Tragic ending to a beautiful weekend (hope you're not eating . . .)

I returned to Wrenwood last evening, from a beautiful weekend in southern MN and was so excited to share with ya'll, all the lovely encounters, when I was suddenly, completely, unexpectedly, thrust into a grotesque, traumatic event that will likely be burned into my memory till the end of time . . . and so of course, I just had to share that with y'all, instead. Hope you've already had breakfast . . . we'll return to our regularly scheduled blog in just a few moments. . .

Chipmunk in dog bowl on camping trip up north, photo by Bob

So, upon our arrival home late yesterday afternoon, I let Rocco out of the back of the Jeep (no puke this time! However, he did puke on the way down to St. Peter—we're still have some work to do, with trying to cure him of his car-phobia . .), and immediately, he tore off into the front yard—as he always does—in search of his arch nemesis: the cute li'l chipmunk that hangs out in the yard and has been tormenting Rocco for months. It's a funny li'l love-hate relationship—Chippie, as he is known by us (I know, super-original, right?) sits outside the patio door, taunting and teasing Rocco as he snacks on suet crumbs, while Rocco goes ballistic on the other side of the patio door, pawing and growling and whining, "Lemme at him, lemme at hiiiiiiim!" Chippie knows he is safe as long as the patio door is closed, and continues to chide Rocco until I open the door. Then, Rocco bolts out, chippie disappears into a hole in the deck or up the oak tree, and cute little angry chipmunk expletives follow, as though chewing Rocco's ass (or mine, perhaps) for disturbing him. Chippie eventually sprints across the deck to the rock garden in front of the house as Rocco follows in hot pursuit, darting over boulders, diving into shrubbery, frantically poking and prodding at the rocks and foliage, not realizing the chipster had bolted across the yard and disappeaered under the front steps ten minutes prior. Rocco eventually figures this out, runs over to the front steps and pounces from side to side, pawing and yelping at Chippie to get his weenie ass out from under the steps and fight like a man, stopping every now and then to cocks his head to one side, as though listening for signs that Chippie is still under the steps . . . around and around they go, and if I didn't know any better, I would have thought it was a little game between the two. Until tonight.

Rocco, aka Chippie Killer, in his Rush t-shirt from Auntie Gretchy

So, I was unloading the Jeep when I realized I hadn't heard the jingle of Rocco's collar in some time. Fearing he had trotted off to the neighbor's, I walked around  to the front of the house, calling his name, and nearly stumbled upon him as he stood in the front yard, front paws firmly planted on something beneath him as he gnawed away at whatever that something was. At first, I thought it was a piece of wood, and started to turn around, but you know that split-second lag time, where you think you see something, but then suddenly, in your mind, you really see what that something is, and it ain't what you first thought? Well, that's what happened here—suddenly, with horrifying clarity, I realized that what Rocco had pinned beneath his paws was not a piece of wood—it was his beloved tormentor, Chippie! Rocco had Chippie in a death grip, pinned to the ground, his chipmunk fur so soaked with dog saliva that I could barely see the stripes on his back, but it was Chippie, make no mistake. . .

Rocco quickly backed off as soon as I screamed, but immediately, I realized that was the wrong thing to do because then I saw poor little Chippie move—he was still alive, barely. ohgodohgodohgodohgod, I started babbling, now what?! Do I go get a shovel and put the the poor li'l critter out of his misery with a good whack? I honestly don't think I could do that, even though it probably would have been the most humane . . . Do I snatch him up, away from Rocco and try to nurse him back to health? Gather him up in a shoebox and bring him to the U of M Vet School for repairs? ohgodohgodohgodohgod . . . I had to turn away from the gruesome crime scene, to gather my senses and try to figure out what to do, and it was then that Rocco answered my question for me, by going in for the kill. One more quick clamp of jaws, a quick shake of head and Chippie was gone . . . I was and still am, so horrified by the implications of my dog's actions: all this time, that was no game. My sweet li'l mutt is a cold blooded killer . . .

I have fed chipmunks from my very own hand—the first camping trip Bob and I ever took, was a beautiful week on the north shore; somewhere in this house is a picture that Bob took of me, with a chipmunk on my shoulder, feeding it bits of graham cracker . . . Gaia and Liddy, as skillful predators as they were, never killed a cute little chippy. They always went after larger, uglier game—big ol' raccoons, opossums, snakes. I just don't know what to make of this, this killing of Disney characters that Rocco has developed . . .

This morning, while having a cup of tea at the counter, Rocco pounced against the patio door. I turned quickly, to see another chipmunk dart under the grill . . .