I’ve been traumatized.
It finally happened.
I’ve worried about this for ages.
All the what-ifs have been giving me nightmares.
I’ve told myself that I’m just being silly.
I’m overthinking this thing.
It’s never really going to happen.
But it did.
It happened.
Blue brought a dead rabbit into the house through the doggy door.
She. Brought. In. A. Dead. Rabbit.
I caught her when she was just about to hop onto the couch with it.
In a panic, I did the only thing I could think of.
I screamed.
Surprised, she dropped the rabbit on the floor.
Who, as it turns out, wasn’t actually dead.
So she picked it up and gave it a good hard shake to finish the job.
Oh. My. God.
No one else was at home.
I was forced into a one-person Cri-Man-Squa.
That’s a Michael Scott reference if you aren’t an Office fan.
There were no other options.
I got a dustpan and a broom to deal with the carcass.
Luckily, there was no blood.
And luckier still, it was on the floor and not on the furniture.
I would have had to burn the couch.
I got the dead body into a trash bag while continuously moaning and ewwwing and flinching.
It was horrifying.
I had to sanitize the spot on the floor.
All while being completely grossed out with the heebie jeebies.
I texted my family to inform them of the crisis.
Every one of them thought it was hilarious.
For the record, it was not hilarious.
I have PTDRS.
Blue is never, ever, ever using that doggy door again.
From now on, she is going to have to wait at the back door and pass muster before she’ll be allowed back in the house.
Blue Dawg couldn’t care less.
She’s happy and sassy and very, very, very proud of herself.
I, on the other hand, have been traumatized.
Liz Brenner
Everyone has a story to tell.
Even you.
Especially you.
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