Dog eats bird: Breaking News Ten Years Later
As a child I had a fascination with animals: all kinds of animals. At one time or another I had turtles, fish, birds, cats, and dogs. I always wanted white mice but my mother put her foot down over that one. Over the years I have had many birds along with the family dogs. One episode in particular happened while I was at school. I came home to find my mother at the door with a sad look on her face. My bird had died. My mother, being the kind soul that she was, buried the bird. I never thought to ask why I wasn’t invited to the funeral, or how the bird died. My mom wouldn’t lie to me or lead me astray, would she? Read on.
Ten years later my mother is regaling a friend with the story of this clever bird that would open its cage door and dive bomb our poodle. One day the bird attacked the family dog and, well, the dog grabbed the bird. The bird died. It gives a whole new understanding of the expression ‘dog’s breakfast’. The story continued. Evidently the feathers were so thick in the air you could have cut them with a machete. Ten years later and I burst into tears. Ten years. The poodle in question was sleeping on the floor at my feet. My mother didn’t want me to hate our dog so she told me the bird had just died. She didn’t actually lie; she just didn’t tell me the whole truth. The only reason I even knew the bird had died was because my mother couldn’t find another one to replace it. And she did try. Now I can appreciate why she would want to protect the child. Childhood is a fragile time. I understood death but not killing. Especially by someone I loved. And I did love that dog, killer that he was. Moms are so smart, I can’t remember the name of that bird but the dog was called Beau Brummel and I still miss him.
When we were growing up we used to take a drive almost every Sunday after Church. It was a great way to see what was beyond the boundaries of our home. On one such trip we stopped for lunch at a small diner in a town near Kirkland Lake, Ontario, Canada. After eating, my brother (11) and sister (9) wandered away and found a phone book. They returned to the table to inform my father that there was a dog kennel in town and that he had promised them a dog. That is how we ended up in a kennel looking at a litter of poodles frolicking on the floor at our feet. My father wanted a Shepard but the owner would not sell a Shepard to a family with small children because of possible biting problems with the breed. So we watched these poodle pups for a minute. In the midst of the ruckus was a slightly older puppy, 8 months old. No one wanted him because his front legs had been broken as a small pup and not set properly. As a result his front legs were not straight. He walked and ran just fine. His lineage may have been good but he wasn’t perfect, except to us. Beau lived to be 17 years old and he was a valuable thread that weaved through all our lives.
I hope you enjoyed this brief glimpse into my past . . . .