J is having a bad morning. Apparently the dogs got hold of a bird, and there's nothing that can be done for it. J doesn't do well with this kind of thing at all. We've dropped more than one turtle off at the vet in the last year or so.
He keeps saying he knows it's not the dogs' fault, it's what they were bred to. They're both hunters. But I think that means, in some way, he's having to remind himself NOT to blame them.
I pointed out that if our Keystone Cop dogs were able to get hold of the bird in the first place, it probably already wasn't going to be ok. I've never seen them even able to get within 10 feet of a bird, so there had to be something wrong with this one already, and odds are it wouldn't have made it with or without those two. It didn't really help.
So this afternoon (or likely later this morning), I get to bury a bird. It will have to be around the back side of the fence, where the dogs can't get to it.
For awhile after I started dating him, I wondered why J never tried to become a vet. Now, I'm quite certain I know one of the big reasons, and it's the same reason why I'll never specialize in a field having to do with children.
Big marshmallows. Both of us. And it's a lot of why I love him.
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