Daschound Migration

Shooting and murder and sickness and vampires and death...enough, already!

At least half of the fiction I write is humor. Kind of like this...


Daschound Migration

(Voice-over from a Science Channel program that hasn’t aired yet.)

It’s fall and the dashounds are migrating. They gather in pairs and threes, often under shrubs, waiting for the sun at dusk to guide them. They’re heading south, roughly following I-69 until it crosses route sixty-six. Then they head west. The faint scent of guacamole, which is heavier than air, hugs the ground. And the daschounds hug the ground, displaying once again the marvels of adaptive evolution. West and south they go as they do every year, to winter near the groves of their beloved avocado.

The short hairs leave first. They must conserve heat and their tolerance for lack of avocado is much lower than the long hairs’. And too, the short hairs prefer to travel in company and their herds can number in the hundreds. Long hairs are more clannish and stick to smaller family groups.

As far back as the earliest days of the opening of the old west, pioneers reported their wagon trains being held up for hours, even days, as the doxies spread in a wide, furry river from horizon to horizon. It was said that after their passing nothing would grow on the land for seven years. Except for maybe avocado.