A Weasel Gone Awry

A preview of a new short-story, and a companion to my first book Frog of Arcadia

The following is a preview of a short-story from my upcoming anthology, The Agrigore. This collected volume will serve as a companion to my first book, Frog of Arcadia. If you enjoy my work, children’s literature told with an old soul, please consider supporting my future publications by subscribing. As a special thank you to my paid subscribers, I have included the full story below a paywall.

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On a fine autumn day, Farmer Lewis’ boy was a-hunting with his trusty dog, Huckleberry. Ordinarily when the two of them walked together, it was their custom to sing a little melody. Rather, I should say that the boy would often sing while his faithful dog would howl along as best he could. But today, there would be no singing, for as I said they had gone a-hunting, and everyone knows that hunting calls for silence. In fact, the boy considered any sort of frolic on a hunt to amount to taunting, and he was far too sportsmanlike to engage in such foul practices.

And so they marched, keen and silent.

Through upland fields and shallow fords the two of them moved, side by side, taking in the fleeting glory of an Indian summer. The boy kept his shotgun slung proudly over his shoulder. It had been his first real gun and his most prized possession.

Suddenly spying some small game, perhaps enough to fill their pot, the dog froze and stiffened his frame. His beautiful brindle coat shimmered in the sun, as his eyes focused intensely upon a small dell in the distance. Then quickly, the old English pointer darted across the cut crops for those distant trees as the boy made ready from behind.

Disappearing into the hollow, the dog was leading the boy frightfully far from home – further than he had ever roamed before. The boy was afraid. But when the boy finally did reach that dell, he marveled at the oasis which his dog had led him to. There, a spring-fed pond had been hidden amongst the trees; an idyllic watering hole which would have been a great temptation under normal circumstances. The pond’s refreshing allure was magnified on that unseasonably warm day. But it had been months since he had tasted bird, and so it was that his mind remained committed to the hunt. And to locating his dog.

The boy soon breathed a sigh of relief as he found Huckleberry digging at the root of a mighty, old growth tree. In its branches was room enough for a boy to spend his days. “What’d ya find, Huck?” he asked, clutching his shotgun. Huckleberry gave no reply, concerned only with the passionate dig to which he was presently engaged. Posturing for a view, the boy stood on his toes to peak over his dog’s head. From under the root, he spied a golden coloured weasel contorting itself desperately to keep away from the dog’s terrible muzzle, which had been close enough to wet the poor critter with strings of drool.  

The boy paused for a moment to consider. Surely this was one of the weasels who had so greedily cleaned out his family’s chicken coop, not months earlier. Matter a fact, the boy thought, Dad’d be right proud of me if I bagged this varmint. But as he watched the creature’s desperate plight, he pitied it.

“Off, Huck!” the boy finally commanded of his dog, grabbing Huckleberry by his orange neckerchief.

Huckleberry was in a state of disbelief, reluctantly ending the pursuit of his game.

“What’s done is done,” the boy explained to his confused dog. “Killin this rascal won’t bring back not one of our chickens. And we ain’t gettin any new chicks til next Spring. Besides, I ain’t got no appetite for weasel. We only kill what needs killin.”

Though the dog would whine with displeasure, he faithfully endured his master’s command, however offensive it was to his most basic instincts.

“Come on, Huck,” the boy motioned, as he slung his shotgun back over his shoulder. “let’s go bag a pheasant or somethin.”

As the fearsome duo departed, Ichabod remained frozen in disbelief, scarcely trusting his own senses. He had already prepared himself to die under that root; to be digested by a dumb dog. But as the reality of his survival set in, the weasel began to ponder his destiny, and the value of his own life. It was true that he had been actively involved in robbing the boy’s chickens, and that not one of those hens been spared. But since then, he and his fellow weasels had been scattered, and Ichabod had found himself alone and confused.

The weasel’s mind was spinning as he emerged from that shallow den. Why had he been spared the same fate as those hens? The boy’s forgiveness had to mean something, Ichabod tried to reason. But what? As clever as weasels may be, this philosophical chestnut was too marvelous for Ichabod’s mind to crack. Still, he was sensible enough to conclude that his life must be worth something; that he wasn’t just born to eat and die, as all weasels are raised to believe. For a weasel then, this line of thinking would amount to an existential crisis to say the least, if not downright treason. But Ichabod had received grace, and for that he would never be the same.

Finally, the weasel slunk out of the den and moved to the edge of the tree line. The boy and his dog had since moved well beyond the dell.

“I owe my life to that boy,” Ichabod spoke aloud. Though he understood this to be true, he knew not what to do about it.

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The boy and his dog continued along their search for something to fill their pot. Faithfully, Huckleberry had put the weasel out of his mind, knowing it was outside of his masters will, and that was good enough for him. Their minds were again fully engaged in the hunt.

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