I was not the one to call.  

Sure. There are situations in which I am the one to call. 

Like the day the beagle rescue called to say a nine-year-old beagle had just been surrendered. 

“He’s in quarantine,” they said. “Heartworm, Lyme, and ehrlichiosis. They’re being treated.” 

Ehrlichiosis? 

“It’s a tick-borne disease. He’s in quarantine until his treatment is done. We think he’s perfect for your family. Would you like to meet him?” 

My kids would have said yes to any dog. My husband may have turned down an arthritic, aging, retired hunting dog with three infections in need of treatment. 

I agreed to meet him. Pete. 

A round trip to Virginia, another to Maryland, and $375 later, Pete was my dog. 

They say rescue dogs come with baggage, and Pete certainly has his foibles. Like his knack for waking up five minutes before my alarm — no matter what time I set it. 

Or his whimpering restlessness when one of us sits in a spot other than our usual one in the rec room. 

Or his blind eye toward wildlife. I’ve watched him go on point when squirrels perch on the garden fencing, nibbling at summer blackberries. He’ll give chase, running right over them. 

Not past them. Not through them. Over them.  

The squirrels, briefly stunned that their impending doom is now standing with his back to them, scatter like autumn leaves in a crisp wind. 

Pete rotates, looking for them like a villain on Star Trek searches in vain for the recently beamed, non-red shirt-wearing Enterprise crew. 

Once, when I first adopted him, he went on point, barking furiously at … a lawn full of wooden cow cutouts, 50 of them, in honor of a neighbor’s birthday. 

Whatever Pete was trained to hunt, he must have been extraordinarily bad at it, we’ve always mused. Or, he’s just leaning into his retirement. 

Eight years have passed since I took that call from the beagle rescue. I’ve known Pete to carefully layer his blankets on the sofa like cotton candy on a cardboard stick, his muzzle nestled in the fuzzy warmth. I’ve known him to migrate towards my husband, heat-seeking missile-like, on cold evenings in bed. I’ve known him to refuse to sit by me until I give him his breakfast of boiled chicken — pain, anxiety, and anti-diarrheal medications swirled in like fudge in a Rita’s Concrete Sundae.  

What I have never known him to do is catch an animal. 

That changed this week. 

My son called me, frantic on a blustery May afternoon. 

Just as May usually isn’t blustery, my son usually doesn’t call me — and is rarely frantic. 

As is our practice, he let Pete out back before heading to work.  

Pete took his time in the yard. Not unheard-of, now that the snow has melted and the air holds the promise of spring. 

But my son had to go, so he ducked out into the yard, hoping to lure Pete back to the house. 

What he found was Pete with a baby bunny in his mouth. 

Screaming. 

Yes. It was still alive. 

My son tried getting Pete to abandon his quarry, to come inside. 

Pete was having none of it. 

That was when my son called me. 

That would be the phone call I am suboptimally suited to handle. 

I was 10 minutes from home. 

My husband was 60. 

And my son had to leave for work. 

I told him to leave Pete — and Thumper — in the yard, to go to work. “I’ll take care of it when I get home,” I said. 

Arriving home, I grabbed rubber gloves and an old tote bag. I planned to wrest the bunny from Pete’s maw, cradle the bunny in the tote bag, and take him to the vet to be euthanized. 

“Babe!” my husband said, as I told him the story, “We’re not paying the vet to euthanize a baby rabbit the dog tried to kill!” he said.  

But we have money. Used copies of The Hobbit and $2.99 Robocop rentals money.  

Anyway, it didn’t matter. By the time I was home, Pete didn’t have the bunny. 

He trotted inside with me, all Ted Bundy-like, charm layered over the soul of a sick killer. 

Pete paused, headed back to the door. 

I let him out, watching surreptitiously through the window. 

Sure enough, Cujo darted behind the shed, loping back into the yard as he gargled baby bunny hasenpfeffer. 

I donned my rubber gloves, grabbed the tote. 

But the bunny I yanked from Pete’s mouth was dead, his tiny stomach dehiscing through a tear in his belly. 

I held it by the leg as I ran to the garage.  

It felt awful, like the tendon in an undercooked chicken. I opened the back garage door, surveying the scene for mice, skinks, and snakes before tossing the bunny and glove into the trash. 

I cursed. I frowned at Pete. “You are such a butthead!” I told him. I scrubbed my hands — four times through the alphabet, to rid myself of dead baby bunny amoebas. 

I was not the one to call.