We have a beagle who does not play well with others. He has Little Man Syndrome. Bad. Toss some food out the back door and the minute the door is closed, you'll hear snarling. A pet kerfuffle, engineered by Tank, the beagle. He fights with the other dog. He fights with the cats. He fights with the chickens. And the last incident in which he was caught was a showdown with a goat. The sweetest of the goats, too. The long-haired, blue-eyed Nellie.
The Nellie Incident began when a loaf of stale white bread was tossed, slice by slice, into the front yard for the chickens and the goats. Tank thought otherwise. He charged off the porch and into the yard, making a beeline for the slice of bread that Nellie was wrapping her lips around. Tank rushed her, snarling. Nellie grabbed the bread, turned, and ran for her pen. Tank couldn't let it go. He jumped up and sank his teeth into Nellie's left side. And hung on like a snapping turtle awaiting thunder. Nellie trotted. Tank bobbed. His feet did not reach the ground. Nellie ran faster. Tank lost his grip on her hirsute flesh, and dropped off, completing two full revolutions like a rolling, beagle-colored log. He at least had the conscience to appear shamed when chastised. Then he pouted for a day.
This evening, the chickens were the lucky recipients of some Martha White muffins, baked by Genius two nights ago. Genius proclaimed that only the strawberry and blueberry are worthy of his appetite, and that chocolate chip and apple cinnamon should never be purchased again.
I stood at the porch rail, crumbling muffins and scattering them to the fowl, taking care to toss them far away from the two guineas, who are noisy bullies who serve no purpose other than to annoy me. Tank ran into the crumbfest, sniffling for snacks. The chickens pretty much ignored him, what with this generation lacking knowledge of his previous four murders.
It was slim pickin's for Tank, the muffins being crumbled thoroughly and widely spread. As I flung the final particles, the wind caught the paper plate, previously weighted with muffins, and blew it down to the yard. Right onto Tank's back. He jumped and cringed. Who would have thought that two such opposite actions could occur in tandem? Tank fled his foodish field of dreams. I consider that plate attack sweet, poetic justice.
Tonight, Tank got his just desserts.