I Should Have Named Her "Killer"

Apparently, for the last four years, I've been harboring a vicious beast. With an agenda.

Early this morning, I opened the front door and let my dog out, as I do every morning. There are no fenced yards in this neighborhood so people either use leashes or have voice control over their dogs. Since it's 5:30 a.m. I usually don't have to worry about anyone else being out. I let her out and stand on the porch and watch her while she takes care of business- which often includes carefully sniffing every square inch of grass in the yard. When all is sniffed and done, she trots back inside, inhales her food and hops up on the sofa for her first nap of the day.

This morning, I opened the door and she ran up to it and stopped. I urged her "come on! Go!" and she just looked out the door as if she were about to cross into the Twilight Zone. After a few more moments of contemplation, she looked at me and charged out the door so fast the carpet where she had been was smoldering. As she shot down the steps, ripped across the grass and darted straight into the street I finally saw what the big deal was.

A squirrel.

She's never chased anything before. Unless something's trying to get between her and her next meal, she could care less. As it turns out, she just hasn't been provoked enough. After she came to a stop, she barked at the top of her lungs for a good minute at the squirrel who was now safely up a tree twenty yards away. Finally, after promises of dog treats, I was able to draw her attention away. I grabbed her collar and dragged the snarling sixteen pound attack dog back to the yard. As we walked back she kept looking behind her as if to say "I'll get you. Maybe not today, maybe not tomorrow, but soon."