You Can Just Call Me The Angel Of Death

So Tuesday afternoon I pick up KyKy from swimming, and as we pull into the garage, the dogs are going nuts in the yard. I'm thinking that they're just excited to see us. This was not the case. They had managed to catch a squirrel and Max was worrying it. The squirrel was squealing, KyKy started yelling at Max, and 'Nika came out and started yelling at the dogs also. Max dropped the squirrel, so Grover picked it up and started shaking it around, more yelling ensued until we got the dogs to leave it alone and get them back in the house. So there is Mr. Squirrel lying in a puddle of mud, twitching. I dispatched it with a couple of blows to the head with a shovel. Yuck. As of today, I still don't feel the need to go out and buy an orange vest and a long gun to reinforce my bona fides as a killer. I guess that means I can cross Blackwater off of my list of potential employers. I do wish the dogs would pursue the mice in our house with the same bloodlust they apparently have for squirrels.