March 21, 2009
My clever, clever dog is so good at rustling up the slaughterhouse treasures in this particular part of the desert. This time it was an entire foreleg of a deer, hoof and fur still intact. He proceeded to carry it in his mouth for the next hour plus, afraid to let it go even to drink some water. Weight-bearing exercise is very important. He finally let it drop somewhere in favor of pursuing the irresistible aroma of jack rabbits.
Cat poop consumed: no
November 15, 2008
Within the first five minutes, Jones came running out of the sagebrush with a rabbit’s head in his mouth. It was the size of a softball and it still had the fur on it but he gulped it down like it was a piece of bacon. Ears and all. So much for the weight loss program. L. ran right when he should have turned left, so we lost him for over an hour and I had to make up a song in hopes he’d hear us from the other side of the Indian cemetery: What happened to L., Ramona, what happened to L.? We couldn’t find him anywhere, oh no, we couldn’t find him anywhere. The teenage dogs we saw out on the power line road followed us all the way back to the car. Their ribs were like relief maps and they drank both quarts of water. The black one had a lacerated eye and an oozing wound on her cheek, and the white one couldn’t love me enough. As I waited for Animal Control to pick up their phone, I thought about walking three dogs and making room. Plenty of food and water and medical attention awaited them at the shelter, much better than the alternative out here on these dirt roads, but still I cried when we left them.
