A broken rose
One paw in front of the other, pink skinned fingertips pressing lightly onto the sand and dirt and fallen twigs. My nose a mere inch off the ground so that those thin lines of whiskers could swish forward, swish back, and swish forward again. Always touching something, be it the air in front of my face or the blades of grass to my sides. Onward I scurried, undaunted by the bright blue sky so vast and frightening overhead. My tail was held aloft, making sure to not scrape the bare and furless pink line. Eager to relish in the soft cool touch of the plants around me.
My rounded ears kept swiveled in all directions. A sound somewhere to the right, ears turn to focus. A beetle crawling under a leaf? Sound just behind me, and my ears swivel down. A worm crunching through the mulch? Sound just above me, and my whole head turns to stare with my ears aimed dead center on the source. A bird? A very large bird, some four inches tall, fluttering onto a far off branch. I couldn’t see it clearly, the colors muted and blurry. But it was a rounded ball shape coming out of two long sticks at the bottom, with a long feather frill at one end and a pointy sharp bit on the front.
It was too small and too far away to worry about, though being too far away to smell I could never be too sure. It might have been a crow? No, the colors were not a blackness to rival the night, it must have been something else. I could hear the bark crunching under its feet. Could hear the gentle thumping as it’s frantic little heart forced blood through the veins. It sounded like mine, if I were to be completely honest.
Hurried and swift, the heart didn’t pause for long. The heart knew it was needed.
One paw in front of the other, I bounded under the canopy of leaves, the grass curled overhead in patterns of green and blue and white to my weak little eyes. The world of sight and sound was dangerous. It was frightening and blurry, and required a constant vigilance. But the world of smell? Smell was interesting and vibrant, it was dynamic and open. Things that happened long ago could still be readily noticed in the current moment, and so with each foot of distance I traveled I got to cut through a pathway of recent history. Learn what was happening here, what had happened, and what might happen soon.
I could smell the worms, the flowers, the grass. I could smell a touch of saliva where a deer had nibbled nearby. The scent of fox wafted through the air like a dread gloom. I could smell the upturned roots of a plant screaming in agony, desperately working it’s growth to try and return to the soil. With my nose to the ground I noticed it had rained here within the past few days, moisture still present just below the soil. The scent of apples, distant and fresh, entered into my senses with the coming breeze.
But then so did the fresh scent of roses …
Closer, so much closer than the fading fruits I knew to keep in mind. Food I would have to get later, when darkness fell and it was safer to be out in the open. The skies were friendlier in the pitch darkness, for the shadows kept one safe.
Pushing through a patch of grass that didn’t seem to mind my intrusion, there was a single stemmed flower laying on its side. Brightly colored petals half nibbled and drooping. Hungry little grubs were feasting happily, a caterpillar crunching its way into some of the leaves. The colors of the plant seemed dull and muted to my eyes, possibly red? Maybe it was purple. Certainly wasn’t white or blue, nor the darkness of black. Perhaps it was the same colors as the bird? Though the scents were more telling, for this was clearly a rose. Not especially edible, a very defensive plant that normally grows pointy thorns to keep people away.
This rose was young, this being perhaps the first or second time it’s flowered, opening the petals wide and sending out scents to tell the world it’s ready. To live, to love, ready to spread it’s pollen into the world and deny nature the crushing victory of another plant’s demise. But this rose was dying. Half the flower missing, toppled onto its side, and the roots exposed. A few steps closer, and when I sniffed over the stem I could smell the pained screams. Cries of distress to let other plants nearby know of the caterpillar danger, making sure they can prepare by growing more toxins so they’d be harder to eat. It left such a strange clash of emotions, to be so vibrantly wanting to live, to carry on, even in the midst of its suffering.
Caterpillars and grubs aren’t the only things that get hungry. Quite suddenly I was pleased to have come this way. With a slurp and a nibble, the wriggly little creatures were plucked off the leaves and gulped down into my own belly. I nosed through the roots looking for the grubs, and wasted no time in licking them up. The juices wet across my tongue, the panicked wiggles tickling my throat as went down. With my front paws, heeding my own advice to just how dangerous it was to feed in the daylight, I shifted through some of the moist dirt to find the rest of any underground nibblers I could feast upon.
There’s one. Oh! And then another. Circling around I spotted another caterpillar and was quick to pounce, gulping it down to join the rest. Whiskers twitching in a calm happiness, when the meals were all safely hidden away or tucked into my gullet, my attention turned back to the very plant I’d been rescuing. The rose was slow, plants having the worst of reflexes, and given the way she smelled I doubt the rose was even aware her attackers were dealt with.
But she was still on her side, still partially uprooted by whatever had knocked the stem over and tore out one side of her roots. With a careful grip I scooped my paw just under the thorns and lifted up. Pulling until her bright petals once more beamed into the open sky, and her roots were crunched back into the ground they’d been pulled from.
With one paw to keep the stem steady and stable, my other scooped nearby dirt into the area, pulling and pushing until it formed a mound of soil that kept the roots buried in place.
“Thank you for the meal, young rose.” I offered in a whispered squeak, well aware that such words were wasted on the deaf and blind. Spoken for my own solace in keeping polite, given everything had moved much too quickly for this flowering plant to yet register that she was no longer under attack.
With the stem righted and the petals still wilting, I sat upright and brushed my fingertips just under the stem for a simple farewell. Then I left, belly full of wrigglers and hoping that this rose might blossom into a mighty survivor one day. Onward through the grass under a clear blue sky, I headed toward the smell of fresh apples still so distant on the breeze. Shelter might be in question, but food would be plentiful.
From spring into summer, the sights blurring together in green and blue and the brown of far off mole hills. They might have been mountains I suppose, but far too much of a bother to walk all that way and find out. The air was warm, and life brimmed across the landscape to make the most of every day. I could smell more than see a group of butterflies flapping noisily on puffs of air, only to take me by surprise whenever I was too close to a branch they wanted to sit on. Such an embarrassment, to be mistaken for a piece of bark.
Perhaps more the embarrassment when I had to make that sudden decision, of whether an adult fluttering insect so close as to be within my grasp was worth catching for the meal or not. As one might naturally assume they were always of the opinion that eating them is a poor decision, which more often than not I felt inclined to agree with.
My home was established under the roots of an apple tree. Tall and ancient, I lived off of her generosity and felt like a parasite scampering across her bark. The apples that fell kept my burrow well stocked, the seeds I came across were all buried in separate storage dens. I would either remember them, and come to eat should I run low on fresher meals. Or they would be forgotten, and be offered that chance to grow just as mighty and proud as the tree they were spawned from.
Sitting under the ground in my neat little burrow all lined with feathers and fluff and bits of shiny treasures I’d discovered, the world looked towering and warm, light filtering down under the leaves and flowers. Fresh, ripened and rotting fruit filled the air all around, masking my own scents while making the entire area have a pleasant feel to it. From atop the branches, on those days when I dared to climb above the ground and pick through the leaves myself rather than sort into what fell down below, the world appeared sprawling and expansive. I could see farther, into the grove of trees one direction, and the expanse of green and brown fields the other.
I was warm, I was happy, and I felt safe spending day after day nibbling on fruits, hunting for insects, and hiding away into my cozy little home. And as time dragged on with the slow yet steady advancement of time, I was able to watch the plains still so entirely dominated by grass give way to a single bright, blurry flower.
The rose was doing well, having grown up tall and strong. It’s petals having long since replenished since our first meeting, and from her spot in the fields she stood out as a patch of crimson in a sea of billowing green. I often feared that by standing loud and tall she would attract more attention than her thorns could defend against. As a mouse, it seemed folly in my eyes to make oneself known to the world, to be exposed before the elements under a bright cloudless day. Opposed to tucked away safely in some tunnel or crag, hoping the monsters in the world passed you by without notice.
It feels strange, mind, to have taken such interest on the single flower. But there was cover and food and a dazzling array of interesting scents, so I wasn’t pleased with the idea of moving on. This would be my territory, for a while at least. Staking my claim and keeping my whiskers down for however long my life might extend. And among this patch of trees and grasslands that young little rose budding into adulthood was far too easy to keep track of. The smell pleasant on days when a breeze sends it my way. The sights distracting, when there was such a contrast.
When bored and exploring I clambered over the rocks and fallen logs, occasionally heading to a nearby pond to drink. When daring, I climbed to the very top of the apple tree and gazed down amongst the branches and leaves. Clinging with all my might lest the winds drive me away, or the swaying branch throw me off as if the tree below were objecting to my presence. On idle days, in the oppressive loneliness of an empty burrow, I’d nose my clinkity coins around. Nibble on the bits of bark to feel that lovely crunch between my jaws. I’d organize the piles by size and weight and smell, then lay amongst the collection and sleep with dreams of being a dragon atop his hoard.
The rose meanwhile, I was privileged enough to watch as she spread her leaves wide and aimed high into the sun. Her branches spiraling out, her thorns growing long and sharp. The green of the stem soon thickened, hardened, into a solid brown. Multiple buds and flowers bloomed in what was swiftly becoming a small bush.
I don’t know if happiness was a concept the plant could understand. Content maybe. There were no chemicals signaling alarm, and the blossoming rose was healthy and strong as she etched out a living. Roots digging in deep while the leaves aim high. We talked every once in a while. Or rather I would brave the grassy fields to come climb amongst the branches or sniff deeply into the nectar filled petals. There was some amusement to be had in sitting atop the flower and looking up at the puffy clouds, before the gripping fear reminded me one must not present themselves to an open sky. Lest predators from afar take notice, and swoop down to end my life as surely as I might end the tale of a grub or a beetle.
I wasn’t the only visitor of course, for many butterflies and wasps and the buzzing of bees would frequent her petals. There would be tinier birds with the same idea of mine, to root through her branches and pick off the more obvious of nibblers who worked hard to tear away at her leaves. The conversations with the winged creatures who held an admiration for flowering plants were pleasant at times. When sitting atop one of the young rose’s branches, the petals above my head to tint my fur with her color, a butterfly flapped it’s way over.
“I am relaxed and uninterested, you are safe from my jaws little bug.” I would attempt to convey. Sitting still and keeping my whiskers stiff, tailed curled between the thorns of the rose. It was important to make no move toward what might otherwise be my prey. It would be cruel to startle someone whom I didn’t need to attack. I was full enough as it is, and the rose’s flowers might use the attention of a pollinator.
“Now that’s convenient, I’m only here for the nectar” the butterflies would respond in their fashion.
Or so I would interpret their notable indifference, ignoring the towering mouse just a few inches away.
The bees were similar.
“A pleasant greetings, I won’t be any danger at all.” I’d yawn lazily, gripping the stem for balance as I eyed the rounded creature dutifully gathering supplies for its family.
“And I am no threat to you, beast. Stay away from the hive.” The drone danced back, it’s wings buzzing in an angry warning. Defensive certainly, but they had reason to be.
The hummingbirds kept their distance, and ignored me at any opportunity. For my part it was simply a matter of keeping still, and keeping calm, lest I scare the poor creature to death via startlingly sudden movement.
These were quiet times gathering supplies, resting peacefully in the darkness of the burrow, on restless nights heading out to gaze at the twinkles of light far above. Tiny little suns so very far away, casting their muted light.
It’s so disappointing when times like these must come to an end.
Summer turns into autumn, the leaves turn crinkly and brown with strangely bright colors. None quite as dazzling as the daylight sun, nor the last few butterflies who’ve all for some reason or another chosen to fly south. Still an interesting, albeit subtle change that happened at such a gradual pace I didn’t realize what was happening until I thought to compare the trees of today with what I remember of long ago.
It was getting colder. The nights were longer and the daylight hours shorter, truly a blessing to one who values the safety of the shadows, but this also left the mornings more frigid, and the night less hospitable. I ended up spending more time tucked away underground and less time enjoying the smells of the countryside. Less time climbing between the thorns of the rose bush, and fewer hours staring into the sparkling brilliance of those twinkling lights in the dead of night.
The leaves fell from the tree, one by one as if they’d thought to cast off their shackles and leap free into the world ready to explore in all its glory. Or perhaps, as withered corpses piled onto the ground, too weak to hold onto that last bit of life the branches gave them. Forming a mass grave of dull browns and bright yellows and flush reds. This was at once an annoyance and a blessing, for while there was less cover amongst the tree branches and thus climbing became a more worrisome prospect, the ground held more cover than ever before. Patches of grass withered and vanished, to be replaced with piles of dry leaves to scamper beneath.
Nose working as a shovel I lifted and shoved, scooping under the pile and pushing my way forward each day. Keeping just under the safety of the plant mater while scavenging and gathering. The rose was quick to find herself decorated with bits of leaf across her thorns any time the droppings from my apple tree strayed too far. And any time the growing winds decided to spiral, spilling away the cover and flinging the colored material into a blurry grey sky.
Crunch and crinkle were common sounds, my own footsteps crushing onto dried and hard plant mater with each skitter forward. The winds over the plains and through the trees made it near impossible to focus on every crunching as moving air and falling leaves drowned out the telltale signs of insects hidden underneath. At least until I was close enough to smell, or stumbled right across them with my whiskers blindly touching onto carapace.
Crunch and crunch go my tiny little paws. Crunch and crunch go the sounds all around me, every day, the simple monotony leaving me more likely to drown out the sound of rustling leaves.
Then came a swish …
My cover exposed to a violent gust of wind, one day with my cover so suddenly removed, my eyes glimpsed back to spot a golden brown fox just a few feet behind me. Crouched low, it’s tail kept strait. The eyes and nose pointed directly at me in what could only be interpreted as a sinister posture.
“I was going to pounce on you right through the leaves, you know. It’s not like you were a quiet morsel.” She seemed to say, the creature’s lower jaw quivering with anticipation of the bite. Her scent, for the brief moment I cared to take notice of it, seemed very feminine.
“Well I’d appreciate if you reconsidered.” I worked to reply back. This was a fox. This was a terror. This was a warm blooded killer who would just as soon snap my neck and gobble me down as she would drag me kicking and screaming to go see her children. Someone had to teach the next generation how to kill after all.
Perhaps she could be reasoned with if I stood my ground? I clicked my teeth mousily and made sure to squeak off a high pitched, unsettled whine to announce my disapproval of her stance and expressly clear intention. Making sure to whimper like a wounded child.
Pounce!
Snap!
I was backpedaling away from the rancid scented teeth that closed over the area I’d been just a moment ago, my face pressed against her nose for a few uncomfortable seconds. She snapped again as I shoved myself to the side, watching the crease of her muzzle close around the air a few inches away. A quick spin on my heals, she snapped a third ti- … squeak!
Fire and pinpricks, the feel of burning ants stabbing their mandibles into my tail pinched its way into my mind. My feet were pounding onto the sand and dirt, my face rushing heedlessly into the leaves. Any direction, anywhere but here, simply away from the terror close enough to feel the breath of her previous meals wafting its way into my own fur.
As if to taunt about my upcoming fate.
Vaguely I was aware that my rear end bled onto the ground behind, a dull throbbing pain just an inch and a half past the base of my tail. With a disgusted horror I could see the vixen’s lips, teeth stained red and with a limp pink string dangling past where she’d bit and tore through the flesh. Crunched into the bone. I was too busy running to keep watch. And she was too busy chasing to swallow just yet.
The leaves splashed like water after my hurried run left its wake, the fox padding just behind me always close enough to consider a snap. Though she kept her mouth closed, her body low with a nose to the ground. I was running at all out, she was simply keeping pace at a walk. A twist to the left, sudden swerve right, then a leap off the lower roots of my apple tree.
She followed with the lithe grace of a killer, coiling up onto the large exposed root, taking aim, and flinging herself forward with the paws outstretched.
Did you know that foxes can be quite accurate with those pounces, even through leaves and grass or snow if it’s in the way? I discovered this unpleasant fact when knocked forcefully onto my side. My ribs aching after the weight that slammed down, my tongue bleeding, my head swimming with yet more visions of stars. It wasn’t night-time. One vulpine leg pressed against my hips while the other was kept at my shoulder.
Such weight! Crushing down, bearing me into the dirt, keeping me pinned for the …
A mouth opened.
With a casual snap she was leaning down to place her jaws around my head, preparing to bite. To twist. Once the neck was broken, I would be gone. For that terrible moment I was looking directly into a pink gullet, feeling teeth on my neck and teeth just behind my skull. A tongue directly in front of me and a dark, foul scented pit deep beyond that.
In blind panic I opened my own jaws and bit down, mouse teeth slicing hard into the soft tongue against my muzzle. I could taste blood on my lips, I could feel the horrendous shudder running through her muscles. Her paws lifted up and her head was pulling back, but I kept biting down. I nibbled forward and bit again! Opening up another hole into her tongue, only to feel my feet leave the ground. My body flung halfway into her throat, her jaws above my spine and teeth poking into my belly. I could see my own tail jutting between two of her teeth, kept from falling down into her throat only by the speed at which this chase took place.
Clearly, she wanted the whole mouse.
It was red and smelled of gore, my own blood mixing into the drool and pooling red that rapidly became the dominant feature of this awful position. But I bit again! Making a third hole into the tongue from which I could grab and tear, pulling it wider. She leaned her head back, forced her tongue forward to slide under my still wounded belly, and allowed the last of my rump to disappear into her upturned maw.
SLAM! Went the tongue as soon as I was properly atop it, the tip between my hind legs and my muzzle poking into the throat, smashing me against the roof of her mouth. A sudden jerking sensation, for I could feel her twist on her feet and start to walk, clearly content with her hold. The mouth, my fur, from in front I could smell the ghastly breath. Curling my legs up, I inhaled deeply through the nose, forcing myself to endure, forcing myself to keep these lungs as inflated as possible in preparation for the swallow, harder to gulp down. Making myself rounder, harder to slip between two sets of teeth for the chew.
But neither happened. Her muzzle leveled off, the lips sealed around me, and I was left with a pounding heart and a terrified expression when I realized why she wanted me alive.
No, most certainly not, I would not aid this mother in teaching her young the ways of this world. If she believed to get away from this without biting, then I would have to take the act upon myself. Head swiveled to the side, I gripped onto her gum line with both paws, positioned my jaws exactly around her molar, and then scraped. I did not bite through the teeth, but through the gum line around it, snipping off the chunk of pink flesh that held this side of the tooth in place.
The resulting yip was loud. Rather pronounced. And left be battered and dazed to find warmth was replaced with frigid, wet gave way to dirt encrusted, and working my mind past the ringing ears I could feel where my injured shoulder had slammed into a rock. Blinking my eyes clear, she was still there. Now bleeding profusely from the mouth, spinning in circles and yowling her displeasure.
As I staggered onto four legs, my own injures and slime covered body protesting every order I gave it, the look this woman gave me said it all. The same words contained within the look I gave her.
I was the first to start running, of course, if my limping sprawl could dare count amongst the ranks of a more legitimate pace, something worthy to be deemed a run. She glanced down to sniff the tail that fell free, which I was content to leave behind for now, and took toward me at a slower and more measured pace. Drops of red spilling down from her jaws, some of it surely my own, it left for a horrifying visage in the light of day.
Keep moving. I had little to catch my bearings, other than the crinkle of leaves under my feet and the smooth feel of grass to my sides. She followed, so keep moving. I could smell apples behind me, and knew my home must be that direction. But that’s where the fox was! No time to turn around, too injured, too slow, too small to maneuver past her and get to the home burrow.
Faster she followed, so still I kept moving.
Where was there to hide out in the open fields? I knew of no other burrowers with whom I might share a burrow for the night, and even if there was some tunnel to crawl down into this loathsome predator would simply dig out the walls to find me. A rock to hide behind? I smell too strongly of her spittle, I reek too great of her blood. Even now, bleeding through the holes in my chest and my tail though I was, my red stained fur was leaving a clear trail across the ground for anyone to sniff. What point was there in hiding? There could only be run, or make yourself impossible to get to. Hiding would scarcely be an option.
Into a trot she sped, moving yet faster still.
Soon to be upon me I was running out of time, her patience wearing thin and my body giving into exhaustion. Should I stand and fight? Deliver a last few injuries to dissuade her from thinking the next mouse an easy victim? I would surely be scooped up again, and whether I live to see her den or am snuffed out immediately would depend on her whims. There was simply no other option, nothing to do but run, run, and hope to find …
Thorns? The fox was running now, sprinting toward me.
In a hazy stupor I stumbled onto the thorns of a rosebush, and quickly scrambled beneath. The razor points scratched at my fur, but not enough to draw blood. With deft paws placed carefully onto the stem, I climbed and scrambled and squirmed my way deeper into the center, close to the heart of the bush. The rose bush, more precisely, her thick looping brambles sprawled in all directions, crisscrossing around the intersections in a random pattern. Through gaps in the leaves and branches I could see orange and white and black moving up to the edge.
There she was, pawing into the thorns with a distressed growl, only to pull away in frustration. The fox shoved her nose into the thick green branches, eyes closing to keep them clear of the thorns now threatening to close around her face. I could feel her breath wash against my soaked fur, a snorting huff as she whined and struggled to get as deep as I had crawled.
But the rose held firm, mighty branches denying the fox her meal, refusing to budge even as those large paws scooped forward to scrape against the roots. This rose had dug deep and crown large, she did not bend to the wind, to the bugs, nor to the small carnivores whom jabbed themselves against a thorny defense.
The fox swiveled around to the other side and scanned for holes in my defense, for signs of weakness in the rosebush. I simply sat there, shivering, as I watched a stumped and defeated fox circle around me.
Her tail swished in annoyance.
There was a soft yip, as she turned to saunter off in a huff. Stopping just long enough to bend down and scoop up a bloodied, mangled tail into her jaws. I stared at her, and she stared back. The gentle gluck from her swallow was telling enough my tail disappearing down her throat. The menace in her eyes told the rest, letting me know I would never be safe so long as she drew breath.
But for the moment I was alive. I was mostly intact. I was soaked as red with blood as the sweet smelling roses all around me.
For that moment I saw, laying shaken and miserable atop the branches. For that moment I bled, I shivered, and I tended my numerous wounds. For that moment I cherished life, and how I’d managed to strike yet another blow against the forces of nature for managing to survive for this long.
For that moment I pretended to be yet one more flower amongst the bush, the bright colors upon my fur blending seamlessly with the bright colors of the flower.
Clearly she knew. She understood the color of nature, thus bore her reason to stand so tall against it.
Clearly she knew …
Clearly …
