“It’s mine; I don’t care, if I don’t like it.” Stormy woofed down the commercial dog treat. You may know the one I’m talking about; it’s just so artificial. Naturally fed dogs like Stormy don’t want them, until another dog is interested. Once in the mouth flavor enhancers do their work, dogs must have more.
Stormy submits to Kirt chopping the burrs out of his matted fur. The occasional dose of flavor gets Storm’s full co-operation. I put some Neosporin over his right eye and on his ear wounds.
When a dog colony is stable, there is not a lot of severe fighting. Certain situations may require a fight, but within the colony they know each other. A bunch of new dogs in the neighborhood means fighting for spots. Once a dog has a rep as a hard biter, his adversary slows his readiness to “mix it up.” Last night dog fights punctuated the melody of the coqui frog for the first time since our return.
Given the rodent situation on the island; perhaps the poison was not intended for the dogs.
I have to believe that; Bonita’s death mustn’t sour my heart. My pain isn’t just for Bonita. Lance was a macho male by species standard, big shaggy wonderful Toby, Zorro a lady’s man into old age; I have to stop. This hurts.
Today is my day to mourn for the rat hunting party, the dogs who lived in the grass and the sentries in front of the gates.
I saw each one as special. They had a spot. They protected their neighborhood. They only asked for what scraps you could spare. They loved it if you pet them. And a little fresh water is a gift.
Good bye, my friends.
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