Joy of hunting

The blood-thirsty four-legged carnivore. (Photo by Linda Hughes.)

Yesterday (Friday, June 14th, 2013) my blood-thirsty four-legged carnivore spent the entire afternoon harassing a never-seen critter under my house air-conditioning compressor.
My air-conditioning compressor rests out back on a concrete pad.
Apparently critters can get under it, or inside the compressor-unit.
Mice or moles or chipmunks.
Everything still works, although one time a dog messed up the wiring.
While the dog scurried merrily back-and-forth around the compressor-unit, I mowed half my gigantic lawn (about 2&1/2 hours, including a 10-15 minute break), made the muffins I eat for lunch (about 45 minutes), plus prepared the dog’s supper (about 20 minutes). —I’d say the dog entertained herself for at least 4-5 hours.
I let the dog lick out the pitcher and bowl I use to make muffins — after which the dishes go in the dishwasher!
She went right back outside to the compressor-unit.
Finally, she gave up, or decided her supper was more dependable than catching a critter, which she never eats.
Last Wednesday night (June 12th) she caught a rabbit, probably her 10th, or maybe even her 15th.
She didn’t eat that rabbit. It now resides outside in my trashcan consumed by maggots.
Usually no maggots if the trashcan is in my garage, where it usually is.
But the rabbit was stinking up my garage.
I (we) had a dog once who consumed her rabbit. I went outside to get her rabbit, and no rabbit.
Just a plump and satisfied dog.
She survived; it didn’t make her sick.
People wonder if I’m feeding my dog enough when she catches so much.
My garbage-service probably thinks I’m into animal-sacrifice — I’m tossing something every week.
Lately it’s been baby robins. They fall out of the nest, can’t fly, and get snared by my dog.
Anything within her purview is dead meat.
I’m helpless; I have a hunter.
The dog wasn’t a hunter when we got her, but now is.
She discovered the joy of hunting.

• “Linda Hughes” is my beloved wife of over 44 years. She died of cancer April 17th, 2012. I miss her dearly.
• My “blood-thirsty four-legged carnivore” is “Scarlett” (two “Ts,” as in Scarlett O’Hara), a rescue Irish-Setter. She’s eight, and is my sixth Irish-Setter, a high-energy dog. (A “rescue Irish Setter” is an Irish Setter rescued from a bad home; e.g. abusive or a puppy-mill. [Scarlett was from a failed backyard breeder.] By getting a rescue-dog, we avoid puppydom, but the dog is often messed up. —Scarlett isn't bad. She’s my fourth rescue.)