eat or be eaten

A woodchuck found our garden while we were vacationing in Italy. While we dined on Bruschetta and drank white wine from the Ligurian coast, it ate organic broccoli plants, swiss chard and parsley right in our front yard. Up and over the fence, no problem.

On return, Calley sensed its presence immediately. Every morning she tracked its scent, criss crossing the lawn and heading down to the stonewall. From her bed in the front hall looking out to the garden she watched with full attention, ears cocked, hour after hour.

Then it happened. This morning at eight am I heard a clatter of scratchy paws on oak floor and then the slam of the screen door. Like a flash she went from prone to vertical and was standing in the front yard with the woodchuck in her mouth. Hearing the commotion, I looked out the window to see this scene. I could barely stand to watch and finally decided not to. She was doing what we wanted her to do, but I didn’t really want her to do it. There was my lap dog, the companion who licks my hands and feet, who rolls over to have her tummy rubbed every morning. A killer.

A short bark at the door and she is back from the hunt. The dead woodchuck is slumped in a furry pile on the grass. I fill Calley’s bowl with fresh water and put it down for her. Isn’t that what anyone would want after having a mouthful of fur? Then I hand her a dry, dreary dog biscuit as if that is the proper reward for the real life prey/predator encounter she has just had. I don’t even make her sit before giving it to her. She seems above those little dog tricks now.

After crunching on her biscuit, she sighs and curls up on the kitchen floor watching as I cut carrots and celery and tender basil leaves for a vegetarian soup.

Thanks to Calley, the parsley, swiss chard and eggplant are safe for another day. Who says a dog doesn’t earn her keep?