time of death - 0620am June 18, 2008

[thoreau]

While I was in the shower this morning, Miss Kate finally 'did in' the gingerbread man. I came out from the bathroom to find fluff strewn all over the apartment. After months determinedly chewing on Mr. Man - Katey finally got her mark. As I was cleaning up the foam fluff - I swear I saw a satisfied "that's right - I killed him" smile on her face.

Then we did our Wednesday Adventure Walk - this time walking from the apartment to Alta Plaza and back.



Alta Plaza is in the center of this shot from my balcony just now - with the steps leading up into the park. It was interesting walk through a working class neighborhood in and around Geary Blvd., watching people head to work who had an 8am arrival time. Miss Kate, of course, turned on the cute and had people fawning all over her. It was a nice new walk - and we got out early enough we could just take our time. We're back in the apartment now - and she's splayed out like we'd just walked 900 miles together. (Google Maps says it's about 4 miles round-trip, but that doesn't count alleys we cut down and smaller parks we took shortcuts through)

Comments

[hereticsoul.livejournal.com]

That's hysterical! We have a similar thing happen here. The dogs, both having genetic disposition toward the killing of rodents, love to give untold grief to those fairly realistic looking stuffed squirrels at Target.

It starts with Lola, the elder dog. She instantly claims any new squirrel that is brought home as hers. Trixie, while she may try to snatch the new one, is often left to be content with the most recent casualty that Lola has dispatched.

New squirrel remains more or less intact for some amount of time known only to Lola. Then, quite suddenly, new squirrel has been slain with a similar display of fluffy carnage. At that point, the new squirrel is destined to a future as a shrinking carcass as more and more stuffing is removed until finally there is little left but the skin. Then it becomes Trixie's squirrel.

But Trixie, not wanting to be denied her own murderous impulse, then takes to pulling all the fur off the skin. We find gray tufts of it on the carpet upstairs. Eventually, enough is enough and the ragged remains of the oldest squirrel comes to its pitiful end in the trash can. By that time, of course, a new squirrel has come into the house and the cycle begins anew.

We have witnessed half a dozen such savagings thus far with no end in sight.