Found a dead mouse on my bed the other day, guarded by my little wirehair dachshund. Mouse was then snatched away by another dachsie before I could grab it with kleenex. Then he...Reilly...didn’t have it, so looked on the bed again, as the wirehair was frantically searching among the covers. I found it first, though. I believe one of the cats killed the mouse and left it for me to serve as dinner. Lizzie, the wirehair, thought she’d have it. Not.
Eeeeeew!
A few weeks back, I took a vacation day. I went out to lunch and came back to find the Dread Boston Salty and Dennis (the boy cat) racketing around in the fireplace.
I went in the study to tell ‘em to knock it off, and Salty comes over to me with what I thought was a rope bone in his mouth. He dropped it about two inches from my feet, and it was a dead squirrel.
I shooed Salty into the living room, barricaded us in with a baby gate, and called my husband, who said he wasn’t coming home from San Antonio a day early and I’d have to pick it up.
So I did what any good Texas girl would do . . . I called my dad, but he was taking my mother to the hospital for an antibiotic treatment and wouldn’t be able to get over here for six hours or so.
In desperation, and fully aware that it would result in merciless mocking, I called Bacon Man. He left work and drove about 45 minutes to get to my place, and he not only picked up the squirrel, he even buried it in the back yard. How’s THAT for cool best friendness?
But dead squirrel . . . yuck.