Curiosity of a cat, nose of a dog

The old idiom says, “Curiosity killed the cat,” but a lesser known rejoinder to that phrase states, “But satisfaction brought it back.” Anyone who has spent time in the presence of a cat can easily understand the former. Felines are genetically programmed to tune into anything that might lead to a meal. As a result cats are pathologically “curious,” and while that curiosity can sometimes lead to trouble, it can just as easily lead to a meal. That’s where the second half of the proverb comes into play.

The curiosity of a cat isn’t a bad personality trait if you’ve got a mind for adventure. The nose of a dog might be a nice asset too, but it could prove a bit distracting as dogs are said to have a sense of smell somewhere between 10,000 and 100,000 times more sensitive than that of humans. A nice compromise is to simply emulate your cat’s curiosity by following your dog wherever its nose might lead and pick up the adventure from there.

The nose of a dog and curiosity of a cat are the guiding force behind the off-leash ramblings with my mutt, Frankie, on any given Saturday morning. Two parts Australian Shepherd, one part Labrador Retriever and one part Treeing Walker Coonhound, this boy was set for adventure straight from the whelping box. My job is to follow along while the nose leads the way, keeping him close enough to call back if I spot trouble ahead. On a snow-covered field, however, the trouble might come from right underneath your feet if you’ve got the nose of a coon dog.

A few Saturdays back, in the aftermath of the season’s biggest snowstorm, Frankie and I were knee deep in a harvested cornfield. (Actually, I was knee deep, and the dog — blessed with four webbed retriever feet — was effortlessly “snow-shoeing” across the crusted snow.) It’s always fun to watch a dog follow a scent trail across a snowy field because you can see the tracks laid out before him, and you know darn well where the path will lead.

Frank was keen on a set of fox tracks when he took a hard turn off the trail to spiral in concentric circles and land in one spot where he instantly started digging. Within the time it took to make my way to his side, he was happily hoisting the frozen remains of a deceased raccoon from the hole. And while the mystery of a dead raccoon in a frozen cornfield was at least minimally intriguing, the next discovery was just short of mind-boggling.

The dog picked up the fox trail once more but within moments diverted again to circle, dig and dive. This time he came up with a fish. Yes, you read that right, a fish — a 6-inch bluegill to be exact. The hound dog in him found it, the retriever in his blood compelled him to gently deliver the frozen fish to my hand, but the shepherd refused to let it go. After a brief struggle, I secured the specimen. Now we had a real mystery on our hands.

An easy half-mile from any fish-worthy water and high and dry above all but the most biblical of floods, there was no way this fish got here on its own accord. As far as I could see, the only two possibilities were either someone had taken it upon themselves to fling a filleting-sized fish into a frozen field or the thing had simply fallen from the sky. And while fish falling from the sky may seem a bit far-fetched, there is an active bald eagle nest less than a mile from this spot.

I recalled my daughter — a camp counselor near waters hunted by both eagle and osprey — telling me of the time a bald eagle fumbled a fish right onto a group of young campers assembled on a ball field in the center of camp.

I suppose we’ll never know the true origin of this particular find, but the dual goals of curiosity and adventure were certainly satisfied for both man and dog this day. And had my cat been along, he may well have been “satisfied” with the finding of a fish.

Remember, if you have comments on this column or questions about the natural world, write The Rail Trail Naturalist, P.O. Box 170, Fredericksburg, OH 44627, or emailjlorson@alonovus.com. You also can follow along on Instagram @railtrailnaturalist.