ain't ingenuity

Wayne McCoy · 11-21-2011, 11:37 PM

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The sound of several small animals running through the undergrowth made Wayne straighten, sitting on the tree branch and pricking his ears. He adjusted his cowboy hat quickly and tightened his grip on the rope, looking down into the near-winter-sparse foliage to see what had caused the miniature stampede. If there was a large animal like a grizzly nearby, he’d probably have to scram, fish or no fish. The last thing he wanted to do was compete with a large predator over his catch. Prepared to leap down from the tree if need be, he waited—and chuckled under his breath when instead he saw a small coyote hybrid pad out from the bushes.

The auburn-haired woman asked him what he was doing, and with a slight grin, he pulled on the rope. The basket came up, dripping water, and he hauled it up to the tree before grabbing it and splashing the water out on the ground. One smallish fish flopped onto the forest floor, soon followed by the Labrador mix as he jumped down from the tree too.

“Fishin’,” Wayne answered. “Ain’t the most conventional way, but you don’t know if somethin’ works unless you try it, right?” He began to coil the rope, not wanting to rudely keep on fishing if the stranger wanted to chat. While he wasn’t as good with meeting new people as talkative and outgoing Dixie-May was, he had been raised to be polite enough.

“Name’s Wayne McCoy,” he went on, tipping his hat. “From Casa di Cavalieri. What’s your name?” He paused, sniffed. “And why do ya smell like dead cat?”

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