Eating Crow

"If you have to eat crow, eat it while it's young and tender." -Thomas Jefferson

I could have shown you a pic of the dead crow. But trust me, this little bunny is way cuter. 

 "Good dog, Gracie. Heel!"

Yesterday, as we prepared to cross the last street of our daily walk, my dog obediently sat. I looked down at her, and my blood suddenly ran cold. 

My dog had a certain look in her eye. Her body was tensed up yet perfectly still. I could feel her quivering energy. I knew without a doubt that her hunting instincts were on overdrive and she was awash with whatever chemicals surge through her brain when they kick in. As there were no rabbits in sight, I wondered what was providing her such interest. 

Then I looked closer and drew back in horror.

Gracie was holding a dried out and very dead crow in her mouth.

Well. Most of a crow. Not all of a crow.

Now, Gracie has had such moments before with squirrel carcasses. And she's responded well to my commands. So I really let her have it.

"Gracie, DROP IT!"

And to my great satisfaction, she did. The dried out crow hit the sidewalk at her feet with a gentle plop, and I breathed a sigh of relief.

But then, horror of horrors, my dog immediately scooped the dead crow back up into her mouth.

And here's where the story takes a real turn. 

She began to chomp.

I watched in sickened fascination as my dog's sweet furry jaws worked up and down on the dead crow, smashing its skull and whatever else was left to crunch inside the partially-feathered and fully flattened bird.

And then I smelled it.

If I took the most disgusting smells I have ever smelled in my life - rotten eggs, rancid fish, steaming heaps of cow manure - added them all together and multiplied by 10, I might get close to what I smelled in that moment, permeating from my dog's lips.

I'm not ashamed to say that I kinda lost it. 

At this point, we were halfway across the street but I stopped dead in my tracks and shouted at her.

Ok. I screamed at her. I was past frantic and quickly headed toward berserk.

"GRACIE!!! DRRRRROP IT!!!!"

But you know what? Gracie had already dropped that foul crow once and she was apparently not about to drop it again. It was her treasure. She looked me in the eye, held fast to the dead bird, and continued chomping. 

Now I nearly lost my mind. I dragged her forward to the opposite curb, making indeterminate sounds of utter disgust. Then I grabbed my dog by her skinny red neck and shook her silly, keeping my hands as far as possible from the crow-induced drool that was now dripping off her lips. Yes, the same lips that she rests so delicately on my pillow every morning. My life was flashing before my eyes.

Finally, my dog came to her instinct-addled senses and read the panic in my ever-escalating tone of voice.

She dropped the dead crow.

In a flash, the stench still filling my nose and making my head spin, I was hauling her on a tight leash  toward home. 

The next hour was a blur. Overcome by our revolting ordeal, I deputized my husband to feed Gracie her evening meal, coax her to drink copious amounts of water, and provide her with two breath-cleansing treats. I also asked him to towel off every inch of her muzzle. I kept my distance.

By the next morning, I was back under the spell of my dog's tender gazes, willing to forgive and forget. But I wondered and worried what we might find when we set off on our walk.

Sure enough, the dead crow carcass was more or less where we left it.

And Gracie was drawn to it like a starving vagrant to a heavenly buffet. 

But I was ready for her, and quickly dragged her off onto our usual adventure.

* * * * *

Later in the walk, as we came across several bunnies grazing in a green lawn dotted with tiny daisies as the sunlight angled low through the trees, I was purely delighted to let my dog gaze as long as she wanted, her body stone still as the rabbit-hunting instincts flooded her brain. 

Because staring at rabbits sure beats eating crow.