A Mighty Fartress is Our Dog

It was the rabbit.
It had to be.
They'd been playing with it for three days now,
and, well, I guess it was just time.
It didn't stand a chance.
Chuck's steel jaws took one quick snap and -- .

So they decided to eat it, after a while,
Gidget and her big, blond companion.
She took a back leg, he a fore and the tug of war was on.
Two dogs, one bunny.
It was no contest.

Come evening, the dogs were sated. Run tired and played out,
they crashed like rocks.
Bedtime, and the small dog, Gidget, came inside.
Curled in her little ball of fur, looking like a scrap from a parka hood,
she snored softly.
And then it began.
Silent, but deadly.
The smell. The overwhelming smell of dog that has been into raw meat.
Like a barrel of garlic gone bad, this smell.
Worse than skunk.

She stank up the whole dang house, room by room
with that creeping vapor.
Even the kitchen was not immune.
And then I started laughing.
And humming. The old Christian hymn.
"A Mighty Fartress is Our Dog."
Snerk.