After a long day of working out, re-planting baby hostas, playing in top soil and yanking down yet another substantial tree in my backyard, I returned from the grocery store to hear one of my neighbors call “Do you have a greyhound?”
Why yes, yes I do. In fact I have two.
“Um, well your dog is lying down in my garage right now, and it seems that it – well, it got to our pet rabbit.”
Somehow I knew this wouldn’t end well.
“I have to have it put down.”
Not only do I have to retrieve my killer dog, I have to stand there and watch an eight year boy crying at the sight of his empty rabbit hutch. Seems the bunny was his birthday present. Folly, meanwhile is sprawled on her side on their concrete garage floor, tongue lolling and drool puddling.
Fortunately there was no blood, dismemberment or evisceration. The bottom of the hutch was wire and my murderous hound ran under it, scaring the poop out of the furry critter (literally – there is a stain of green poo on her face) and somehow it broke its leg. Thus endth the bunny.
Somehow I don’t think is any consolation to the boy whose tear-stained face will now be haunting my dreams.
I am going to hell. But at least I’ll have my dog.