The Squirrel

Dear Goddamned Beagle,

This was my afternoon.

A knock on the front door. No one’s expected, and you’re being walked by Auntie E.

Open the door.

Auntie E: I’m REALLY sorry. Hangs head.

I look down. You are looking up at me, eyes shining, tail softly wagging. In your mouth is a large, misshapen, very dead squirrel, one leg sticking out at an improbable angle, as if reaching for a last hint of hope. You start to walk forward. You would like to come in now.

Umm, no, I say to you. I realize I’m not even phased.

Auntie E: I tried to push it out with a stick, but she growled at me. I tried to run thinking she’d drop it, but she just ran with it. Hangs head again.

I go to the kitchen and get a heaping handful of the smelliest treats I have, some chicken, maybe a mini banana. Whatever. I take it back to the front door where you remain standing, tail still gently wagging, and I let go, showering the treats all over you and across the porch. You look right. You look left. You drop the squirrel and starts eating the goodies.

You know, I say to E, as I take the leash and she gets two boards with which to transport the squirrel to a better resting place than my welcome mat, you really need to carry smelly things around with you if you’re going to walk a beagle.

This is my new normal, Beagle.


Your Person

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