As I write this I’m wondering about the fate of Elvis, our neighbor’s dog. The lab-hound mix is a large black tornado, lovable once he settles down from whipping you with his tail or greeting you face-to-face (i.e., front paws on your shoulders). Lately, though, the one-year-old has become a bit aggressive. When a dog starts growling at its owners and one of them barely outweighs him, it’s understandably a little unsettling.
With three dogs, four cats, two turtles and a bunny under one roof, our neighbors’ house has always been a kind of Dr. Dolittle domicile, where harmony prevailed. That is until today. Elvis, I’m sorry to report, pounced on the two-month-old kitten and killed her. A gory scene that I happened to witness. In his defense, I do believe that Elvis was only trying to play with little Layla. The vet agreed. (I drove while 16-year-old Emily held the kitten. Her shirt soaked in blood, she maintained a calm-in-crisis maturity far beyond her years. She’s destined to be a vet).
But whether this was a freak accident or a dominance play, I think Elvis’s days at the Dolittle house are numbered. With his recent rap sheet, his next gig, sadly, may be jail-house rock back at Animal Friends. I’m not saying I disagree, I’m just saying it’s sad. If it were my dog I really don’t know what I would do. It’s quite a quandary. One I admit I’m relieved isn’t mine.
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