Animal Planet?
My dog, cat, and I have been in our new home for a little over 2 months. In that time, I’ve discovered four dead chipmunks in the house. Actually—the first wasn’t dead when I initially encountered it. It was running toward me in the tiny hallway in the center of my house. I screamed and ran into the bedroom, slamming the door behind me.
It took roughly ten seconds to determine the chipmunk was not going to eat me, and then I opened the door to see Tootsie the Wonder Dog running after it—up and down the carpeted staircase at the end of the hall. Then it disappeared. I found it days later—because I smelled its decaying carcass—in a corner behind my big bass fiddle.
The next three chipmunks were all dead when I came upon them. One had apparently burrowed under the doormat—probably wounded and terrified—and I fear was trampled when two contractors stomped in to investigate my home’s electrical mysteries.
The remaining two chipmunks were carefully laid out like royal presentations on my living room rug. I gasped, audibly, when I first saw them—then came to my senses. These were likely gifts from my cat or dog. Not wanting to offend my roommates, I carefully wrapped the rodents for safe keeping. (And snuck them into the dumpster outside).
Then it occurred to me that maybe my house has a chipmunk infestation—the way other people have mice. I had presumed my cat and dog were bringing them into the house through the flap they use to go in and out at will. But maybe these rodents were already here, in which case I applaud my roommates’ determination to protect the homestead. Why am I okay with the killing of intruder chipmunks, but queasy if the cat and dog bring them in from outdoors? A dead chipmunk is still a dead chipmunk.
But even if these are gifts from outdoors, I can’t fuss at Tootsie the Wonder Dog. We used to live on heavily wooded acreage. No fences. No leashes. Multiple dog doors to enter and exit the house. And Tootsie could chase wild animals 24/7. Here, there is one dog flap—that leads into a fenced backyard. The only other way Tootsie leaves the house is on a leash, through the people door. It breaks my heart for her. Especially since the cat has free rein—because he can get over the fence.
And now Tootsie has to follow a slew of human rules for canine citizens. Dogs must be on leashes outdoors. Dogs can only commune with other dogs when the humans on the opposite ends of those leashes allow it. And any given communion lasts only a minute or two.
Digging in the backyard is fine. Digging in the park down the street is not. Even when it’s obvious something has burrowed right at our feet and is practically begging to be hunted.
One beach welcomes dogs. Another forbids them. Dogs are allowed to pee almost anywhere. But placement of poop is trickier, and the rules aren’t written—except that humans must remove dog waste. (Which is annoying now that all the public trashcans have been removed for the winter.)
I find myself constantly apologizing to Tootsie for the human rules. She tells me this is crazy—a species so full of itself, it presumes to own the planet.
I can only hope that once humans have annihilated themselves—as they clearly will do at some point—dogs will prevail. Maybe you’ve seen the movie Planet of the Apes? You get the idea.