Prissy and the Chipmunks

I have to say that I love our dog. She is sweet and loving and energetic and snuggly. She tolerates The Boy pinching her face and pulling her tail, and she protects our home against any invaders or any innocent soul who walks down the sidewalk.   She and I rescued each other nearly 7 years ago and I truly love her.

And also she drives me crazy. Any time she has anything she considers to have any value she walks around the house whining, looking for a place to bury it. It doesn't matter if it's a bone or a chew toy or one of The Boy's stuffed animals, she can't keep her anxiety to herself. She'll continue until you take the valuable away from her or until you put it in her bed and cover it with a rag and pretend you can't see it. She'll then take the rag and cover it over and over until she feels it's sufficiently hidden. Hidden from whom, I'm not sure, but this is what we do.

Last night I was sitting in the floor of our bedroom, trying out the new newsprint nail polish trend when she came in and out of the room whining. Whine. whine. whine. I didn't even look up. Usually we ignore this behavior as long as we can. On this particular occasion I was able to ignore it for a long time because I was concentrating on my nails. I have to take advantage of every second The Boy is asleep, you know. Whine. whine. whine. whine. whine. whine.

Enter The Husband. "What are you doing sitting in the floor?" He asked. "Working on my acceptance speech for the Nobel Prize" I answered, because it was clear what I was doing by the nail polish in my hand and my pedicure kit sprawled on the floor. Whine. whine. whine.
Me: See what she has, she won't be quiet.
Whine. whine. whine.
Husband: Uh oh.
Me: What is it this time?
Husband: A chipmunk.
Me: Gasp. A CHIPMUNK?
Husband: Yep. You might not want to come over here.
At this point Prissy gets excited because we have finally caught on to the obvious good news that she has caught and killed a chipmunk and brought it inside our house to show off. She starts running in tiny circles in our room. I realize at this point that not only has she killed a chipmunk and brought it into my house, but she has been carrying it around in her mouth for the last twenty minutes, dragging it's little chipmunk claws all over the floor that The Boy crawls on with the hands that he eats with. 
Husband: No, Prissy. Drop it! Get her outside.
Me: How am I supposed to get her outside when there's a chipmunk?
Husband: I guess you pick her up.
Me: But my nails are wet! Come on, girl, let's go out. Luckily she minded me. 
Husband: Where's the dust pan?
Me: Last time I saw it it was in the recycling bin.
Husband: Why was it in the recycling bin?
Me: The Boy put it in there.
Husband: sigh.

Apparently he'd just emptied the recycling outside and had accidentally tossed the dust pan out too. He went outside to retrieve the dust pan so he could dispose of the chipmunk in our room. I'm assuming he dug a hole, fashioned a tiny casket out of an oatmeal canister, said a prayer for his family, and gently placed him in the ground, but I didn't ask. 


Earlier this week Prissy had treed who I can only assume is this same chipmunk up the side of our house. The top of the window screen was loose because we don't live in a Better Homes and Gardens magazine, so the chipmunk got in the screen. The boy and I looked at him from the inside, and The Boy tried to pet him through the glass. He also opened his mouth against the glass, in what I hope was an attempt to kiss and not eat the rodent. I put Prissy in her crate so the chipmunk could retreat to safety and this is what I get for trying to intervene with nature. I can't make this picture turn the right way, so turn your head to the right:

 
A little while later:
Me: Eeek! There's a spider on the wall. I think it's a bad guy, he's got a design on his back. That's bad.
Husband: Where?
Me: Right there. He just went under that picture frame.
Husband: (slamming our framed wedding pictures against the wall to try to kill the spider) I don't see him.
Me: He had something on his back. That's bad, right?
Husband: I don't know. Spider came into sight. No, he's fine.
Me: Well, aren't you going to kill it?
Husband: He's not hurting anyone. You were sad that the chipmunk died but you want me to kill a spider?
Me: Haven't you ever heard of arachnophobia? Nobody ever suffers from Chipmunkophobia.