My dog Wilma has two basic desires in life.  She wants treats and she wants to rip the flesh and skin off another animal.  Though she is basically a domestic, Wilma is a vicious hunter at heart.  And, honestly, she'd probably be a really good hunter if she wasn't 20 pounds overweight from all the treats she eats.  I have watched Wilma try to capture and murder things her whole life.  But she has never enjoyed the thrill of the kill . . . until a couple of days ago.  That's when Wilma finally realized her dream.  Twice.

Last Tuesday morning, Dolly (my prissy Bichon Frise) came to the door.  My dogs have been conditioned to go outside, pop a squat, come back inside and get a treat before Daddy goes to work.  Usually Wilma is the first one at the door because she's my plus-sized model and likes to get to the Iams Biscuits first.  But not last Tuesday.  In fact, Dolly waltzed in and Wilma was nowhere to be found.

I quickly remembered the robin's nest on the far side of my garage and thought, "Oh, Lord!  She is over there beheading a baby bird."  I checked.  She wasn't.  No, instead, she was on the other side of the yard . . . digging a mole out of the ground with her bare paws!!!!  LOOK!

Action Shot

Yep!  That's a mole.  And that's Wilma treating it like it's a prisoner in Guatanamo Bay.  And can I just say that moles are drama queens.  That thing squealed like Ned Beatty in Deliverance every time Wilma try to paw its face off. Good lord.  Learn some self-defense.  Take up for yourself.  You think a possum would take that crap?

I finally managed to pull Wilma away from her prey and was instantly faced with a dilemma.  See, unlike my dog, I don't kill things.  Anything.  And I wasn't about to kill the mole, even though I knew it would destroy my yard if I left it alone.  So, I grabbed a shovel, got the mole to ride it like a flying carpet, and took it across the street to the house that's in foreclosure.  Last check, I think three different banks have liens against it.  It's never going to sell.  So, welcome home mole!  Enjoy you're lush new yard.

But, Wilma, the Standard Schnauzer Killing Machine, had only just begun.  Who knew my dog had become possessed by Aileen Wuornos??  The very next morning my little bearded demon was at it again.  And this time, she did what I thought was doing the first time.  She was eating a baby bird like it was part of a combo at Lee's Famous Recipe.  The poor baby bird, who was simply trying to master the art of flying, flew right into my little crop-eared death trap.

I didn't take a photo of the bird because that's a little too Book of the Dead for my taste.  But suffice it to say . . . it wasn't pretty.  And Wilma's breath smelled like chicken.

It's been 7 days since Wilma's last kill.  Will my little furry Dexter strike again?  Likely.  Will I help her cover it up and avoid the authorities?  Likely.  I am to Wilma what Deb was to Dex.  Will my sweet puppy ever again just be content to go outside and pop a squat?  Unlikely.  Wilma has tasted blood . . . true blood.  And she's on the prowl like a one of The Lost Boys.  God help us all.