Oh, Princess Annie.
Princess Annie brought a dead mouse into the living room today.
It was just a matter of time. The dogs have had a more-than-casual fascination with the backyard this summer, sniffing around in the grass along the fenceline and in the brush under the three evergreens at the back of the yard. They've often seemed content to stay out there for hours, and earlier in the summer, we'd let them. Then Annie learned how to clear our brand-new six-foot privacy fence. Thirty-five pound mystery mutt Annie. After a few such stunts, backyard playtime no longer went unsupervised.
Shortly after we began this period of closer supervision, our attentions were drawn to the appearance of a series of dead mice in the yard. Well, mostly dead. Really, they've been at various stages of carnage when we've made the discoveries. On one stomach-churning occasion, we were more or less witnesses to the extermination, at which point we had to fling the poor bastard over the fence back into the school yard where he presumably came from.
I say "we" here, but really, despite my proud tendencies as the house handyman, I am a delicate, precious lady when it comes to rodents. So "we" does not actually refer to "me." Rather, "I" can usually be found prancing around with my eyes closed, making some sound not unlike a car alarm, to distract my senses from the fact that my husband is disposing of a still-twitching mouse with a garden rake.
Which is indeed much the reaction Annie evoked in me when she came trotting up to the back door and on into the living room with a fully intact but fully dead mouse in her mouth. Out comes a panicky "NO!! ANNIE! OH MY GOD! NO! DAMMIT! MARK! MARK!" And while I know my dog can't understand me, I think she got the gist, as she did arguably the most agreeable thing possible at this stage and dropped it on the floor.
Okay, great, but now there is a dead mouse on my living room carpet. And here's me, hopping from foot to foot as if the thing is going to pop up and run at me, as if it played dead inside my dog's jaws just long enough to get a free ride inside into the air conditioning.
"NO! MARK! COME HERE! MARK! COME HERE!" My hops became more rhythmic, and now I'm dancing from foot to foot down the hallway in time with my panicky yelps, trying to penetrate his headphones without broadcasting to our quiet neighborhood that we've been infested.
On second thought, okay, nope, forget the neighbors. "DEAD MOUSE! IN THE HOUSE! DEAD MOUSE! IN THE HOUSE! COME HERE COME HERE COME HERE COME HERE!"
And without a word, he removes the headphones, strolls into the kitchen for a paper towel, grabs the rodent carcass, drops it in the trash, and carries the trash out to the garage. Then washes his hands and pours a drink.
Testosterone: I marvel at it.
(I know this sad display probably makes me a terrible feminist, but goddamn it, I have a pass for occasions just like this, and I'm cashing it in.)
So it looks like I'll be spending the next couple days avoiding puppy kisses from Annie and trying to determine how many passes of the vacuum it takes to get the icky out of a couple inches of carpet that held a dead mouse for 45 seconds.
Princess Annie. As much as she likes to revel in the perks of being the first dog of two humans who often regard her as little less than a real human child, she also seems to enjoy reminding us that she is, in fact, a prey-driven dog.
She can sleep in the dog bed tonight.
