Backyard Massacre

Last night my daughter witnessed a backyard massacre.

It’s not what I wanted for her at 11 years old, but it happened nonetheless. To give some backstory for those of you who are not familiar with my pets, I have two dogs, which is interesting because I am allergic to everything with fur. I had allergy shots every three weeks as a kid and both my parents ended up getting dogs, sometimes three at a time, just to experiment with my senses and to ensure that the Zyrtec company stayed afloat. When I was about to get married and wanted to impress my husband, I got a him a chocolate lab puppy named Ralphie. I think I thought this was what you were supposed to do when you got married. I should have bought him some chocolate milk. But nonetheless Ralphie Albus Grant was adopted into our house on the Pond Road and had a reign of terror where he chewed the intricate woodwork on our farm house until the age of 2. At one point he ran off for three days and then hobbled back to us, unable to flee from his allergy ridden dog mom.

This past year, we caved to the demands of our pre-teen and took in a pug puppy.

It was by in large the cutest dog when we took it home. Others could argue they have a cuter dog, they don’t. Frankie is top notch, could win a medal for his pup cuteness. But that should have been a red flag right there. I never trust anything that good looking. That’s why I always have a hard time watching Mark Whalberg movies. So anyways, the first few days were all normal puppy whining and puppy chewing and forgivable puppy peeing. Fast forward to the beginning of the pandemic when we lost power and one of my lowest of lows has been sitting in the dark in the living room, taking that dog outside to pee and then coming back inside and listening to him peeing all over the rug. How should one properly clean up dog urine with no running water. I didn’t know if Frank the Tank and I could continue to reside together. It seemed our mutual partnership had come to end.

It turns out Frank did make it a whole year in this humble abode and last night I asked my daughter to take him out because suddenly that has become my job too.

Instead of paying attention to the dog she goes in her room and face times her friends using dog filters. It’s all very confusing, but I am the queen in this house, so I still shout from the kitchen for her to take him out. She will yell back mortified that she is on face time, to which I respond by singing Sam Smith loudly and with zero pitch.

After ten minutes or so, she opens the door to the breeze way and she is crying and screaming and I check to make sure that my favorite dog is still on his dog bed, because I do have a favorite, everyone does. I also have a favorite kid depending on the day. Ralphie was snoozing away, so I look down at the puglet piglet who is licking his lips, in sort of an elitist way, kind of like those hyenas on the Lion King right after they just hatched a clever kill. I went on to ask her what was wrong and she responds with,

“Put him on facebook marketplace, I don’t want him anymore.”

Readers this was music to my ears. One of the few reasons I have been holding on to this fur ball is because SHE wanted the dog. SHE had to have the dog. But then ofcourse a small part of me, a very small part, also loves this devil of a creation that lives here.

So I ask her what he did to deserve to be auctioned off to the Town of West Gardiner Page. She explains that she was walking him out back and he began chasing a mouse in the back yard. She started yelling at him to leave it alone, but he continued on in his hyena pursuit of blood lust. She said once he caught the tiny mouse, he didn’t even suffocate it or anything, He chewed on it it right there in front of her, like some kind of Hannibal reincarnated.

“I could hear the mouse screaming and there was nothing I could do Mom. He was eating the mouse alive right in front of me. Look he still has the blood on his leg from what he did to the mouse.”

I look down and he does indeed have one Dexter-like line of blood going down to his front paw. A leftover of his purge-like activity from the evening.

I consoled her the best I could, by eating our feelings while watch Babysitters Club (Does anyone think Stacey is a little B sometimes?) and also by reminding her that I didn’t think the dog was bright enough to capture a slug or even a slow moving toddler toy. After all, he does have enough brains and testosterone to be the Breaking Bad of the rodents on Terri Lane. At this very hour, she still has not forgiven the pug that traumatized her so greatly, and so here he sits with me on the couch, chewing on a bone that I bought him from TJ Maxx, because as they say you can’t choose your family.