Stealing Dinner
My underbelly burns as I haul my body, scale by scale, across the sun-scorched earth.
I taste the air. There is no moisture, no ozone.
My body demands fluid, so I move quickly and stealthily through the hard, cracked earth toward the scent of moisture-rich food.
I yearn for the soft, cool soil that hugged my skin earlier as I lay huddled in the safety of my den. I want to return to comfort, but thirst and hunger call louder.
My vision is clouded. It won't be long before the itching is more persistent than any call for nourishment, and I will shed.
Passing under a bush, I slow as a low branch scrapes against my scales. The sensation is rewarding, and I coil around the plant, letting the branches scratch my dying skin.
My tongue explores the air again. It is cooler here. Sleep conquers me, and I rest until my body heat cools. Eventually, the hunger overpowers my desire to rest and forces me onward.
My obscured sight doesn't hinder my progress. I deduce the distance from the vibrations I feel through my stomach and jaw.
My tongue flicks out, and when it returns to rest in my mouth, I know the direction to travel.
Food is close.
I crawl through another section of scalding ground devoid of shelter. Only the anticipation of the liquid ahead drives me on.
The packed dirt changes to loose, tilled soil. I detect shade and squeeze under the wooden wall, stretching out to my full length along one side of the building.
I stop again and probe the air. The creatures stir inside. They smell anxious and ready to run.
I'm not concerned. It isn't the moving poultry I seek.
My tongue does not sense danger; no dog or human, so I move along the building to the spot where I climb. I lift my head and then my torso vertically as high as I can until my muscles weaken from the weight, and then I thrust my head forward toward the small opening I've used previously.
Something is wrong. The aroma isn't right. My head touches something hard.
This has happened before. A hole that has worked in the past no longer works. Dropping my body, I slither tight alongside the building, looking for another way in.
The food scent permeates the air.
Once more I raise myself erect and search. The odor is strong, but I don't feel an entrance. I lock my scales against the rough timber and pull, pushing with the muscles at the end of my tail. I repeat the motion until only a few inches of me remain on the earth. The friction of the wall disappears and my head slides through the opening. The muscles in my neck relax and I dangle my head and neck toward the chaos below me.
The vibrations of the terrified chickens on the ground resonate through me, but I ignore them. I smell eggs.
My tail ribs propel me further down, closer to an egg's smooth, warm shell.
I rest on a small box-shaped ledge. A piece of straw lodges between my scales as I coil to fit inside the space. Readjusting doesn't alleviate the irritant, but my mind fixates on the package of nourishment in front of me. The discomfort recedes.
Stretching my jaw, I glide my mouth over the egg. Then, my ribs constrict and relax as I move the meal progressively toward my stomach. I swivel my head and ingest the next tidbit.
There are only two eggs on the ledge. I detect others below me, but the noise from the chickens has increased, and I smell the human. Not close, but it is time to go.
The desire to be safe is now louder than the hunger.
The weight of the eggs hinders my efforts to pull my body back through the aperture above me. Exhausted, I rest at the top, my tongue reading the environment before I drop to the ground.
As I inch toward the expanse of sun-heated terrain between me and my den, I fight through an encroaching fog of sleep. I must stay alert.
My jawbones still vibrate as the chicken’s panic. The human is with them now, but I do not smell the dog. That is good.
I find a crevice under a structure and remain still, trying to stay awake. I need to watch for the canine because hiding won't be enough if it appears. When the human scent dissipates, I move on.
Exhausted and overheated, I can only focus on the oasis of shade the bush ahead will provide. As I approach, I sense the drop in temperature.
One more undulation of my rib muscles and I will be hidden and cooled by the foliage.
I hear a whisper in the wind and the scent of a hawk a moment too late as its talons rip into the skin of my exposed neck. Instinctively, I constrict my body around the source of pain.
The bird's wings flap. I leave the earth, and air whips across my scales. We are flying.
Frantic, I repeatedly clench and unclench my muscles, flinging my body mass erratically.
The grip of a talon weakens. Hopeful, I continue shifting, and the talon releases, but another holds my head and it grips tighter. A throbbing ache echoes through my body.
We land, and I hang limp. I am tired but I focus on one more push of muscle strength. Gathering my energy, I coil my torso around the raptor's feet and squeeze. Suddenly, my muscles release, energy depleted; my body weight pulls against the one claw still wrapped around my neck.
The talon's grip loosens briefly, but I can't muster another constriction. I am helpless. My tongue tastes my own fear.
The bird’s beak opens and I smell death in its breath.
Agony explodes at the back of my ...