"Who, me? Eat birds? Nah...you have me confused with that fox over there."
My dog is a killer. Sort of.
We were walking in the woods—she was off lead—and we came up to an intersection. I signaled her to go straight, and she went right. When I got to the intersection, I saw why she flouted my command.
There was a bird, obviously injured. It was one of those big fat pigeons, or maybe a dove, about the size of a small chicken. They circled, while I screamed "NO! NO!" and then she got a good mouthful of it.
I continued to scream as the feathers flew, and then I came to my senses. "Drop it," I said to her calmly. She placed it gently on the ground (true to her breeding), but there was little hope for it at that point. A fox probably made a meal of it later.
I scolded her, telling her birds are our friends, but she seemed awfully proud of herself, prancing along, feathers dripping from her mouth. I know she's a dog, "it's her nature," but I've been trying to teach her compassion.
She hates it, though, when I get all abstract on her. She refuses to learn the memory verses I give her: "Blessed are the meek, my ass! This one's MINE!"
In other dog news, over at Creek Running North Chris Clarke and frequent commenter Tost have a bet going. Go vote for the handsomest dog. (Each vote costs a donation to a favorite animal shelter.) Read the trash talk that started the bet here in comments.
My dog, an ethnocentristic American, is voting for a member of her own breed, Cody, but I'm leaning toward Zeke.
