Bunny-Foo-Foo Is Dead
Apologies to everyone, but my dog ate Bunny Foo Foo.
It doesn't thrill me, but it's my job to report the facts.
Couple days ago, I kicked my Dog Of Destruction, Zak, outside. After that, the quiet, calm atmosphere that overlay the house was unsettling. No barking, tearing of furniture, dropping of dog-toys in my lap. It was quiet. TOO quiet. Just like the war films from the forties.
When I opened the back door, I saw something horrific, unsettling, something I'll never forget in my life.
Two grey, long legs drooped out of Zak's mouth like the world's worst walrus mustache. Blood splattered his jowls. Somehow his tongue worked its way around the (half) carcass to show just how tasty his impromptu yard meal was.
Yet he didn't look like a demonic hell-hound. His eyes were round and full of good-time fun, his demeanor one of "hey, look what I did!" His tail wagged more than a politician changing his mind. He was dang proud of his catch.
Panic set in. I didn't know what to do.
First thing? I called my wife, couldn't get ahold of her. Crap.
Second thing? Told my daughter about it while she ate breakfast. Explained how she'd better watch out if Zak licked her (Essential step? Probably not, but I did derive a little sadistic satisfaction out of her reaction. Let's call it payback for all the sleepless nights she's caused me.).
Third step? I donned blue rubber gloves (the kind only TV show medical examiners and housewives in commercials wear), snapped 'em up past my wrists. Grabbed a shovel and a trash bag. Whipped on a painting mask like I was a rock star. Took it off again so I could moisturize, because my wife says I must, then put it back on. Slapped the shovel in my hand and said, "Let's do this" in a gravelly voice.
Zak decided it was a good time to play "keepaway." After futilely chasing him around the yard, I went inside, tried a different tactic. Enlisting my daughter in the war against grotesqueries, we concocted an elaborate plan to lure him inside while I bagged the gory Grail.
My bravado failed me once I approached the half-bunny. Hugest half-rabbit I'd ever seen in my life. I'd like to think Zak didn't gnaw off the top half.
But the other option was even more unsettling...Monsters. Under the deck.
It doesn't thrill me, but it's my job to report the facts.
Couple days ago, I kicked my Dog Of Destruction, Zak, outside. After that, the quiet, calm atmosphere that overlay the house was unsettling. No barking, tearing of furniture, dropping of dog-toys in my lap. It was quiet. TOO quiet. Just like the war films from the forties.
When I opened the back door, I saw something horrific, unsettling, something I'll never forget in my life.
Two grey, long legs drooped out of Zak's mouth like the world's worst walrus mustache. Blood splattered his jowls. Somehow his tongue worked its way around the (half) carcass to show just how tasty his impromptu yard meal was.
Yet he didn't look like a demonic hell-hound. His eyes were round and full of good-time fun, his demeanor one of "hey, look what I did!" His tail wagged more than a politician changing his mind. He was dang proud of his catch.
Panic set in. I didn't know what to do.
First thing? I called my wife, couldn't get ahold of her. Crap.
Second thing? Told my daughter about it while she ate breakfast. Explained how she'd better watch out if Zak licked her (Essential step? Probably not, but I did derive a little sadistic satisfaction out of her reaction. Let's call it payback for all the sleepless nights she's caused me.).
Third step? I donned blue rubber gloves (the kind only TV show medical examiners and housewives in commercials wear), snapped 'em up past my wrists. Grabbed a shovel and a trash bag. Whipped on a painting mask like I was a rock star. Took it off again so I could moisturize, because my wife says I must, then put it back on. Slapped the shovel in my hand and said, "Let's do this" in a gravelly voice.
Zak decided it was a good time to play "keepaway." After futilely chasing him around the yard, I went inside, tried a different tactic. Enlisting my daughter in the war against grotesqueries, we concocted an elaborate plan to lure him inside while I bagged the gory Grail.
My bravado failed me once I approached the half-bunny. Hugest half-rabbit I'd ever seen in my life. I'd like to think Zak didn't gnaw off the top half.
But the other option was even more unsettling...Monsters. Under the deck.
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