I went out to feed the dogs and noticed a dead birdie floating in their water bucket. Surely it hadn’t come to get a drink or take a bath and fell flopping, then drowned. It seemed doubtful that Fred, the gentle Shepherd, murdered the bird or that Babe, my loud Lab, had done likewise since there was no blood.
As I poured the bucket into the dirt alley out back, I wondered how the bird died and what had been floating through its tiny head as I glanced around, fearing being labeled “bird killer,” before returning to feed the dogs.
As I poured the bucket into the dirt alley out back, I wondered how the bird died and what had been floating through its tiny head as I glanced around, fearing being labeled “bird killer,” before returning to feed the dogs.
