basic instinct

It seems I have lived a very long existence without realizing there might be a greater reason why snow burdened boughs bend to great contortionistic effect. How one shrub's bendy misfortune might be another's fortune. Yet tiny chumley seemed to know this truth the minute his paws hit the snow, wandering as he did from snow covered shrub to snow covered shrub, risking miniature avalanche after miniature avalanche.



I suppose I wasn't thinking clearly from the start. We awoke yesterday morning greeted by seven inches of fresh and fluffy white powder. The little kielbasa's so not gonna want to do anything outside, I figured. But there was only one way to find out.

I didn't bother dressing the little kielbasa in anything more than just his little green harness, thinking that Baxter would choose to be out for hardly a second before deciding he would hold it for the entire day. But to my surprise, there was nary a shiver from Baxter when I plopped him down into the snow.

Practically naked, tiny chumley gleefully porpoised off, making a beeline for the undershrubs, while I took advantage of the opportunity to search of snowy photographic moments.



We must have trundled about in our separate worlds for a good ten minutes before I started wondering what would make this little boy so oblivious to the cold and wet, and so unaware of the snowball that was starting to amass around his metal collar tags.

I watched as he soldiered on from one snow covered branch cave to another, nose furiously sniffing.

Ha, what does that crazy wiener think he's doing?, I started to wonder, and I bent over to peer into his one of his little under shrub worlds. Wow, what a peaceful, makeshift igloo of a world. So warm and cozy and perfect for....uh oh.

The realization that a suffering snow-bent shrub could mean insulated solace for backyard critters hit me just as Baxter made his way under the lattice walled deck, the most perfect igloo of all. Crikey. Oh please don't let there be...

From a distance I could hear the flapping and frenzied cooing, and then it was over as quickly as it started.

hey looky what i got, his eyes did glint as he emerged victoriously from under the deck, tags clumped with snow, paws muddy, and mouth FULL of dove.

Ugh. Baxter found his jackpot. Today my boy became our Dog.

"DROP!", I blurted out after recovering from my mortified astonishment. Little boy dutifully if not reluctantly let go of his prey, but it was too late.





It is at times such as these that I am amazed at how instinct works, how it guided a little sausage dog to find his prey while his much larger brained human prattled about in clueless fashion. I am sorry that the lonesome dove met its demise, yet I am awed by the brilliance of this boy's wiring. This is Baxter, wearer of long jammies and birthday hats and butterfly wings, friend to duks and dachshunds, and hunter extraordinaire.