Princess of Peace

I think the Rat Dog is Ghandi reincarnated. A cushy life of a house dog; the ultimate reward.


More than a decade ago, the Rat Dog was outside doing her "before bed toilet thing." I was watching her through the back door. The house we lived in had a small yard, most of it covered by a concrete slab. She was darting around in the dark, tail curled like a scorpion over her back, the white tip the stinger. From time to time, she'd bow down on her forelegs in "let's play" fashion.

"What's she doing?"

I turned on the light. Brown chitinous shapes started to dark for cover. "Roaches, ugh." I ran outside and commenced squashing. I made like Gozilla and stomped my way across the concrete, roaches crunch-squishing underfoot. Mid-slaughter, I looked over at the Rat Dog.

She had puttered over to the remains of a former playmate. After a couple of sniffs, she looked up at me, her tail suddenly drooping. Her expression said it all. "What. Have. You. Done?"

Looking at the carnage, it was evident that the only agent of destruction was me. There were no partially chewed insects that had been mauled by a small dog. Since then I have watched her play with crickets and other insects. She's always careful not to squish and never uses her teeth. Just nudges with her nose.

Nowadays, she's too lazy to play with crickets. She does, however, still like to find desert toads. The toads don't move very quickly and she follows them around the yard. None of the wildlife takes her seriously. The goldfinches come to the feeder even when she's sitting right under it. The rabbits also ignore her.

How did such a sweet little creature end up with a bellicose bitch like me?

It's Thursday.

Pat K.