Rat

Straw

How can I describe the feeling? Perhaps I can't. There are no words. Joy might be the word that suits best, but even that does not adequately describe the pleasure I felt. No, I don't think that is a word that can describe what I felt, but that does not mean I will not try.

Perhaps this is a feeling that can only be described to those that have experienced it the same as I have. It is a shared experience, even though we have lived through it separately, at different times and different places and with different results. But every creature alive knows this feeling well. It is like returning to the womb.

I am, of course, talking about the feeling of burrowing down in fresh straw.

It was so very warm. The straw wrapped around me like a second skin. At first it was cold and scratchy and I just wanted to itch. I had to dance around a few times to make sure it was perfect: the rougher strands snapped under my feet and became soft, and the warmth rose until it became the perfect blanket to soothe me.

Outside it was raining. Heavy droplets of the stuff fell from the trees high above. I would have been in that mess if I hadn't found this lovely bundle of straw. I would have still been searching, completely saturated, with my fur matted and clinging to my skin and my ears cold and pink and there would have been water in my eyes and mud under my pelt. It would have been a horrific way to spend an afternoon. Even as I watched the rain I heard a mighty crack of thunder and shuddered.

But I was warm. The straw protected me. I was dry, too: none of the rain would ever get into my burrow. Other creatures would be jealous, but none would ever dare disturb me. I was safe here--the safest I have ever been.

I found the straw discarded, like so many things. The beasts got rid of it. It was in a box, but that was easy to topple. There was a big clump of the stuff, yellow and stiff and it smelled strange. When I first saw it, I didn't want to touch it because the smell was so foreign. But, straw is straw: the smell would go away soon enough, and as I dragged it through the dirt towards the burrow I found that I was right: by the time I had reached my den the smell was completely gone, and it just smelled of straw.

I took a moment to smell it again, just in case. You could never be careful, when taking things from a beast. It could be a trap. But, no, this time it was safe. It was just straw. Wonderful, warming straw.

So I stuffed it into my burrow. It filled the entire den. I had to dance around, and I used my feet and my body to make a hole big enough for me to lie in. And then, when I was satisfied, I settled down.

It is such a strange thing to sit still. I never do it. I am always on the go. And yet, with this straw, stillness was the order of the day. If I moved, then the biting cold would come for me again: anything that wasn't touching me was so cold that it hurt. So I stayed still. And I watched: I watched the rain come through; I watched the puddles of mud form; I watched the birds in the trees, all wet and miserable.

I watched it all. And I was happy.