The Hunted

 

The large black bear stirred, rose to his feet and wandered to the mouth of his den. Harry, for that was the bear’s name, leaned against the black rock and sniffed at the early morning air. There was something odd in it that he couldn’t define so he thought no more of it. It was time to forage but he wasn’t exactly hungry, having devoured the better part of a buck deer he had found dead in the forest and was still somewhat fresh.

Still, Harry was a creature of habit and if it was time to go down his trail to the lake, he would do just that, even if he didn’t eat anything along the way. And so, he set out, trundling slowly along, enjoying the spring sunshine on his back. He stopped to sniff at things along the way, turning over a clump of earth at one point and grabbing a large grub out and swallowing without even thinking about it. Which is probably the best way to eat a grub.

Eventually, he came to his favourite scratching tree, an old pine with a seriously spiny bark that Harry had worn down to a comfortable brush over the years. He raised himself up on his hind paws and spun around to put his back towards it and then pushed himself up and down and around, giving little grunts as particularly itchy parts of his hide found relief.

Having visited his spa, he returned to the trail and meandered along, listening to the woods around him. Again, that strange smell came to him, but only for a second as the wind shifted away from him. He found himself along another piece of broken bramble and nosed his way in. He knew of a bee-hive in a log inside this thick mass and decided to help himself to a bit of dessert before dinner. When he arrived at the log, he kicked it over and the bees swarmed out but didn’t bother Harry that much. He licked up a chunk of honeycomb and chewed thoughtfully as he backed out of the thicket and continued on his way. This was a particularly wonderful day, he thought. 

The Hunted, cont'd