We found out this morning that Chet Baker (the Boston terrier with a southern accent who has displaced Phoebe, Liam, and me in the hierarchy of Julie's affections) does not take too kindly to strange black-n-white critters such as, oh I don't know, plastic Adelie penguins.
Our cute penguin, a gift to Julie from our friend Sharon BirdChick Stiteler, blew off our front porch and down to our meadow's edge. When Chet spotted it today, he did what any other well-bred Southron man would do, he charged, barking, and pressed the attack. Gettin' thur furstus with th' mostest was his well-executed plan.
He grabbed the beast by its open plastic base, dragged it to his favored chewing spot underneath the Japanese maple, and would have chewed it into tiny plastic bits perfect for causing cuts needing stitches had we not rescued the poor Antarctic species (very endangered here in Ohio) from Chet's clutches. It was almost The Munch of the Penguins.
He wasn't through. He jumped up, snagged the bird back from Julie and shook it violently.
One thing is for certain: Chet don't like penguins.
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