This is George:
I *heart* George. He is without a doubt my favorite dog in the adoption program right now. He's sweet, handsome, happy, funny, and about a dozen other nauseously sweet adjectives. Tragically – and I say this with all the love in the world – there are goldfish smarter than George.
So when I call Maus, Riley, and George in from the yard Saturday night and George doesn't come racing up, I don't think much of it. I tuck my two boys inside, close the screen door, and go off to find my wayward temporary foster.
It's dark, but luckily for me George is white, and I find him behind the garage making friends with a tree – or so I think. I call him with the promise of all sorts of yummy treats, and at first I think it works. George's head pops up, he tosses a full body wiggle in my direction, and starts prancing over. However, when he gets about five feet away, George suddenly veers to the side and starts running for the house. That's weird, I think, and then I saw it silhouetted in the porch light:
George has half a dead squirrel dangling from his mouth.
The other half is, of course, on its way down his throat like the world's most disgusting spaghetti noodle. I spring into action, and in a fit of genius, George realizes I'm on to him. The race is on: can he finish swallowing this thing before I get there, or will he be telling generations of foster pups about The One That Got Away?
George breaks through my screen door and tears into the house, me hot on his heels. He flies through the dining room, the sound of franticly crunching bone coming from his mouth, but I manage to tackle him in the living room. Without thinking, I wrap my hand around the former squirrel's tail, and now –
Now I have a problem.
Those of you who own pit bulls know one basic fact about them: pit bulls do not let go of something unless they want to. George definitely does not want to let go of his new friend. I am definitely not letting George eat this dead squirrel, no matter how fresh it is. Unfortunately, George weighs almost half of what I do, and unlike me, George is entirely made of muscle.
While I am desperately wishing I own a break stick like any good pit bull owner (and then realizing that if I were to let go of this squirrel for the three seconds it would take me to go get the break stick the squirrel would be gone), I suddenly become aware that George and I have an audience. Maus and Riley are watching this exchange with expressions of rapture that I can only assume have not been seen since the three wise men saw the baby Jesus for the first time.
Well, first things first. I have to get this squirrel out of George's mouth. I'm smarter than him, I can do this. I decide the best course of action will be to pinch George's nose closed and cut off his breathing. George now has three options: he can let go of the squirrel, he can pass out, or he can grow a blowhole.
George tries very, very hard to grow a blowhole.
Luckily for me, evolution doesn't work that fast. George projectile vomits the squirrel across the living room in a way that would make men shot from cannons proud. For an instant, time stops. The dead squirrel is free; none of us can quite believe it.
"MINE!" I scream like a deranged Chihuahua, "MINE!MINE!MINE!MINE!"
The four of us launch ourselves toward the squirrel at the same moment, colliding together in a storm of legs, teeth, and bodies.
"Wa-HAH!" I shout, jumping to my feet and triumphantly waving the dead squirrel over my head like I've just won the Super Bowl. "Mine!"
And in this second, I realize that I have a really, really big problem.
Now there are three pit bulls staring at me as if they're wondering if it might be okay – just this once – to bite the hand that feeds them. I'm surrounded in enemy territory.
I start inching toward the door, but the dogs mirror my movements, waiting for that one, perfect moment when my focus waivers. I'm going to have to make a run for it.
I take a deep breath, shoot out a quick prayer to whatever deity might be listening (and laughing his or her ass off), and make a break for it.
I race out of the living room, through the dining room, into the kitchen, out the door, and SLAM! the door shut behind me. There are three crashes from the other side that I'm sure are hard enough to rattle windows and knock pictures off the walls, but it doesn't matter because I HAVE WON!
THE DEAD SQUIRREL IS MINE!!!!!!
Ladies and gentlemen, I have survived this ordeal to tell you one thing:
Crazy is contagious.
You get it from your dogs.