The Hound of the Basketballs is in late middle age for her breed — she’s a 10-year-old Boston Terrier. Her primary hobbies include sleeping, hanging out with Mrs. M, and cadging treats from passersby, which is why she’s basically a black-and-white cylinder about the size of a baked ham, although somewhat more mobile.
However, the terrier genes kick in on occasion, which has resulted in her frequent efforts to tree assorted fauna, some more memorable than others. And she has likewise done her part to keep our yard free of the Rodent Menace, investigating mole tunnels and chasing squirrels over the years, or not chasing them at other points.
This weekend, however, she appears to have upped her game a bit. On Saturday evening, we let her out, and a few minutes later, she trotted to the door with a thoroughly defunct squirrel. The deceased was stiff as a board, whether from exposure, rigor mortis, or cadaveric spasm. After wandering around a bit, the Hound deposited the dead critter on the patio, where Mrs. M bagged the rodent and dropped it in the garbage.
Which brings us to yesterday afternoon. Again, the Hound goes out for a few minutes, and again, she returns to the back door with an ex-squirrel, this one brand new and still cooling. She’s not particularly interested in gnawing on the critters, and neither is she really presenting them to us as a cat might do. If anything, I think she may be along the lines of Steinbeck’s Lennie Small, somewhat befuddled by the fact that the critters don’t move after she finds them, or squeak like her toys do.
So now the Hound sleeps on the sofa near me as I type. I hope I don’t have to tell her about the rabbits any time soon.