So, two a.m. this morning, and my little dog slips outside and commences a great barking that sounds like a squeaky toy gone mad. Normally, this is the sound she makes when she sees a squirrel, or as we call them, "ess-ques," because even the name spoken aloud is enough to start a claw-scrabbling hey-Moe-hey-Larry woo-woo-woo-woo run for the back yard.
Soon as the critter gets high enough up the trees, she usually shuts up.
But not this time. She's carrying on like the squirrel army is advancing and so I get up, go to the bedroom door and call her.
Not interested in coming.
Well, far be it from me to ignore my faithful dog if she is trying to warn me of some danger. Wolves, burglars, maybe the house is on fire, and wouldn't I feel terrible if I didn't attend the situation?
(Although my other faithful dog, lying on the bed, has barely deigned to rouse himself to look up. Whatever it is, Jude has apparently decided, Layla can handle it.)
Fine. So I grab my flashlight and the wall-hanger replica of the samurai sword McCloud carries in The Highlander, and head out to see what all the commotion is about.
(I know, I know, I should have taken a gun, of course, but if I have to shoot somebody, the neighbors, who are doublessly all awake by now from the little dog carrying on will hear it and that will be another brick on my half-asleep load I don't need. I figure if there is a burglar out there, seeing a large, naked man bearing a flashlight and a samurai sword will probably be enough to make him reconsider his choice of houses and depart the premises.
But, no. Layla has trapped a young opossum under a board I've set up over a depression under the laundry room window where upon I park the barbecue grill. Thing is about the size of a guinea pig -- hissing and showing teeth, but mostly wanting the noisy dog to go away.
I'm with the possum. I bring Layla back inside, make sure she can't get back out, and hope that the critter will decide that a yard with dogs in it is not the best place to live. Plus I'll go fill up the hole with dirt later today.
It's always something.
We call squirrels "furry demon ones" for the same reason.
ReplyDeleteMy wife gave her a squirrel squeaky toy one time and after the first couple of times of telling her to get the squirrel and having her run to the back door, barking loudly, we now call squirrel squeaky toys woodchucks, because that first toy had a name stitched on the side that from a distance, with your eyes squinted, looked vaguely like Woodchuck.