The Fine Art of Foraging

       Foraging has been an honorable activity for centuries.  Many species, including man, have existed on foraging alone; a contract with independence, a rite of passage, a culture in itself. 
      My little dog, Gypsy, has put a black eye on the good name of scavenging.  You could call her a herbivore/carnivore/junkavore, or possibly even a thief.
      Our walks together are peppered with the sounds of 'yum, yum, yum' and 'smack, smack, smack' as she picks tidbits of dubious origin from every unlikely source possible.  All are consumed with great relish.
      I feed her.  I really do.  But her dog food is never as tasty as what she forages in the woods and on the roadside.  And she is euphoric if we happen upon a deer carcass of any size or condition.  If it is really smelly, all the better.  She rolls in it first.  Such a happy day!
      If we are on our way home, she will haul her treasure with us.  Her tail held high, nose in the air, the 'dead thing' firmly gripped in her mouth, she prances down the trail behind me.  Occasionally, she will trip over it and roll down the hill and the 'dead thing' will become caught up in the underbrush.  I try to look sad for her sake, but I am really pleased.  I won't have to clean another pile of yuk-yuk off our lawn.
      One morning we found a freshly killed deer beside the pond, only a short distance from the house.  It's throat had been ripped out and it was disemboweled, but otherwise showed no sign of having been fed upon.  The killer must have struck in the morning and was frightened off as Rudy left for work.  I didn't want a predator returning later so close to home.
      Gypsy was delighted with the prospect of fresh venison so close, and so much of it.  We returned home and grabbed the wheelbarrow with the intention of disposing of the carcass.  She was ecstatic.  Her eyes were alight with expectation.  She bounced beside me with each step.  When I loaded the deer into the wheelbarrow and turned back toward home, she began doing cartwheels.
       "Oh boy oh boy oh boy oh boy oh boy!  Mom, this is so kind of you, and it is all mine. MINE, MINE, MINE!"  She was now bouncing three feet in the air with each step and stealing excited peaks into the wheelbarrow.
       "This is a wonderful day and that deer is ALL MINE!"  Bounce, bounce, bounce, bounce, bounce, bounce : a very happy little dog.
       "Be careful over that bump, Mom.  We don't want to spill my deer in the mud!"  Bounce, skip, hop, cartwheel, bounce, bounce, bounce.
       As we wheeled into the driveway and headed toward the house, she darted ahead of me to guide us through the gate into the yard,  and her face was radiant.
      I neared the garage, but instead of turning toward the gate into the yard, I turned to the garbage cans.  My animated little dog deflated slowly.  She stood by the gate, shock and horror in her eyes, and then followed by incredulous despair.  With her tail now drooping and her enthusiasm crushed, she was a picture of despondancy.
      I stuffed the deer in a garbage can, secured the lid down tight and put the wheelbarrow back.  My Gypsy dog continued to stand by the gate.  Her shock had been replaced by gloom.
     "I will NEVER understand people."