I have a dog. I’m really a cat person, but my daughter especially loves dogs, so about five years ago I answered an ad in the paper about a lady who had two Jack Russell’s and the time, space and energy for only one. She agreed to let me adopt one (tearfully), and Tony became a part of our family.

He’s been a great dog! His previous master trained him well and he is good looking, friendly and obedient. He’s a great leash walker, and he has finally found something he wants to fetch (heretofore a flaw in his otherwise sterling canine portfolio). His toy of choice: a gray, worn out squeaky mouse that looks like a dachshund.

For awhile after my divorce, when the house would often be empty for longer than he was used to, he and I were at odds about his habit of pooping in out of the way places, like the corner of an upstairs closet, or right by the back door (which always suggested to me that he would have gone outside if he could have figured out that darn doorknob). Whenever I would come home on those days he had made a mess he would hide from me, because he knew he was supposed to go outside. Well, since for a year I’ve lived in a house with a doggie door, this is not a problem anymore. Both our anxiety levels have decreased due to this.

One of the funniest things to happen with Tony occurred about a month ago, on a walk.

If you could see him on a walk for about five seconds you would come to realize what Tony’s lifelong goal is: to chase down and catch a small animal of some sort. He wouldn’t care if it was a bird, a cat, a squirrel—any small creature bigger than a bug would do. He is always on the lookout for his quarry, and often when he thinks he spies potential prey, he’ll stop, freeze and stare intently in a particular direction, looking as if he’s posing for spot on a dog food label or a dramatic book cover. It’s so funny, because just as often he misses things that are right under his nose, like the other day when we walked right over a little baby garden snake. I had to pull him back so he could check it out (after the sniff test he made it clear that he wasn’t interested—I guess it was too wormlike for him).

Also, if he spots something he feels he can catch, he’ll bolt without warning, as if he’s trying to save a baby that’s fallen into a well. I’m shocked that he hasn’t knocked a few neck vertebrae out of whack (and yes, I have moved to a halter so a collar doesn’t choke him anymore).

Which brings us to the story of the day.

One recent morning, Tony and I were on our walk, and he was doing his usual: grinding on, running ahead of me, pulling like an Iditarod Champion. He was checking out all the local fauna, and at one point I thought he had struck paydirt. There was a squirrel that was caught in no man’s land. He had left a tree and was out in the middle of the yard, with no protection for several feet. Tony went for it, and the squirrel made a bad decision: he opted to sprint across the yard to some bushes, rather than turn around and run for the tree, which was closer. Well, it wasn’t Tony’s moment of glory, because the leash ran out before he could taste squirrel blood. The squirrel reached the bushes and the chance was gone. We moved on, but the event was somewhat of a prequel for what was about to ensue.

We got to the end of the block, and there was another squirrel. Tony, somehow didn’t see it, but I was beginning to wonder about this one, because we were getting close and the squirrel wasn’t moving. I don’t know if it was reliving a fond memory or having some sort of seizure, but it was stone still. Right as I was about to cross the street to avoid what might be a rabid squirrel, it panicked and bolted. The problem was, instead of turning around and scurrying up the tree he was standing right in front of, this genius ran into the street, right into the path of an oncoming car.

Yes, he was hit head on, and it wasn’t pretty. Not pancaked ugly or gooey ugly, just “wow, that’s gotta hurt” kind of ugly. The poor little Rocky was hit so hard he didn’t even squirm too much or make any noise. I wondered if he was immediately dead, but after a few seconds, I could see some movement. He was clearly not going to make it.

That’s when the thought hit me:

“Why don’t you put the poor thing out of his misery? After all, you have a trained hunter at your side—put him to good use. You can help your beast fulfill his deepest desire while performing a humane act for one of God’s creatures.” ( I think my conscience narrator spends too much time reading sci-fi/fantasy novels.)

I figured that the poor thing had suffered enough, and that Tony would probably go over and kill the thing quick—snap his neck with all of his years of pent up frustrated energy to end Rocky's suffering. After all, the thing was mostly dead, and I didn’t see Miracle Max around to bring him a chocolate coated miracle pill to save his little squirrel life.

So, we headed across the road to perform our good deed for the day. Well, as per usual, I had to point the thing out to Tony, and when I did, he finally figured out what was going on. I hadn’t decided if I wanted to watch this or not. I have hunted before, so I’ve seen blood and guts first hand, and I’m usually ok with the ways of nature, but I just wasn’t sure if I wanted to watch or not—I felt a bit anxious about squirrel guts.

I had nothing to worry about.

As soon as Tony figured out the deal, he immediately commenced to—

Nipping.

My killer, Tony the Wonderdog was nipping.

Nipping at the soft underbelly of the squirrel, at least, but I think that was only because that was the most available spot to nip at, what with the guy laying on his soon-to-be-dead back.

It appeared Tony was either short on ideas or he was just too scared of this nearly deceased animals’ teeth, or claws, because he continued to nip, and the squirrel, probably using his last moments to mentally review poignant moments with his parents or his girlfriend, was becoming annoyed. Eventually the squirrel did start to try to get up and move away, the nipping was so annoying. He also began to fight back a bit, lashing out with his tiny (I emphasize, TINY) claws. Yet Tony did little to stop it, and now I was beginning to become aware of all the people around. I looked up and saw people driving by, staring at the (non)carnage on display. A young college girl who was on her way to classes (I live right by the university) had a horrified look on her face as she passed by, as if she was witnessing a public execution. I felt like I was crushing baby kittens with my bare feet or knocking old ladies over with a raw rack of ribs.

One of the crazier things about this whole spectacle was the sound the squirrel was making—it sounded exactly like the squeaky toy that Tony and I play fetch with—no exaggeration. I had to take a moment out and wonder, “How in the world does that cheap piece of garbage manage to so accurately mimic the true call of a squirrel in distress?”.

Well, the squirrel found new life through anger, or annoyance, and eventually the thing sprung up and sunk it’s choppers right onto Tony’s right leg. Tony yelped and thrashed around a bit, and the squirrel quickly let go. He fell limp at Tony’s feet, but I could see he was still breathing. Tony wanted to get back to the nipping, but I nixed that on the spot: it was time to cut and run.

All the way home, I couldn’t believe what had happened: my entire view of Tony had to be revised. He is not a cold-blooded, bloodthirsty hunter, but an excitable family pet with big dreams. When we got home, Tony checked out fine, and he acted as if nothing had ever happened. I went back to the scene of the crime without Tony in the next day or two to see what ever happened to the squirrel.

It was gone of course.

Probably picked off by a cat.