On Being a Hedgehog

My bipedal co-blogger- and co-personality- has the idea that a hedgehog is little more than an an interesting and attractive thing to have around. You can almost hear his brain creaking as he tries to work out why I do what I do. Humans assume that if you can't see it it doesn't exist, so here in the country he says things like 'look at that nice juicy beetle over there, why don't you eat it?'. If I could speak homsap I'd say, 'Cos it's poisonous, you idiot, and I've known that since it was fifty yards away.' But it's a tricky idea to express when your common communicative vocabulary consists of sticking your nose in the air and scratching your ear with your hind leg. Oh, and playing with socks, of course. He's never, ever going to get the sock thing, y'know. I could just stop doing it, but it becomes a habit after a while. Maybe I should carry a white stick, see if he gets the point. So anyway he keeps shoving this beetle in front of me and expecting me to eat the thing. It's just like the one I gave you earlier, he'll say. He gave me? Who was it had to fight with the thing, wrestle it onto its back and bite it in half while avoiding its claws? It wasn't him, he just stood there watching the entertainment. And no this one isn't the same, and if you can't tell the difference you're lucky you eat herbivores.

When he stands up in the garden, breathes deeply and sighs dramatically, I know he's contemplating the beauty of the landscape. But I could draw a map of every bug and stone for fifty feet around just by listening to my feet, and I can tell him everything that going on just by
sniffing the air. His eyes can't do that, they miss most if the things that matter.

But you get used to them, you know, these humans. I like having him around, and he's amusing to watch.