No one’s best friend is perfect. You take the good with the bad. I, for example, never return phone calls. I’m terrible about it, and there’s room for growth there. Daisy also has growth opportunities. She is a cold-blooded murderer.
Basically, if you weigh under eight pounds and have four legs, my dog is going to end your life. She cannot help it, I suppose. She’s two different hunting breeds compressed into a 35-pound panting homicidal maniac, answering the call of the wild.
When Daisy was a puppy, she caught chipmunks, perhaps the occasional lizard. It would take her a little while to kill it, because she’d wanna play with her catch of the day for a while. But the innocence of youth has ended. Our dog hunts compulsively, displaying a steely determination and economy of movement we never see in any other circumstance. Our dog is basically Geena Davis in “Long Kiss Goodnight.”
We keep hoping word will get out in the animal kingdom: Do not go to the Paynes’ back yard. There’s a monster who will snap your neck in less than 15 seconds and leave you on the steps for her mortified humans.
But animals are apparently stupid. I praise her endlessly for each fresh kill, because I do not want mice, chipmunks, or lizards in our back yard. Also, it’s nice to see her contributing to the household. Having a skill set is crucial to one’s self-esteem.
Last night, she killed a possum. A big nasty one. Big enough that she couldn’t drag it to the back steps. It was the largest animal she’s murdered, and it got me a little concerned about how much she’s going to keep upping the ante. Am I going to open my back door one day and find a dead cow out there? Maybe she needs therapy.
Preppy held onto her, while I got the shovel. When I scooped that disgusting dead beast off the ground, something horrible happened. That something was me learning first-hand what the phrase “playing possum” actually means.
That hideous rat monster sat up and hissed at me, with his beady little eyes and yellow teeth. I made this noise: Ee-yoo-ah-ah. And swung that shovel full-force, sending the possum flying through the air, over our fence, hitting the brick wall of my schizophrenic neighbor’s house before dropping to the ground, dead as Amanda Bynes’s career.
“Topher!” Preppy shouted/whispered. “You just threw a possum at Crazypants’s house! She’s going to find it dead in the morning! Do you realize you just actually did something as nuts as she accuses us of doing?”
Preppy had a point. But in my defense, if you accuse a guy of stealing apples enough times, eventually he’s just gonna start taking apples. Besides, Daisy’s keeping us all safe with a little vermin vigilante justice, and I’m happy to help cover up her crimes. I think she’d do the same for me.
Topher Payne is an Atlanta-based playwright, and the author of the book “Necessary Luxuries: Notes on a Semi-Fabulous Life.” Find out more at www.topherpayne.com