Darwin, the Arizona Desert and Curious: A MadLib Challenge

Every so often, I get writing prompts from my friends. This was a shared “Mad Libs” style, where the friend in question requested a name, a setting and an adjective. From these, they were going to write a short story. They invited me to join in and see what I came up with.

This was my response.

They say that curiosity killed the cat. Therefore, being a beagle, Darwin was not concerned when his nose began to lead him away from his caretakers.

There were too many smells here, Darwin realized. After all, what was the point of having a sight-seeing trip if one didn’t smell the sights and see the smells?

The first smell was that of warm, fresh air. An arid breeze swept across the rocky terrain, leaving the taste of sand and grit on Darwin’s lolling tongue. With a snap of disgust, he pulled it back into his mouth, lowering his nose to find another trail.

The brush was the second smell, similar to the hedges that ran parallel to 75^th Ave. It reminded Darwin of Mrs. Persimmons, the caretaker of a kindhearted, but rather ditzy golden doodle she called Chooly. It was, of course, not the name Darwin used, but like all canines, they knew that their language was much too difficult for animals without tails. He was a smart dog, but like most blue ribbon show dogs, he didn’t have time to hone his street sense. Darwin appreciated the wonder of Chooly’s perspective, though not always the fervency that came with it.

He wondered what Chooly would say about this place. Their own cluster of houses was cool and shady, with wide green trees blocking the few gaps that houses left. This, instead, was wide and wild, a place of heat and thirst. This is where Darwin’s mind drifted to next, and the sudden need for liquid overwhelmed his wandering nose.

Back he bounded to where his caretakers were slowly making their way across the same land he had covered in a quarter of the time. The little caretaker called his name as he approached, grinning with glee. Though she had existed for as long as Darwin knew, he understood that she was less ancient – younger, the word was – than the big caretaker. She referred to him as “Dad,” or “Daddy,” while she was called, “Sweetheart,” and “My Dear.” There was another name, “Violet Anastasia,” but that was said in a tone similar to, “So Help Me Darwin.” Neither dog or girl appreciated hearing them.

The big caretaker knelt, recognizing the question in Darwin’s yips. “Gotta stay hydrated,” he said, placing a small rubber dish onto the ground and pouring some water into it. “There you go, bud.”

“Bud” was not unique. The big one said this to just about everyone he met – younger humans, other dogs, even the occasional car. Perhaps, Darwin considered, the cars had a secret language he had not yet mastered. Maybe they were calling the big one “Bud” right back.

Drying the bowl with the sponge of his tongue, Darwin’s mind returned to the scent of the brush and the freedom in the air. He lolled up at the pair, his tail waving a question he hoped would get across.

“Sure, Darwin. Stay close,” the big one said.

Darwin jumped, dashing back to the scrubby plants that poked from among the rocks. There was, of course, the scent of vegetation, present in nearly every green, growing thing. But beyond that, Darwin found the odor of rodents and birds. The latter didn’t interest him, but the first was of great import.

These were his shrubs, Darwin decided. They had been found with his powerful nose, and now, by right of conquest, he would make sure any rodent that came near knew of the new ownership. He was halfway through marking his new land when he heard a voice bounce across the silty landscape. “So Help Me, Darwin!”

Darwin bounced away from the shrubs, finding a particularly strong scent to follow. This was a new one, reminiscent of some thread Darwin was too lazy to tug at. He knew it rang with excitement, though. Briefly, he tracked it, then raised his nose back to the wind. The big caretaker had said, “Stay close.” Judging by their scent, Darwin was not far. He yipped with excitement, then bent back to the tantalizing trail and followed it as it made its way up to a craggy rock face.

It reminded Darwin of the stairs to the park at the end of 75^th Ave, though these stairs were jumbled and out of order.  He clambered to one after another, following the trail. It seemed the maker of the scent was much more limber than he, but the beagle was as stubborn as Chooly was a show winner. Finally, he found himself at the top of a small rise, looking back out at the plain. The caretaker’s scents wafted to him, giving him permission to continue. After all, if he could scent them, he could find them. And he could find them, he was staying close, right?

In the distance, he knew the car was parked in some lot. He let his tongue hang slightly from his lips, panting as he thought about the walk they had taken. Another dry gust of wind left his tongue tacky, so he withdrew it and once again found the caretaker’s scent.

It was still strong, so Darwin turned to carry on.

Just over the next rise, the mystery trail seemed to blaze with life. It was newer, stronger, than the trail leading up the displaced stairs. Recognition of the stench hit Darwin, just before he caught sight of the creature.

It was a cat, identifiable from the pointed ears to the flicking, serpentine tail. But it wasn’t like the housecats that sat in the windows and stared at him with distaste through their cleaning. Nor was it like the feral ones, who he would chase on the walk to the park.

Just as Dad was the big one to Sweetheart, this seemed to be the big one to all those cats. It smelled of twisted nature, a spiteful spirit, and the victims of the paws that paced in front of Darwin now. The long, lazy tail twitched as they studied each other. The beagle watched intently, but there was no message. Just gibberish.

Darwin yipped a warning, but the cat seemed to ignore it. Or, more likely, it was too dumb to recognize a warning when it heard one.

It was the cat that moved first , leaping across the rocky plateau with a snarl and a hiss. Darwin responded with a bark, bounding to the side to avoid the slash of claws and snap of the jaws. Then he darted forward, nipping the cat’s side.

The world imploded to a ball of fur and fury as they tangled, snarling and snipping at each other. Then they were on their feet again, eyeing the other with terrible anger. The peace lasted just a moment, then they were at each other again, each trying to outdo the other and make their victory last.

Soon, Darwin realized he was outmatched. Against Chooly or other neighborhood dogs, he was quicker, smarter and had more stamina. But this was not a pampered golden doodle. This was a creature of the wind and wild, surviving on instincts and wit. Darwin knew it would not have chosen a battle it thought it might lose.

Darwin wished he could find the caretakers’ scent. He could follow it, find safety and security. But all that surrounded him was dander and fur, some from him, and some from the cat. It was not a situation that Darwin would be walking away from. Unless…

He had to act fast – the cat was quickly outmaneuvering him. Then he saw an opening and bucked, pulling away to stand on his own feet. Again, the cat pounced, but now, Darwin was ready. He leapt in kind, jaws bred for hunting closing around the nearest piece of the cat it could find. It was the scruff of the neck, a weak purchase, but just enough for his incisors to grip. He pulled, whipping the cat around and throwing it to the edge of the rock.

With a snarl, the cat scrambled for the edge, but Darwin howled a threat and hauled forward, snapping and scratching. The cat lost purchase and tumbled from its perch, toppling through the jumbled stairs below.

It landed on its feet. They always did. Darwin could see it snarling and hissing, but it slunk away, into the shadow of the rock. He had won, but as he congratulated himself, a whine slipped from his throat. Yes, he had been victorious, but now he was atop a pile of rocks, unsure if his paw would allow him to climb back down.

There was nothing to be done. Darwin had to find the caretakers. Their scent was faint – he had strayed too far. He limped down to the first stair, panting as his front paw rebelled against the use.

One careful step after another, Darwin found himself on the ground. He found the scent of the cat and limped in the opposite direction. His wounded paw caused him to struggle at first, but in a few strides, Darwin had corrected for it and fell into a steady lope, the call of the caretakers’ scent pulling him onward.

He found them at a gray-brick building, talking to a green-shirted person with a wide hat. “His name is Darwin,” the big one was saying. “You know, because he’s a beagle.”

“Uh, huh,” the green shirt said.  “Sir, there’s a reason we recommend keeping a dog on a leash, especially now. There’s a-“

“Bobcat in the area, I know,” the big caretaker said. “He knows better than-“

Darwin let out a small whine, catching the attention of the green shirt and the little one.

“Knows better, huh?” the green shirt said.

“Oh, no, Darwin!” the girl said, falling to her knees as Darwin ran up. She grabbed his neck, petting him and opening her mouth at his injured paw. “Daddy, look!”

“I guess he doesn’t know better,” the big caretaker said. “So Help Me Darwin, you’re going to be the death of me.”

He knelt as well, finding a cloth and some more water. He began to clean the paw.

“His rabies up to date?” the green shirt asked. Darwin knew that word – it was associated with a sharp probe. It was a distasteful word, and he barked to let the green shirt know he should not throw it around so easily.

“Yeah, we keep up with it,” the big one said. “I’ll clean this better when we get to the car, Darwin. I’m sorry, bud.”

“Darwin, what happened?” the little caretaker asked, pulling back and turning her serious blue eyes into his dark brown ones. For a second, Darwin believed that if he spoke, she would understand implicitly.

The moment was broken by the big caretaker standing. “I think,” he said, “Darwin taught a cat an important lesson about curiosity.”

“You’re just full of those jokes, aren’t you?” The green shirt’s hat shook in disappointment. “But seriously, there’s a vet’s office in town. I’ll find you an address if you want it.”

Darwin barked, and the big one laughed, like he was being affirmed by the sound. But Darwin hadn’t agreed. If any of the humans could read his tail, he was telling them the complete opposite.

It was Darwin who had learned his lesson. Even with a cleaned paw, its throbbing subsiding, he had no desire to explore the crisscrossing scents outside the green shirt’s office.

Maybe it would return, but at the moment, it seemed that the cat had killed his curiosity. 

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