Tilly has been paw print crazy as long as she could speak. Now, on the eve of her seventh birthday, she wakes me from the dead of sleep. Once the shock of waking wears off my eyes focus on the paw print vision in front of me; they are all over her apron, her dress and her socks. From her pinky dangles the new paw print cookie cutter we bought from the animal rescue place out in Dalton village. It's early enough for the room to still be dusky and I make to roll over. She squeals and places the cookie cutter in front of my eyes, holding it so close all I can see is the shine of the stainless steel. Before the sun is fully risen there will be birthday short bread in the kitchen, every one of them a golden dog paw. Then she'll sit on the edge of the couch watching the clock until we can pick up her helium paw print balloons and the cake that looks like an ink footed cat has leaped all over it.
Crawling up the window are paw print stickers, tiny footfalls the size of a mouse, but they look more like they were made by a cartoon cat. They appear old like the rest of the house, peeling at the edges and blistered. I think it's those old stickers more than anything that make me not want to step foot inside. Typically touches like that mean children and I've never had a good surprise working this neighbourhood...
Paw prints stamped in sloppy garden mud lie over the newly cleaned carpet. I bite my inner lip. That no good feline loves Jessica's bed and I know that's where she is. Before she lies down she turns around to flatten the non-existent grass, then scratches at the covers like she's working milk from the mama she left at eight weeks old.
A paw print tattoo has been on Gregors back for as long as I can remember. He told me the tale of it, how it represents the black bear mama that almost took his life. I recall laughing at him, giddy, until he showed me the scars from the mauling. That's how I recognize the impression in the forest floor, five toes and claws. It's about six inches broad and almost the same in height. With luck this furry friend isn't still about, but my strides become faster and longer...
In the snow were rabbit tracks, with the white blanket covering their droppings it was the only sign of their presence. Unlike any other animal Sarah knew, the prints of the larger hind paws lay in front of the fore-paws. The four prints lay in groups a small way apart, the length of the rabbit's leap, a lead away up the hill toward the woodland.
In the rain softened mud were tracks of a large bovine, not as large as a cow but something with enough body mass to make an interesting meal. They were hoof prints, the cloven feet of a deer most likely. Ryan smiled, how much each print looked the horns of his prey with two almost invisible marks beneath them like eyes...
It was the claw marks rather than the paw print that first caught Celia's attention; five deep grooves lead to the imprint like steak knives in soft clay. Considering the area the most likely source was a black bear, the grizzlies being further up north. Her heart rate soared at first but then settled, the mud was already drying around the edges. The print was hours old, perhaps as much as a day. Yet with the dwindling light it was a good reminder of who else was in the forest and how quickly night fell between the pines.
Delicate paw prints lead from the open window into the front room, each one of them a deep sable - the colour of the new compost in the flower beds. Delilah bit her lip, considering the chances of pinning the blame on the gardener. The cat had meandered about the white carpet, stalking around the antique pedestal table before leaping onto the equally snowy couch. It was the stray from yesterday, the one she had been told not to pet. The feline lay like the sphinx, eyes closed, emitting a deep rumbling purr.
The paw prints were obviously canine with their four toes and claw marks, but in these mountains it paid to know the difference between a wolf and a dog. The former meant less danger than the latter, for with a domestic dog came a man with a gun and, for the most part, a bad attitude. Mike found followed the trail in the autumn mud for a few moments, silent. "They're dog. See how the back prints fall to the outside of the front, this guy's chest is wider than a wolf."
Paw prints puncture the snow in front. Todd stops, examining the tracks without touching. "Wolf," he says without any trace of doubt. "Dogs wonder around like silly children, this animal cut a straight path and several others came behind placing their paws in the same holes. Dogs don't have the sense to conserve energy like that."
Paw prints stop Beka dead. They are fresh, overlapping older impressions in the soft soil. She holds up a small branch, the tell-tale mud says the tracks were made after the rainfall only an hour before. She bends to take a better look. The prints have four oval toes like a feline or canine, but the claw marks give them away as the latter. She holds a finger to each toe impression for comparison and then straightens. "It's hard to tell for sure, but the toe sizes are identical and that makes it more likely a wolf than a tracker dog." There is a collective sigh, then Beka resumes the lead. It's odd having her in front and Riley at the rear, but without her tracker skills there'd be no point in moving at all.
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