The Tragedy

Disclaimer: I do not own Watership Down, OH I WISH! (sobbing.)

When Tigfarrle awoke in his burrow, he sensed something was afoot. He would smell the mischief in the cool, damp earth of his home. Yet, all looked well; however a fox learns not to trust outer appearances. The nose is the only trustworthy sense that an animal possesses. All other senses can be tricked, but not the nose. Bearing this in mind Tigfarrle lowered his ears and closed his eyes. He took a deep, long sniff, inhaling all the myriad of scents that penetrated the air.

Yes! There was something very wrong! At first he could not put a paw on what it was, but as he sniffed it grew stronger, and more potent. It was a vaguely familiar, acrid smell, which brought to mind memories of hot tar roads and the speeding dragons that the man-folk ride. He had smelt it before somewhere else, too. He racked his brain, trying to remember the odor. Then it dawned on him. He had smelt it in the man-folk barn while steeling eggs, and Tigfarrle shuddered at what he recognized. It was the smell of the magic liquid that man-folk feed their dragons; gasoline was what it was called. Tigfarrle knew that he was in danger, because the only man-folk dragon that ever found its way into the meadow was the dreaded mowing machine!

Even as he sniffed, the ground began to tremble. The dragon was close now, very close. Tigfarrle leapt from the burrow, and saw great, green dragon charging over the meadow not far from him. On the beast's back rode a tall man-folk in a broad hat. A burning stick hung from his thick lips, and he blew smoke from it as he mowed the grass.

The sparrow-kin, field mice, and quail-folk were already evacuating the premises amidst great cries of terror and indignation. But where were the rabbits? A sickening realization struck Tigfarrle with brutal reality. The rabbits were in their warren, and that rabbit-palace was dug too deep for the occupants to have heard the mowing dragon's warning! Even as he thought, a cry arouse from deep below the fox, as the rabbits were buried alive in their own tunnels.

Though the fox and the rabbit are natural enemies, during a crisis all the animals are allies. Tigfarrle quickly began trying to dig out the unfortunate rabbits. Even as his paws scratched the hard soil, he recalled a day not long ago when several rabbits left the warren. They were led by a yearling named Fiver, who had -through powers unknown- foretold the coming calamity. "The fields are covered in blood!" he had cried. Indeed, now they were!

A shot rang out, and sharp, stinging pain ran through the fox's body. "The man-folk's shooting stick!" Tigfarrle cried. He ran toward the forest, blood soaking his beautiful coat –crimson meeting crimson. No one could save the rabbits now.