My friend Gretchin is around these woods somewhere. Beautiful girl she is. Dark red like her humour and a sight to behold in the air. There’s a lot of humans around so I best be careful, but they’re not in red and they only have a few placid dogs with them. They are just running around making a right racket. They must be getting hot with the bright August sun. August ? The date, oh fuck, it’s the 12th. The glorious 12 and there she goes, my beautiful red grouse. Bang. Bang. Bang and the sprint by the now not so placid dogs. Traitors.

She’s down. Just like that. No goodbyes. Just the inevitable sadness. It’s over for another year.

© Ash Cheyne 2017

Daily Word Prompt – Glorious

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