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A natural born killer
We had no knowledge of her tendencies before moving to this farm. She never showed a need for blood in the suburbs. As far as we knew, she was a well-adjusted mixed-breed pound puppy, happy to spend her days chewing on rubber toys shaped like fire hydrants, attorneys and mimes.
And then she met her first groundhog.
As soon as the dog was introduced to the rolling acres, she headed into a cornfield, ran between two tall rows of feeder corn and committed a murder.
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As far as I know, that was the first time she'd ever seen a groundhog.
At that moment, something pre-programmed into that dog's DNA, a voice in that hound's head, gave her the instructions she could not ignore. She turned immediately into the Son of Shep and right then and there began a murder spree that has lasted for nearly six years.
Circling our hundred acres is a walking path (on rare days called a "running" path) we created to give ourselves and the dogs some exercise. Each morning and afternoon, one or both of us drag our sorry selves around the big circle, two dogs in tow, in an attempt to stave off the natural aging process.
And good luck with that.
It was on this farm loop that I first discovered the friendly red dog was a murderous mass killer. She dashed into the brush one morning, quietly grabbed a seemingly hidden groundhog easily half her size and broke its neck as casually and thoughtlessly as a Marlboro addict lights the morning's first cigarette.
Death came so quickly I had no time to tell her to "stay," or to "sit," or to "stop that killing right now," or any of the other commands you would shout to your dog when you think the animal's in danger.
Little good a demand from me would have done. The voice in her head, the one commanding her to snap necks at random, is stronger than any whistle, yell or threat.
She's a killer.
It's what she does.
Everyone has at least one talent.
Unlike other dogs I've seen, this particular model of Terminator has no interest in the victim once the body is lifeless. Our black dog will carry a dead mole around the yard for half a week. Our cat once toted a snake in her jaws and refused surrender. Only after she could no longer handle the weight of the dead blacksnake did she drop it.
Not the killer.
The killer doesn't play. The killer doesn't eat. She merely kills.
The day is coming when she will no longer be the quickest - the day I'll be bundling her in a blanket and hauling her to the vet, who, I'm hoping, will be able to patch her together.
Until then, there's nothing we can do.
She's a killer.
It's what she does.
To hear Scott Paulsen's column, visit www.observer-reporter.com. He can be heard each weekday afternoon from 3 to 7 p.m. on 1250 ESPN Radio.
Killer. : 3/19/2009
Well,Scott old boy,time to consider a long time remedy-the friggin chain.Yeah, go figure...dogs are instinctual.So, now knowing that the dog kills groundhogs for the hell of it,and might in the future as you said,may be hurt,heard of using the word "no."?I mean unless these whistle pigs are doin ya harm....are they?Ah, try the toys after all.I mean why allow the dog to injure itself or kill just to kill?Comes with farming-teaching the dogs to adhere to command.Put your man boots on and train the dog-might be another story to tell.
Memories : 3/25/2009
There was indeed a time when we had two such killers who worked as a team with brilliant and deadly precision. So honed were their skills that the small room between the garage and the basement was known as the "Dahmer Room" Alas the mayhem is gone as are the girls. Last week finding a racoon hanging from the kitchen doorknob in broad daylight, and the groundhog who lives under the kitchen window basking on the patio, I am thinking maybe a visit to the human society might be in order.
