The Squirrel Czar

“I am Hazel, hunter of Squirrels, defender of humankind.

Cats don’t interest me, nor do birds, rodents, other dogs or even people for that matter, although an extended hand offering a cookie might momentarily divert my razor-sharp attention. Especially if it’s a peanut butter cookie. I love peanut butter. Oh, and particularly those homemade bone-shaped ones that my human makes. Right out of the oven, they are quite good. Wouldn't mind one right now, actually. Maybe if I whine loud enough….

But I digress. My focus must remain solely for that tyrant of the tree, The Squirrel. How I abhor these bothersome pests, which are naught but rodents with fluffier tails.

And how they taunt me, my enemy The Squirrel. They park themselves in my path, fearless and brazen, teasing me with their “come hither” stares as we momentarily lock eyes before they playfully scamper away beyond reach, not the least bit rattled over their near brush with death. I hear them chattering in the trees and this infuriates me. No doubt the impetuous little rascals are mocking my failed attempts to conquer and destroy.

That’s not to say I don’t give it my best. Given the 93 heats I ran as a race dog, one would think a retired ex-racer greyhound could catch one of these scalawags, but they’re quick. And cunning, too. They know how to grab my attention with the flirty flip of the tail or a leap between trees, all the while evading capture despite my most enthusiastic endeavors. Even my mighty barking, which echoes throughout the valley, doesn't faze these treetop minions.

My human is also annoyed by the unwelcome presence of The Squirrel, I can tell. Whenever we’re going for a walk and I suddenly lurch across her path to lunge at the furry little imps and she trips over me and hits the ground with a heavy thud, she raises her voice and sounds upset. I don’t blame her. My enemy The Squirrel upsets me, too. The world will be a better place only with their total eradication, of which I take complete responsibility. There may be collateral damage in its wake, but those are the times in which we live.

Because I am Hazel, hunter of Squirrels, defender of humankind.”

Canine Mafia

Ah, here we are in the glorious waning days of Indian Summer--toasty hot and the perfect time to give the dogs a bath before cold weather arrives and I have to resort to costly indoor facilities. 

Plus, I had just uber-cleaned my home, complete with moving furniture, beating rugs, and crawling on my hands and knees to use a toothbrush on the baseboards. Yes, I go clean-crazy every now and then, and clean dogs would be the final touch 

And so, I started with Hazel. Brought her into the like-a-sauna-courtyard outside my garage, soaped her up, washed her down, and finished her off with a nice towel rubdown. 

Now it was Olivia's turn. I swapped dogs, placing Hazel back in the house and bringing Olivia outside.

But this arrangement was apparently not acceptable to Hazel. She whined like she was being skinned alive. 

"You're having so much fun out there without me," she howled. "Nobody loves me, I've been abandoned!"  Then, her mournful cry morphed into a demanding bark. Bark bark bark barkbarkbarkbarkbarkbarkbarkbarkbarkBARKBARKBARK!

And then, blessed silence. But only for 30 seconds before the barking resumed.

I rushed soaping up Olivia, cognizant of the fact that I've never met a neighbor who appreciates a barking dog. I wasn't outside more than eight minutes before my girl was freshly bathed and smelled like her "sister," of lavender and oatmeal.  We returned back to the house where Hazel greeted us as if we were long-lost loved ones she hadn't seen since the last full moon. What a drama queen.

Not to mention a vengeful one. Because there, on the oriental area rug that was just professionally cleaned last month, was the ominous dark sign of urine. Which, by the way, was discovered only after I stepped in it and noticed my tracks across the freshly polished hardwood floors.  

I looked for Hazel and found her quietly slinking on her belly toward her pillow, ears flat, furtively peeking at me out of the corner of her eye. This wasn't a "couldn't hold it" accident, mind you. My naughty girl had delivered a message as obvious as the horse's head on the bed from The Godfather, the man who was also known for the saying, "revenge is a dish best served cold."

As opposed to the Dogfather's world where revenge, it would seem, is a dish best served wet.