Copycat by Colin Dann Page A

the path of that . . . that . . . monstrous caterpillar?’ Pinkie demanded.
    ‘I don’t live,’ the fox grunted. ‘I exist. And barely that.’
    ‘Do you sleep in that black place?’
    ‘Sometimes. If the river’s low like it is now. But if it rains heavily I usually steer clear of it.’
    ‘Where do you go then?’
    ‘Anywhere. I have no other den. Look around you. Do you see any scope?’
    Pinkie had already noticed the dearth of shelter. The ground was bare and open. A drainage ditch ran across it and emptied its contents into the river. The ditch was too wide for the fox to jump and therefore marked the extent of his territory. Away from the river, beyond the open ground, were more buildings comprising a small industrial development.
    ‘This is where you’ll find rabbits,’ the fox said abruptly as he saw Pinkie’s blank look.
    She had almost forgotten them. ‘Where?’
    ‘By the ditch. They like to nibble the young spring growth alongside. And they use it to drink from when they can. Their homes are in the river bank beyond it.’
    ‘I don’t see any now.’
    ‘Well, you wouldn’t. There’s not much for them to eat there at present. Too early in the season. And if there had been any, the train would have made them bolt.’ Pinkie was scanning the river bank where the fox had said the timid creatures had their warren. There was no sign of life. Indeed the entire area had a distinctly desolate look about it. She wondered where on earth she would find shelter when she needed it without risking a return to the environment of humans. She wandered to the edge of the ditch and looked across. It would require a mighty big leap to get to the other side. She glanced at the muddy water flowing along the ditch bottom, then turned her back. There would be no rabbit hunting. The image of Monty’s food-bowl seemed to flash across all this emptiness like a beacon. But Pinkie was determined not to give in yet.
    ‘Does the ditch ever run dry?’ she asked the fox.
    ‘Maybe, if the rabbits are particularly thirsty,’ the ragged beast quipped. ‘Oh,’ he chuckled, ‘I see your drift. You’re really hooked on this rabbit round-up, aren’t you? Well, I told you. I can’t catch them.’
    Pinkie’s thoughts took flight as soon as she heard the word ‘round-up’. She was back with Sammy and their poor lost kittens in the park. She heard again the tramp of heavy boots and, in a panic of realization, saw herself as she would be seen now on this barren and muddy piece of land by those fierce, eager humans. She began to tremble as if their nets had already trapped her, as if their hands already grasped her. She remembered Sammy’s gibe. No, of course she didn’t know how to evade capture, except by running . . . She broke there and then into a half-run and only the fox’s croaky voice brought her back to reality.
    ‘Where are you going now?’
    Pinkie came to an abrupt halt. She blinked at the fox dumbly. ‘I – I don’t know. I need shelter,’ she mumbled.
    ‘Well, you’d better come with me. I’m going to my den. Nothing doing here.’ The fox limped away.
    ‘Huh! I’m not that desperate for shelter,’ Pinkie whispered with the ghost of a grin. ‘I’d sooner be up a tree.’ However, her sympathies were aroused again as she watched the decrepit fox slink towards the one place in the whole hostile neighbourhood he could call home. ‘Poor creature,’ she mewed. ‘Life has treated him badly.’ She recalled that the Pub Cat had known him in the past, and wondered what he had been like when he was young. She crept after him, ready to flee from the slightest sound on the railway bridge.
    The fox’s earthy den smelt even more strongly than the animal himself. From this Pinkie guessed that the river water hadn’t recently paid a visit to wash the place clean. She peered under the boulder into the gloom. Inside the den was as dark as night. The fox’s muffled voice reached her.
    ‘Come inside