Pawing Through the Past

by Rita Mae Brown

  “Well, go across the creek then and look over there.” Mrs. Murphy’s patience wore thin.

  “And get my paws wet?” Pewter’s voice rose.

  “It’s a ford. Hop from rock to rock. Go on, Pewt, stop being a chicken.”

  Angrily, Pewter puffed up, tearing past them to launch herself over the ford. She almost made it, but a splash indicated she’d gotten her hind paws wet.

  If circumstances had been different, Mrs. Murphy and Tucker would have laughed. Instead, they returned to Barry.

  “I can’t identify the animal that tore him up.” The tiger shook her head.

  “Well, the wound is jagged but clean. Like I said, no dirt.” Tucker studied the folds of flesh laid back.

  “He was killed lying down,” the cat sagely noted. “If he was standing up, don’t you think blood would be everywhere?”

  “Not necessarily,” the dog replied, thinking how strong heartbeats sent blood straight out from the jugular. Tucker was puzzled by the odd calmness of the scene.

  “Pewter, have you found anything on that side?”

  “Deer tracks. Big deer tracks.”

  “Keep looking,” Mrs. Murphy requested.

  “I hate it when you’re bossy.” Nonetheless, Pewter moved down the dirt road heading west.

  “Barry was such a nice man.” Tucker mournfully looked at the square-jawed face, wide-open eyes staring at heaven.

  Mrs. Murphy circled the body. “Tucker, I’m climbing up that sycamore. If I look down maybe I’ll see something.”

  Her claws, razor sharp, dug into the thin surface of the tree, strips of darker outer bark peeling, exposing the whitish underbark. The odor of fresh water, of the tufted titmouse above her, all informed her. She scanned around for broken limbs, bent bushes, anything indicating Barry—or other humans or large animals—had traveled to this spot avoiding the dirt road.

  “Pewter?”

  “Big fat nothing.” The gray kitty noted that her hind paws were wet. She was getting little clods of dirt stuck between her toes. This bothered her more than Barry did. After all, he was dead. Nothing she could do for him. But the hardening brown earth between her toes, that was discomfiting.

  “Well, come on back. We’ll wait for Mom.” Mrs. Murphy dropped her hind legs over the limb where she was sitting. Her hind paws reached for the trunk, the claws dug in, and she released her grip, swinging her front paws to the trunk. She backed down.

  Tucker touched noses with Pewter, who had recrossed the creek more successfully this time.

  Mrs. Murphy came up and sat beside them.

  “Hope his face doesn’t change colors while we’re waiting for the humans. I hate that. They get all mottled.” Pewter wrinkled her nose.

  “I wouldn’t worry.” Tucker sighed.

  In the distance they heard sirens.

  “Bet they won’t know what to make of this, either,” Tucker said.

  “It’s peculiar.” Mrs. Murphy turned her head in the direction of the sirens.

  “Weird and creepy.” Pewter pronounced judgment as she picked at her hind toes, and she was right.