By KAREN MADORIN
Spring’s arrival triggered a memory of normally agreeable pooches squabbing shrilly on the back porch, inspiring my race to see what prompted the ruckus. Before opening the door, I heard our little terrier full-throttle scolding his Shitzu/sheepdog companion. Peeking out, I scoped the situation to find a snarling Jack Russell holding high ground from his armchair vantage. The larger white fur-ball edged close to his cohort’s perch, taunting Buster with dancing feints toward his highness’s throne. Once I announced my presence and called them inside, they called a truce long enough to come inside and eat side-by-side.
Once they licked their bowls clean, Buster scurried to reclaim his perch. Hackles raised, he growled any time fuzzy Dudley moved close. Once my husband returned, I told him about their brouhaha and the small dog’s ongoing threats. To prevent catastrophe, we supervised our feuding four-leggeds and puzzled as to why the younger dog landed on Grandpa Buster’s last nerve.
This low-grade rumble continued until bedtime, when the two yahoos bedded down in the house as usual. I figured our older dog’s arthritis had acted up and hoped warming temps would improve his mood.
Imagine my surprise when I awoke the next morning and wandered into the kitchen to hear my husband say, “We have a mystery, and it explains why the dogs got into it yesterday.” I hadn’t had a drop of coffee so my brain couldn’t process his message.
“What are you talking about?” I mumbled, heading for my mug.
“I think I know why the dogs got into it yesterday.”
“Okay, why?” I took the bait.
Holding out two hands containing a wadded towel, he signaled me to peek. Oh, man, what a scary invite at our house! Such instructions have led to close encounters with anything from snakes to giant spiders.
Steadying yet-to-sip-a- drop-of-coffee nerves, I gingerly peeled back a terrycloth corner. Inside was a tiny but fully furred-out bunny! Buster must’ve found it in the yard and carried it to his overstuffed armchair where he used his pointy terrier schnozz to tuck it under a blanket. This blew the theory that moving to town meant we’d never again deal with wild critters dogs brought home.
This generated the worry that Buster now suffered doggy dementia because, at one time, anything looking remotely packrat-like experienced full-blown terrier treatment. For whatever reason, maybe because Dudley tried to steal Buster’s treasure, this bit of fluff escaped that sad fate. At least I now understood the surliness I’d observed the previous day.
Once I saw this critter, my mind recalled baby cottontails young daughters once bottle-fed. We sadly learned these little ones require bunny mommies. Despite our best efforts, we never kept one alive long enough to release it into the wild.
Due to past experience, my husband stealthily combed our yard, seeking this little guy’s fur-lined nursery, so he could return it. Buster watched intently out the window, pitifully whining, “He’s mine. Finders keepers.”
To our surprise, mama had tucked four additional babes into a downy nest in the flower bed next to the house. Here we thought moving to town ended bunny troubles. Instead, they laughed last as “wascally wabbits” lived closer to us than they ever had.
Karen Madorin is a retired teacher, writer, photographer, outdoors lover, and sixth-generation Kansan.