I was showering the other morning when I heard the soft scuttle of paws on hardwood outside the folding door. Nothing alarming, no barks or yips, but just enough bother to make me lean my head out and ask the unanswerable: “Girls?”
I dried off, pulled open the door. Audi was on our bed. Paris was sitting on the floor. Both of them were looking at me expectantly, their heads canted.
“What?”
Then I looked down and saw him, a perfect little fine-furred chipmunk, de-animated in my honor and beautiful in repose. His opened mouth gave him the look of an academic arrested in mid-query, but he appeared untroubled and unmarked despite the single bead of dark blood beside him on the floor. When I wrapped him in tissue and carried him outside he was heavier than I imagined, a hand grenade of blood, bone and suet.
I wondered if he was the brave little guy from the morning before, the one who almost ran across my shoes as I prepared to take the girls on their morning walk. He moved so light and quick they didn’t register him as he raced behind them, across the deck to the dark safety of a hole. It seemed a risky move to me, but what do I know of calculations forced by instinct? He lived, at least for another day, and had a story if he had the means to tell it.
Why do I hope it wasn’t that particular chipmunk? Because we are the sentimental species, and I found something endearing in the munk’s bold dash. His terror (was it terror?) made me smile. Of all the chipmunks in the world, he was my favorite. But I don’t know if he was the one who became my gift. All chipmunks look alike to me.
I suspect it was Paris who left me this particular sacrifice for she is our hunter, our stalker. I catch her at the French doors, watching through the glass as squirrels gambol in the yard, her gaze intent, her muscles pulled taut like a sprinter in the blocks. It is frustrating, I suppose, that when the moment comes she has to reverse herself and slip through the dog door before she can take up pursuit, but I imagine the extra step has saved at least a couple from her jaws.
Still, she comes close sometimes, too close for my liking. It’s not that I worry so much for the squirrels—though I’ve nothing against them—it’s just that I imagine that Paris might not come away from a close encounter unscathed. Squirrels are quick and muscular, and I wouldn’t want their panic in my mouth.
I saw her catch one once, at the dog park, where she would have been a hero to her kind had she been able to hang onto him. (Her sister, Dublin, also muffed her chance at him.) As it was he kicked up dust and scampered up a tree. Perhaps he understood how lucky he was, perhaps he passed the word; I haven’t seen a squirrel in the dog park since.
While I have decided not to abet Paris—I won’t silently open the French doors to give her a better shot at her prey—I don’t actively discourage it either. Unless we leave the house and yard, she wears no collar or harness; I don’t scold her for following her lethal instincts. It is her nature to stalk and sometimes kill, and while I wish the little animals would stay clear of her yard, I usually remain as remote and neutral as the sort of insane god she might imagine me to be.
I make an exception for the turtles—they are easy to catch and relocate, and when Dublin paws at them it feels too much like a cat’s cruel play. (I understand why people bell their cats. Once we looked out the window to see our beloved Bork, as sensible a dog as I’ve ever known, using his forepaws and jaw to gleefully toss a turtle in the air. I saved that old fellow too, but Bork sulked.)
While I am attributing the chipmunk to Paris, it could have been Audi, or even Dublin, or some sort of team effort. I’ve seen Paris and Dublin double-team a rabbit more than half their size, and Audi snatches birds from the air on a disturbingly routine basis. I saw her catch a blue jay a week or so ago; she lunged at it just as it left the ground, snagging it a foot or so above the grass.
That one escaped because Audi was distracted by my involuntary reaction. (To paraphrase: “Whoa!”) But when I update the chart I occasionally post on my Facebook page (it’s both a black joke and a sincere appreciation of our dogs’ feral skills) there’ll be a another silhouette of a bird beside her name. (We are the score-keeping species.)
I hesitated before telling Karen about the chipmunk because sometimes it is cruel to tell the truth. But she takes it better than I do; she says it is in their nature and small animals exist to provide protein for those quick enough to catch them. It’s not a choice and there’s no morality involved, it’s just the way the world’s Darwinian gears whir. To think pretty thoughts changes nothing.
And it is in my nature to consider how man, in a sense, invented dogs. We selected traits we liked and discouraged those we didn’t, but we couldn’t breed out the animal. So we surround ourselves with these cute co-dependent killers, who love us enough to bear us bloodied tribute.
If they looked liked lobsters, Karen says, we wouldn’t love them. I guess not. We invented concepts like beauty and ugliness, innocence and evil. (We are the shallow species.)
A dog does what it is impelled to do, by instinct or by training. Through breeding and operant conditioning, we have created a whimsical array of pets to accessorize our lives. We have directed their genes and made them reliant on our sufferance. Yet we haven’t genuinely civilized them. They are all stone killers.
Yet I know them capable of kindness too, and humor and embarrassment. They learn so much of our language, we so little of theirs. (There is plenty of evidence that indicates dogs recognize and understand each other’s vocalizations: while barking isn’t a language per se, it should be obvious to any dog owner that it conveys a lot information.) I sometimes watch them watching me, searching my face for clues, reading my mood, striving for some sort of understanding. Each of them has their ways—Dublin is slightly aloof and ever watchful; Paris is confident and patient with us; Audi is a goofy toy, compliant and sweet.
It is not hyperbole to say I love them, and not in spite of their residual wildness. We make allowances for each other, I suppose, these terriers who bring me gifts and wonder at the curious business of the vainglorious species.
pmartin@arkansasonline.com
Read more at www.blooddirtangels.com
Perspectives on 06/07/2015