~ Part 3 ~
“The whole sounder came back to look for you after the nasty hunters had gone away. But it was like you’d vanished into the forest air.” Mummy-Puggy looked at her hooves, embarrassed and upset. “There were no traces, tracks or signs of what had happened to you”.
With astonishment Puggy realise that he knew what had happened next. A few days ago he recalled nothing of the first two weeks of his life with the sounder; his first memory was that of being found by his two-legged parents at the brum-brum feeding place. But now, surrounded by so many wild boar, it was like his brain had woken up, rejuvenating once lost memories.
“Brains are strange organs”, he thought to himself. “Almost as strange as stomachs”—for he certainly did not understand his stomach; often it would declare itself empty and hungry for more food only minutes after the previous meal had been consumed. Actually, on reflection, he decided brains were probably even stranger than stomachs: “It’s almost like they have a mind of their own.”
At this point Piggy gently poked him with her front trotter. He hadn’t noticed that everyone was staring at him expectantly. “Well, go on then”, Piggy snorted. “Tell us what happened next!”
And so Puggy began:
“I’d jumped off Daddy-Puggy’s back and trotted back to the intersection we’d passed as quickly as my stubby little trotters could carry me. I’d just drawn two arrows in the ground using my hooves when a huge big black woof-woof crashed through the foliage near me.
My stomach knotted itself and suddenly I was both really hungry and not hungry at all. I stood transfixed, scared out of my skin. Eventually, I regained my senses and snorted at the woof-woof to follow the arrow.
He just stared at me. Perhaps he was suspicious that my arrow was a red herring, and that he should instead follow all of your tracks. But he continued to stare at me for so long that I decided he was simply confused by the sight of a boar and that he probably couldn’t understand me anyway.
But I continued to snort. I told him he shouldn’t hunt the poor orange-woof-woof. I mean, just because the orange-woof-woof was a different colour to him (namely, orange), that didn’t mean she wasn’t also a woof-woof, just like him. Skin colour (or fur colour) doesn’t matter. (I was a different colour to my siblings, so this was a particularly important point to me.) It was bad to hunt or be nasty to members of your own species. That was like, murder.
The woof-woof looked decidedly non-plussed. He wasn’t so scary anymore and had even started to waggle his tail a bit. I did the same.
I was about to ask him his name when a tall beastie snuck up from behind me and scooped me up in its strange runtish front trotters.
I squealed and squealed and squealed; partly out of fear and partly out of outrage, for I was not being carried in what I considered to be a suitably dignified manner. I struggled to escape but to no avail. I was caught. Taken by a two-leg.
I must have fainted for the next thing I knew, I was being rudely shoved into a strange brown box and then abandoned in a cold, barren looking place with no trees and no friendly flap-flap songs. Huge metal monsters whooshed past. Snort I was so alone.”
To be continued…
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