We are out for a walk, down the road by the snow covered beaver dam. Zeke hesitates and stops.

Nose turns.

Ears slowly rise.

"Smell something bud?"

He looks over slowly, nose twisting to follow the scent, ears in radar mode. The look seems to tell me that this is important.

I try but can't quite pick up the sound.

Not that I can smell anything.

"What is it?" I whisper.

He is the hunter. This is his element. The faint musk of some wild animal rides air currents that only his keen senses can pluck out and analyze. Ears zero in on a distant rustle and he knows the direction and distance.

I strain my ears and can just pick out a high pitched yap. Maybe a fox, hard to tell, very distant. Ok, I can't hear anything. There's an airplane droning off somewhere but that's about it.

Zeke moves now. Slowly. Off the road. Nose working the scent. He gingerly ascends the snow bank. Fine tuned body moving with quiet grace. He must be following a faint trail left in the snow.

I hold my breath, wishing to become a part of this dance, if only vicariously. He's operating at levels I can only dream of. A master in his element.

At which point Zeke leans over and snarfs up a chunk of old bread, recently thawed from its ice tomb.

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