That Wascally Wabbit!

Here comes Peter Cottontail, hoppin’ down the bunny trail, hippity, hoppity…

Oh forget this Bunny Foo-Foo crap! I can’t pretend any longer. The ASPCA will probably yank my membership, but confess I must. I KILLED a rabbit. There. I’ve said it. Hate me if you will. But I just couldn’t help myself – hunting is an innate, inborn quality in Weimaraners. It is ingrained in my very nature. I simply cannot be held responsible for my occasional acts of random violence. I am born the lord of my lair, the queen of the backyard jungle, the hunter extraordinaire. Be my victim beast or fowl, you must judge me not guilty by reason of my basic nature! (Damn, I knew co-opting Tanya’s nursing classes was a waste of time – I should have gone to law school).

I thought Todd and Tanya understood all this. They seem perfectly fine (although a little squeamish) when I rid the yard of pesky squirrels and chipmunks (I once brought Tanya a lovely trophy and laid it right at her feet – I know she just loved it. And, while she turned a rather sickly shade of green, there was certainly no crying over “Alvin”).

So honestly, I really don’t understand the whole Bugs Bunny mentality. OH MY, touch a floppy-eared wad of bunny fluff and both fur and shit go flying! Not only did Todd pry my jaws open and take the damn thing away from me, but he and Tanya practically gave it a king’s burial after apologizing profusely to its family members, who weren’t really wearing expressions of mourning at all, but smirks at watching my undeserved humiliation.

In actuality, the fun is all in the hunt anyway. So, if no one appropriately appreciates the depths of my skill then the wascally wabbit has bested me nonetheless, just as he did Elmer Fudd, every time.

So fine. Given the poor reaction by my humans, and the fact that yesterday was Bugs Bunny’s 75^th birthday, I’ll do my best to forget further dreams of rabbit stew.

For now…

Bugs Bunny at 75: http://time.com/3967572/bugs-bunny-75/

This is My Fault, How?

It started out as a typical evening in the Cass Casa. Todd arrived home needing to de-stress from a tough day of work and Tanya needing to de-stress from a tough day of looking for work (now that she’s completed her BSN and RN I’ve had to switch from quizzing her for exams to proofing resumes and cover letters – but of course, no one seems to care about my need for work de-stress!). Anyway, all of this de-stressing required something called “cocktails” on the couch for Tanya and Todd, and me serving as petting and cuddling therapy (otherwise known as DD – designated dog). When in the midst of all this coziness, some lowly neighborhood canine walked his human into my front yard, took a big poop on my grass, and sauntered on down the street with not so much as a thank-you, let alone a courtesy clean-up! I was irate and incensed – flying across the couch to the front window and letting said offending dog have a very loud piece of my mind! Unfortunately, my defense of territory (and OK, possibly some resulting minor cocktail spillage) apparently aggravated Todd’s aforementioned stress level – he jumped up, grabbed his truck keys, and raced barefoot out the door intending to hunt down the pooping pooch and his owner!

While Tanya seemed strangely concerned about this turn of events (or perhaps it was the huge knot on her elbow, suffered during the melee), I was actually quite flattered by Todd’s eagerness to avenge my sovereignty. So when Todd came running back into the house I was eager to hear the gory details. But wait – where’s Todd’s truck?! Left down the street, doors locked and engine 

Mystery box

running! At this point I am not the only one frantically chasing around the house barking my head off (or as humans call it, cussing) since the spare set of truck keys are somehow nowhere to be found! Now doors are slamming, boxes are being rummaged, and drawers are being turned on end. Finally, Tanya locates a mystery box, keys are grabbed, and both Tanya and Todd jump into her car and head off to rescue the truck (offending dog and owner long forgotten).

Well, with both Tanya and Todd conveniently occupied elsewhere, I can’t help but eye the large plastic container of leftovers sitting on the kitchen counter in preparation for dinner (Tanya really doesn’t like to cook on de-stress nights).  Famished by all the excitement, I grab the spoon and dig in. Yummy – sausage jambalaya with green peppers – my new favorite! But, just as I begin to make significant progress, my humans return and I am now in BIG trouble!! More cussing ensues, I’m trying to make myself as small as possible, my remaining luscious (and only slightly slobbered on) jambalaya is thrown in the trash, and Tanya is on the phone to Peking Garden.

The leftover
leftovers

So my question is – Tanya and Todd spill drinks on the couch, Tanya bangs up her elbow, Todd locks his keys in a running truck and is forced to race home in bare feet, keys are lost and house is ransacked, Tanya throws away perfectly delicious leftovers… and this is somehow all MY fault? Really?? All I did was try to keep poop off the grass and encourage Tanya and Todd to enjoy a nice Chinese carryout!

Of course, there was the matter of the dog vomit that needed clean-up later. But hey, a minor imperfection just makes me all the more lovable, don’tcha think?