Our dog-who-thinks-she’s-just-a-four-legged-human LOVES the snow. She loves sitting in it. She loves romping in it in that way puppies-at-heart are wont to do. She loves rubbing her nose in it. She loves eating it, even the disgusting yellow stuff. If it’s falling from the sky, she loves barking at it. She loves digging in it.
That last one never bothered me until the other night.
I’d let her out after dinner (for about the millionth time since we got home. She loves the snow.) and heard the familiar scratching. I let her in and caught a glimpse of a slightly snow-covered wad of sticks in her mouth.
Only, one of the sticks had small claws. Bird-shaped claws.
She knew she wasn’t supposed to have it in the house, because as soon as she came in, she bolted. For the family room. The carpeted family room. Where my children were playing. On the floor. She looked liked the cat that swallowed the canary. Or the dog who nearly had.
And when I called “PRINCESS!” and chased her, she dropped it. Right on the carpet. Then she took refuge in her cage, with her tail between her legs and ears flat against her head.
And there it was. I’ll save you from the gross details, but yes, it was a bird. Or at least it was at one time. I couldn’t get to the paper towel and bags fast enough. She wanted her treasure back. Fortunately, I was able to get it before she returned a third time.
I don’t think rottweilers or chows are bird dogs by nature, so maybe it’s some weird result of combining the breeds. This is the second time she’s gotten a bird. The first time it was alive when she brought her trophy into the house. At least this one was still when I cleaned it up.
So the adage “A bird in the hand…”? Better than a bird the mouth, I suppose.