swallow in this bent position. I take it carefully, chewing many times, swallowing the precious blood, taking small pieces back with my tongue. And then it is done, and I am exhausted with my tiny meal. I want more, but the strain is too much. I let go and consciousness blanks out like fire dropping into a dark lake.
Days and nights pass. Sometimes when I open my eyes it is light, other times dark; my spatial sense brings me news of the small forest around me. I command my meals, rabbits and squirrels, a chicken once that had come into the woods lost. And I move a little until I can slide part way up out of the hole, dragging the one leg, one arm held tight to my chest. Now the liquids of the animals are not enough. I must have water, and there is a pool not far away where rain has collected. The time it rained, how long ago? Days? I do not know. I only know the pool is near. I pull my heavy body out of the hole, feeling the stiffness of muscles pulling against each other, the pain wanting me to stop, to stay curled in the hole under the fallen tree. I pull up with the unbroken arm; the one that hurts the most is least injured, I think. I am out of the hole, lying in last year's brown leaves. It is dark, moonless, comfortingly empty in the woods. I have not heard trains or cars for many hours now. It may be near morning. The pool is near. I pull over to it, sliding on my right side like a swimmer doing the side stroke. The water smells better than any food ever did. My mouth shrinks up in anticipation of the water. It is there, a dark glaze in my perception. I pull along and feel the ground getting slick and muddy. I want to lick the mud, but I force myself to wait. Now the water is under my right paw, and now my face is over it. I drop my face into the water, sucking it in, long, slow sips that take me with delight so that I hardly feel the pain when I drink. Not too much. Lie quietly and drink slowly.
The great stupid creature stretched out with his face in a muddy pool, one leg bent under him, the other stretched out in pain, broken ribs starting to heal in masses of scarred flesh. The back and the belly and the head a mass of painful swellings and oozing wounds where the pelt has been torn away. A train whistles in the distance. It will be dawn soon, for the train comes before dawn, and then the cars will come, only one or two most mornings although sometimes I have heard voices along the edge of the little woods. They are children's voices and have meant no danger, so I have paid little attention to them. Now, as I drag myself back toward the hole under the fallen tree, I begin thinking of where I am, how long it will be until I can move to a better place, what next I will be doing. I will not think of anything beyond this for a time. Death is still very close, and I must concentrate practically every thought and power of will on the healing of my body. I must be alert to deadening of the flesh, to undue swellings and oozings where they should not occur, to the healing of the many lacerations that could infect or turn gangrenous overnight. The weather is good, I think, as I drag back to the hollow. Only one rain, and it is warm at night. At the edge of the scraped out hole I have a ridiculous time trying to get back down into it without injuring myself further. Finally I can do no more than roll down into it limply, ducking head and holding my broken parts together tightly. Once in the hole again, I am so exhausted that I must relax my will and sleep. The last thing I perceive is the waking birds, the smell of sun hitting wet earth, and a far off train whistle.
The excited voice has been chirping in my ear for a long time, blending with a dream in which it was a chorus of crickets and frogs, which now I can hear separately as I rise toward wakefulness. The voice is narrow, high and has a metallic quality.
"It's a knockout, folks, in the twelfth round. Joe Louis, the Brown Bomber, has just been knocked out by Max
Days and nights pass. Sometimes when I open my eyes it is light, other times dark; my spatial sense brings me news of the small forest around me. I command my meals, rabbits and squirrels, a chicken once that had come into the woods lost. And I move a little until I can slide part way up out of the hole, dragging the one leg, one arm held tight to my chest. Now the liquids of the animals are not enough. I must have water, and there is a pool not far away where rain has collected. The time it rained, how long ago? Days? I do not know. I only know the pool is near. I pull my heavy body out of the hole, feeling the stiffness of muscles pulling against each other, the pain wanting me to stop, to stay curled in the hole under the fallen tree. I pull up with the unbroken arm; the one that hurts the most is least injured, I think. I am out of the hole, lying in last year's brown leaves. It is dark, moonless, comfortingly empty in the woods. I have not heard trains or cars for many hours now. It may be near morning. The pool is near. I pull over to it, sliding on my right side like a swimmer doing the side stroke. The water smells better than any food ever did. My mouth shrinks up in anticipation of the water. It is there, a dark glaze in my perception. I pull along and feel the ground getting slick and muddy. I want to lick the mud, but I force myself to wait. Now the water is under my right paw, and now my face is over it. I drop my face into the water, sucking it in, long, slow sips that take me with delight so that I hardly feel the pain when I drink. Not too much. Lie quietly and drink slowly.
The great stupid creature stretched out with his face in a muddy pool, one leg bent under him, the other stretched out in pain, broken ribs starting to heal in masses of scarred flesh. The back and the belly and the head a mass of painful swellings and oozing wounds where the pelt has been torn away. A train whistles in the distance. It will be dawn soon, for the train comes before dawn, and then the cars will come, only one or two most mornings although sometimes I have heard voices along the edge of the little woods. They are children's voices and have meant no danger, so I have paid little attention to them. Now, as I drag myself back toward the hole under the fallen tree, I begin thinking of where I am, how long it will be until I can move to a better place, what next I will be doing. I will not think of anything beyond this for a time. Death is still very close, and I must concentrate practically every thought and power of will on the healing of my body. I must be alert to deadening of the flesh, to undue swellings and oozings where they should not occur, to the healing of the many lacerations that could infect or turn gangrenous overnight. The weather is good, I think, as I drag back to the hollow. Only one rain, and it is warm at night. At the edge of the scraped out hole I have a ridiculous time trying to get back down into it without injuring myself further. Finally I can do no more than roll down into it limply, ducking head and holding my broken parts together tightly. Once in the hole again, I am so exhausted that I must relax my will and sleep. The last thing I perceive is the waking birds, the smell of sun hitting wet earth, and a far off train whistle.
The excited voice has been chirping in my ear for a long time, blending with a dream in which it was a chorus of crickets and frogs, which now I can hear separately as I rise toward wakefulness. The voice is narrow, high and has a metallic quality.
"It's a knockout, folks, in the twelfth round. Joe Louis, the Brown Bomber, has just been knocked out by Max
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