One of the best things about being back home for the summer is the chance to be around my beloved dog, Magic.

Yes, this dog. I wrote one of my first articles about this fluffer.

He was one of the handful of things I missed at college, alongside sleep and local Lenten traditions(oh, Fastnachts, I was so sad to miss you...). Once I came home, I just wanted to cuddle with him all day, stroke his perfect,soft fur until he curls up on my lap. However, recently, certain habits of his have come to light that have destroyed my image of my angel dog.

Magic is a cold-blooded killer.

I don't quite know where he runs off to when I let him out over lunch, besides bounding out to the back garden at full speed barking at the top of his lungs. He always comes back when I ring the bell eventually, mostly due to Pavlovian conditioning of the highest degree. (It's the other dog, Hope, who manages to give me anxiety by vanishing completely and reappearing again as soon as I give up looking. She's probably running off with the fairies; you know how corgis are.) Sometimes, though, he would come in with dirt on his paws, or else smell absolutely fetid. I can't describe the smell accurately; like the salmon dog food we feed him, or crap. (Dad thinks he always smells of some form of crap.) This smell rubs off when I pet him, sinking into my hands so deeply it takes a food-service wash to get rid of it. While it put a hamper in our relationship, I let it be. Dogs are dogs. Their idea of grooming is licking their crotch.

What finally inspired this article happened a couple of nights ago. Me and my mother were enjoying some good family TV time together while Dad was letting the dogs inside. Then, I heard Dad yelling from across the room--there was a dead animal inside Magic's mouth. Mom quickly ran over to help, while I listened in from my spot. Magic had apparently found a rotting bird carcass, and decided to bring it home and eat it. He was just about to swallow it when my father intervened. I did not see the corpse (those kinds of things make me squeamish and anxious), but had heard enough.

This was not the first time Magic has done this. Last summer, me and Sheridan were having a fairly decent summer afternoon alone in the house. I was letting Magic and Hope inside after finishing lunch. I had left them out a good amount of time, and Magic was taking his sweet time coming in. He was on the back porch, being stubborn--or so I thought. After slowly trotting through the doorway, he sat down, and placed a dead rodent at my feet. Although I didn't see any bite marks, it looked fresh. I freaked out. I called Sheridan downstairs, I called Mom and Dad, and called Magic all sorts of names. After locking the offending animal in his room, I took a pencil and nudged the carcass into a plastic bag, which was promptly discarded. While this incident prompted some reflection on Magic's nature(we're fairly certain he's part cat), we wrote it off as a one-time incident, a funny story to share with our morbid friends. In light of recent events, it is not.

Now, I don't want my furry boy to be euthanized; he hasn't hurt anybody besides tiny woodland creatures, and we haven't actually caught him in the act. The bird was fairly decomposed when it was recovered, and I didn't actually touch the vole with my fingers. Even so, how can I love this vulturous canine, digging up corpses to roll in and swallow whole, who reeks like the grave?

...I can't stay mad at that face. I still love you, pupper.