Squirrels, Bunnies, and Pugs

I've always wondered - how does the squirrel and bunny hierarchy work? Perhaps I should explain.

I live in a suburban neighborhood, filled with screaming children and grass that's just five minutes away from dying a slow painful death. Here, I see squirrels and bunnies who have overcome their natural fear of all beasts much larger than themselves. They wait until said beast is only five inches away, and then take one heavy hop to the side, as if to say, "What? The sidewalk too small for you, you fat thing, you?"

I like to sit in my car sometimes after getting back from work and stare at the little fellows, digging for imaginary treats on my lawn - completely ignoring my recently parked car. Because they work in such close proximity, I always wondered - who's the boss here?

Although some would say that the precocious squirrels are at the top of the corporate chain, I would have to disagree. Yes, bunnies look gentle, sweet, and stupid. Bunnies become roadkill a lot more often than squirrels.

But I say this is all an act. Bunnies are smart, conniving little chaps. They know they look innocent and harmless, and they exploit this knowledge to its full potential. Squirrels, being ruthless loud little furballs, are recruited into the bunny fold, with promises of nuts and Pug Mom’s trash, to warn and protect the bunny population.

How else would it explain the fact that whenever I let the DevilSpawn outside, bunnies are completely absent from the picture, yet squirrels are hanging from every branch and twig, staring relentlessly at my pug? They’re the bunny security system, I’m telling you.

Unfortunately, the bunnies have overlooked a key factor: my pug doesn’t want to attack bunnies. He’s AFRAID of bunnies. He jumps in alarm whenever they appear out of the brush. After all, his only prey is the chicken in my fridge and the ants that crawl around outside. He’s such a pussy.

And so begins this woeful tale...

I have a pug. His name is Babar. He's fawn with black sprinkles, and he's the son of Satan.
Technically, his father is a massive rolly-polly mound of fawn-ness called Sherman, but I know, and Babar knows, that evil impregnated his mother that fateful day.

Before Babar entered my life, I was carefree. I enjoyed long naps on my couch (which, at that time, was located in the most logical place - the Living Room). I walked barefoot around my apartment. I left the front door open so my friend, The Breeze, could come in and chat. I ate ice cream and homemade chocolate chip cookies while sitting cross legged on the floor. I played music and danced around naked at 2 AM in the morning.

Then it all changed.

I decided, probably during a sugar high, that I wanted a dog. And not just any dog - a pug. Why did I want a pug? They seemed cute. Had I ever met a pug before? Nope. Did I know how to take care of a pug? Nope. Had I any clue in all frakkin' hell what I was getting myself into? Not a dang clue. But being the sometimes brainless gal that I am, I launched into my search for the perfect pug.

I found him.

Once his big buggy eyes stared at me in confusion, and he attempted to climb up my cleavage, I was gone. I spent the next hour drilling The Boyfriend's ear about how ah-I-can't-speak-because-I-just-wanna-scream cute The Pug's nose was - all 2 indented-into-his-skull millimeters of it.

Since then, I have been living in the Bowels of Hell. To those of you naughty enough to eventually drop by, let me tell you - the Bowels of Hell isn't all that bad. I can live with extremely lethal poo, a makeshift carpet of dead leaves and twigs, and dog toys placed in military strategic positions in order to render the most damage to the enemy (usually me, and sometime The Boyfriend). But I have been cursed. And this week I realized how controlled I have become by this DevilSpawn: I went to visit a breeder to buy myself another pug, so Babar could have a playmate.