She’s ten years’ old now and today, walking in the park, she killed a squirrel. She and her younger sister have chased plenty of rodents in their time – and a few seagulls in the flats of the Cape – but they always seem to lose interest at the very end of the chase. Not this time. Dusty was on the extendable leash and quick as a flash, she darted behind a tree. Eddy was on the other side, body low and pointed. A bay went up. I saw Dusty’s head shake, grabbed the leash and pulled her toward me. The poor little thing fell out of Dusty’s mouth, twitched its front paws in the dank grass and gazed at me with its little currant eye for a few seconds before going stiff. I stopped, a little shaken, but both beagles were already sniffing elsewhere, as if the little rodent were a stuffed toy with the squeaker removed or a plastic bottle with the cap chewed off, abandoned once finished with. What should I do? Bury it? Move it? But what would be the point?
I walked on in the rain. Dusty, I hardly knew you, did I?
The Dish 