Fresh raindrops hit my senses. The smells of life and growth and dinner make my nose tingle and my fur quiver.

The ground could have been granite these last few moons, for all the good digging did me. But now the clouds have let loose, their daggers pelting the earth. I take shelter under the oak just north of the hawthorn that tells me where my patch ends and Old Stripe’s begins.

There’s a sweet spot I need to wait for; when the earth softens enough to give up its bounty but before the fields swamp together into one enormous puddle. If I have to wade my way home the scents will have swirled into water meadow soup and I’ll have missed my opportunity for a satisfying meal. Hopefully the rain will be kind and not treat us badly. Just enough that the earthworms will out themselves and I’ll get first dibs on tonight’s dinner. None of this ‘early bird catches the worm’ nonsense. I’m here before all of them. Lazy things.

The downpour eases enough to break cover and I continue along the boundary. The crunch of a beetle lifts my spirits, the sodden soil seasoning my midnight snack in a way I haven’t tasted for far too long. Dry dust doesn’t do it for me, tickles the snout too much.

A subtle shift. The worms are stirring.

I’ll grub them out before the darkness fades and a reddening sky leads me back to my sett in the dark.