This is a reenactment of a true story:

CAST: Becca (self), ChaCha (dog), Rock (dog)

TIME & PLACE: 06/04/06, 0800 hrs, at my back door

I’m going out of town for the day to earn some brownie points, uh, I mean to spend some quality time with my elderly grandmother. It’s freakin hot outside so I thought I better check on ChaCha and Rock’s water supply. I open my back door... Ack! It’s happened again. There’s another one.

[freeze story]

Background info: Rock, a 35lb golden mutt, is a hunter by instinct. I have discovered many victims of senseless deaths. For a fear of Peta, I will refrain from going into the different types of animals. Plus, the possibility of me gagging just thinking about it is quite high. Rock really should have her own TV show called “When Rock Attacks”.

[unfreeze]

Not again. Will this ever stop? I stand at my back door looking at Rock’s latest victim. Right there on the porch, just inches away from their food bowl was… a dead bird. A poor innocent bird that never had a chance against the forces of The Rock.

I’m sure right before the bird turned into another backyard statistic, he was really cute flying around looking for worms. However, I can’t think about that now because it’s dead and it’s on my back porch. And there’s Rock. Proudly standing next to her prize waiting for me to take her picture. Begging me to praise her with love and affection.

Rule #1: I don’t touch dead things.
Rule #2: I don’t touch dogs that just played with dead things.

The dead thing needs to go. My neighbor always takes care of these issues for me. She doesn’t mind the dead. This is not normal. And I find it quite cruel that she laughs at me while I dry heave during the removal process. But she’s my savior and… oh crap, she’s not home.

I back up and shut the door. I haven’t gone into a full panic mode... yet. I stand there trying to come up with a plan. A strategy. A way out. The clock is ticking away and I need to leave soon. The dead thing can NOT just stay there and it’s too early to call anyone. I guess (gulp) that I need to just do this. I need to become the adult that I pretend to be. I need to get the dead thing out of the backyard… On. My. Own.

I march into the kitchen with confidence and control. I grab a plastic grocery bag and head to the back door. I stop. I go back and grab five more plastic bags and layer them inside each other. I open the door. (breathe in... breathe out... and again) Slowly I approach the dead thing but my confidence level drops. Rock keeps begging for affirmation. ChaCha is blocking me by hovering over the dead thing.

[freeze story]

Background info: ChaCha, a 50lb German shepherd mix, is a protector. She protects all – the living and the dead. When Rock kills something, she fully believes that she can bring it back to life.

[unfreeze]

I stand there with my plastic bags and no plan. I wonder what McGyver would do. I place the opened six-layered bag near the dead thing and grab a big stick. While one hand is holding The Protector back by the collar, the other uses the stick and attempts a little “scoot-n-flip” action. The second the stick touches it, I totally gross out and back off. The dead thing wins that round and so I retreat to my corner of the ring for some further assessment.

Rock, quickly becoming my un-wanted cheerleader, jumps up and down as if saying “You can do it! Just grab it with your teeth like I do!” This is NOT helping. ChaCha is still hovering over the dead thing trying to psychically bring it back to life. This is one very dysfunctional family.

DING! Round two begins. I start to sweat profusely and can’t decide if I need to lie down or throw up. I pick up my weapon and get back in the fight. With one eye closed and the other one squinting verrrrry tightly, I push the dead thing half way over the concrete edge where there’s about a three inch drop to the ground. I fight ChaCha off with my foot and scream at Rock to stop pressuring me. Holding my breath, I place the wide-opened bag(s) underneath the exposed half of the dead thing. Hoping my next strategic move works, I begin to slide the dead thing into the bag opening. I fight off all nausea and it lands in-between the third and fourth bag layer. Doesn’t matter. It’s in there. Thank God.

Still not breathing and mentally gagging, I quickly tie the handles together, sprint over to the side fence and toss it over. No net. 1000 points. Victory is mine and the crowd roars. Rock does a few celebratory flips and high-fives. ChaCha intensely stares at the bag through the fence in one last effort to revive the dead thing. She fails and walks away defeated yet again.

When I leave to go out of town, I pick up the icky-nasty-gross bag and put it in the big trashcan so it can join all the other dead things in the city dump. Next time... I'm leaving it right where it is until someone else can deal with it.

This was NOT one of those growing experiences.