Squirrel stalking

This has been a week of perfect fall days for visits to the dog park. Tucker is a regular no matter what the weather, but when it's dry and relatively warm, we linger a bit longer than in the gray winter months of rain and slop. He has become a master of stalking squirrels. As we approach the park, he begins scanning the trees for signs of the taunting, twittering creatures. Ever since the day a squirrel fell from a tree and landed on his head, where he quickly and without hesitation dispatched it by vigorous shaking, he remains ever hopeful of being so lucky once again.

I release him from his harness and he lopes out into the trees and stops to scout. Spying a squirrel (or squirrels), he crouches. And waits. One front and one hind leg lift stealthily up and forward. He pauses with two paws in the air. Then steps forward again. And waits. Steps. Waits. Steps. Waits. He chooses just the right moment to surge forward in a full sprint, narrowing the gap between him and the targeted squirrel to mere feet. As he leaps forward, though, the squirrel also moves, quickly, toward the nearest tree, and scampers up it just high enough to be safe. Sometimes a brave squirrel ventures rather far from a tree, leaving herself vulnerable to being caught. So far, each squirrel has reached safety, but always there is a moment when I think Tucker might be successful in his quest. Once up the tree, the squirrel turns to face Tucker and chirps, teasing him. Tucker barks and jumps against the tree, frustrated at his inability to climb. Realizing the futility of the exercise, he abandons this hunt and gallops toward the next tree and begins the whole process over again.