Doggy Froggy Fun
My dog, Rigby, discovered a dead frog in the back yard. The frog, flatter than Kate Hudson before her boob job, is a mystery. I cannot determine how it got that way. I understand the “dead”, but the “flat” flummoxes me. What leveled the darn thing? Does Big Foot lurk amid my backyard pines?
Anyway, Rigby found the dead frog, picked it up in his mouth and trotted off as if he’d discovered the Hope Diamond. Our other two dogs, Penny and McGee, ran after Rigby because, hey, who wouldn’t want to be part owner a flat, gooey, dead thing?
Now, I understand that dogs are wired to be scavengers. God engineered them to have a soft spot for stinky stuff. Knowing this, however, does not mean I am any less disgusted by their doggy behavior as it pertains to decomposing amphibians. Ergo, I followed the doggy train down the hill to the far reaches of the yard, armed with the weapons of my Warrior Princess ancestors: a stick and a pine cone.
Rigby, a smart Lab mix, knew my proximity meant an end to his frolicking. He waited until I neared and took off like the space shuttle to the other side of the yard where he stood wagging his tail in a “come hither” sort of way.
I am not a smart Lab mix, but my human brain functions fine when Manny, my memory vortex, is laying low. I recognized the “chase me” game Rigby hoped to institute to enhance his doggy pleasure, and I opted out.
“You want to eat a dead frog? Fine, eat it,” I told him. “But you better not throw up in the house.”
He wagged his tail faster and cocked his head.
“I mean it,” I warned. “No half-digested frog parts on my family room floor, mister.”
Rigby took my words to heart and did not nosh. Instead, he dropped his plaything to the ground and rolled on it with the same abandon and glee I might display given the opportunity to roll in a pile of twenties totaling a million big ones. When finished, he allowed Penny and McGee the pleasure of frog rolling, too.
By the time I hightailed myself over to the party, the frog no longer resembled a frog, flat or otherwise. I used my stick and pine cone to lift the object of my dogs’ affection and toss it over the fence. May it rest in peace. . . pieces. . . whatever.
All three dogs trotted over to me with with wagging tails and lolling tongues.
“Don’t even think about kissing me or rubbing on me,” I told them. “Y’all reek.”
They wagged some more and ran off to wrestle, unaware that a bath loomed in their near future.
I had to Google “why dogs roll in smelly stuff” because inquiring minds want to know. I found these three theories:
1. To mask their own scent, the better for hunting prey and hiding from predators.
2. To communicate to their doggy pals that they have made an interesting discovery.
3. To impart their own scent to an object as a way of marking territory.
I don’t know which theory accounts for my dogs’ behavior. Mostly, I think they do it because they think it is fun, and my hairy kids are all about chuckles and wags.
For the record, no errant body parts appeared in my house. I still feel bad for the frog, though, and I’d really like to know what rendered him so flat that if I didn’t know better I’d believe he spent three days under a baby grand.
Some things are destined to remain a mystery.
Til next time –
Clip art courtesy of dreamstime.com.