Wine Dog Adventures — Primal Pounce — Wine Dog Adventures

Wine Dog Adventures — Primal Pounce

Rain dregs trickled through the rusty guttering, and seeped out of the cold concrete I was laying on. I could smell food, but wasn’t allowed to eat. I could smell bacon, burnt on the edges, with crispy fat, just how I like it. I could smell thick toast, caramel brown outside, and squashy, doughy white on the inside. Earthy coffee with chocolate on top. Pots of Chai tea with clove, and nutmeg, and cinnamon.

The front door was propped open with a bowl of water and plate after plate of delicious food came through it. Morning turned to noon, and the rain kept on coming. So did the food. Baked egg with eggplant and parsley and herbs and chorizo. Burgers dripping with cheese and sauce and pineapple and beetroot juice. Meat, with black olive tapenade and field mushrooms, or with pepper sauce.

I still wasn’t allowed to eat. I was allowed to be there, by the grace of god, I was allowed to observe, and my god was I allowed to smell. But I was not allowed to sit at the table. I was not allowed to put my nose over the plate and inhale the swirling smells infused with steam that rose up from the freshly cooked treats and dissipated instantly into the cold rainy air.

It reminded me of home. With my brothers and sisters. Chasing each other on sunny days, smelling every flower and every tree. Running around in spring, when the fruit was budding – blackberry, blueberry and blackcurrant bushes, leafy, and thorny and sweet. Rolling into the vines, getting scratched and stained on the hunt for the sweetest berries.

Something dropped onto the ground in front of me. It smelt leathery, it was meat! Meat! I pawed at it, and quickly chomped it down. I was hungry, the hours spent smelling had my juices flowing, and I was grateful for the chance to feed them. It, as they say, barely touched the sides. I was hungry for more.

There were kids at this table, kids! And one of them didn’t like meat. Morsel after tiny morsel surreptitiously slides down the table leg into my jubilant jaws below. After hours of torture, being tied up outside the café, smelling but not eating, finally, there was hope. I pressed myself flatter to the ground under the table, not wanting to be detected…barely breathing, waiting for the next instalment of the unwanted meal to sneak into my soul.

But the morsels stopped. So did I, stock-still. There was commotion above me, laughing, grabbing then a gasp, and the sound of breaking glass. A red, watery liquid rolled towards me. I feared it, creeping backwards as it encroached on my hidey-hole. I was squashed up against the café wall, and had nowhere to go, but the red liquid kept on coming. The humans resumed conversation as if nothing had happened.

I tentatively smelled the red stuff. It wasn’t gamey like I thought it might be, it wasn’t blood, it was sweeter, and spicier. I gave it a tiny nudge with my sweaty tongue. I tasted mint and eucalyptus. It tasted like the leaves of my hometown. Emboldened by the memory of the arrogance of youth, I licked up some more. Memories came flooding back – “we all run around the Mulberry bush, the Mulberry bush, the Mulberry bush…” and plums, cooked by the sun, lying on the grass under the tree.

Still high on the meat morsels from the burger, I realised this was the perfect accompaniment. I kept sniffing and licking. The mint and herbs gave way to the bold fruit of my early days which gave way to black pepper and spice on the back of my tongue. The more I licked, the more I liked.

An intrusive mop poked under the table, I could hear glass scraping on concrete. They were taking away my liquid gold, my liquid ruby, and I had to stop them. With each searching stab of the mop, I was ready to pounce. A bitey, primal half drunken pounce. Mop comes under the table, and I jump, skitter, to stop it from stealing my juice. Another swipe of the mop, and I swipe it back, I feel my head hit the top of the table, but I don’t care.

Swipe, swipe, and then victory, I clutch the mop, my mouth clamped. The mop gets dragged out from under the table, me with it. I can hear my toenails scraping on the ground, and laughs from the people around me, but I don’t care I’m not letting go. The human tries to pull the mop away from me, but I hear this growl, from the depths of the animal kingdom, and the human looks surprised and scared. He drops the mop and backs away. I still clutch the mop in my mouth. I am determined to get the last of the red liquid down my throat. I sit down and methodically chew the mop to pieces. Making sure that I get, every, last, drop.