He is hot on her tail—

Till the dense woodland looms ahead of them, like sands giving way to the tides.

No, no, no. He’ll lose her there. And he can’t reach her in time.

She dives for the undergrowth.

So he goes over.

Like a pole vaulter, he launches himself into the air, sailing over the thorns. A calculated jump, a poor decision for him.

He comes back down and collides with her haunches. But there is no place to bite. Only thorns, shadows, shrubs and leaves.

Slippery; fishlike, she wriggles away beneath him. 

Gone, but maybe with merely a bruise, or thorns, for his effort.

On the other hand, he’s placed himself squarely in the clutches of a thornbush himself. 

He is seething, with no option but to grit his teeth and trundle back out. Retreat.

Rage was more numbing than any medicine.