Something rancid this way comes

The perimeter has been infiltrated in the night. And it wasn't any stealth squirrel this time.

The stench of the beast lingers heavily in the morning air. Pungent and foul — the smell of a brutish, wanton primitive, of primeval violence and death. Something... tusked and matted and cloven-hoofed. Big.

The Big Rodent is going nuts. No wonder, with that nose of his. He keeps it to the ground, hunkered, and moves in quick, steady, clean arcs through the grass, tracing the path of the beast, reconstructing its movements.

I keep to the deck, head high, ears up, watchful, ready. Let the hound do his work. I scan the fenceline — no visible traces of the creature's point of entry. A low patrol of crows passes over, with nothing to report. Too damn quiet.

The Rodent finds what he's looking for. His trace brings him along the fenceline; he slows enough to inspect every plank and stave — five or six deep, rapid sniffs apiece, followed by a loud snort to clear the chamber. The rhythm of his snuffling becomes hectic, and I know he's getting close.

I gaze along his path carefully, following the fenceline ahead of him, and then I see exactly where he's heading. There's a hole along the bottom of the fence, near the far corner. Large enough to accommodate a troubling cross-section of species, yet just small enough to be inconspicuous to the casual observer. Fortunately, I am not casual.

I suddenly realize my initial profile of the intruder could very well be in error — a single, massive beast could not fit through that aperature. But a dozen or so smaller beasts... only such a number could account for a stink of these dimensions. A small army!

Quickly, I sense the ignorant Rodent's predicament. He's mere feet from the hole, and convulsing with fervor as the scent flies exponentially up his scale. He's being led there! A trap!

I leap from the deck into the grass and crouch, keeping the Rodent between myself and the hole. With all the fuss he's making, they won't notice me coming up quietly behind him. I stay low, and move up carefully, silently. Growling, he thrusts his head through the hole and lets out a few nervous, staccato barks. He has called the ball. I close the remaining distance between us, taking up position just behind him, crouched and coiled, claws at the ready.

Now, Rodent! Drop! Roll! Move!

He turns suddenly, and for an instant we're nose-to-nose. I have miscalculated. He takes one look at me, hunkered behind him, spring-loaded, claws extended, eyes narrowed in a murderous gaze — and he totally freaks.

With a high-pitched squawk, he jumps back so fast that he collides with the fence. I pull in the claws, but too late. He twists, rights himself, and bolts past me, across the lawn, across the deck, and launches himself through the hatch, his ears fluttering behind him.

Great. Just great.

Momentarily shaken by the Rodent's explosive exit, I pull it together and refocus on the hole. Whatever was back there should have made its move by now. I step in close, peering carefully into the gap...

Forget it. No way am I sticking my head in there. I'm not a total idiot.