Bela & the bucket.

Once a week, Bela's dog food is made.

Yes - made. I'd love to take some credit here; but I can't. It's all Mike. Mike's idea, Mike's hard work.

He rounds up the best sales at the grocery store - chicken is usually the star feature (be it a breast, thigh or whole bird.) Occasionally, she'll have a ground chuck or ground turkey. Eggs often get thrown in the mix or on top every few days. The proteins are mixed with vegetables of a wide variety. This girl gets everything from sweet potatoes to okra, from lima beans to kohlrabi, from carrots to cabbage. (She has certainly benefited more than we have from the CSA we joined this year). A brown rice or barley stands in for the carbohydrate component. An apple goes diced into the mixture near the end. Then one to two herbs from Mike's indoor herb garden to garnish. All of these ingredients face their final incorporation in the red bucket.

These batches take roughly 3 hours from start to finish. I usually walk around the kitchen, verbally appreciating the smells and techniques (and time) he's putting into the excercise. I help him scoop the food into numerous rubbermaid containers for freezing. I wash the dishes that aid him.

Bela knows when this process is occurring. She watches him take out frozen meats, grab the bag of brown rice and get cooking.

She stands or lays in the kitchen for the duration of the evening, facial expression alternating between adoration and visceral desire.

When the red bucket comes out, she knows she will soon have her head in it.

For after the containers are filled and stored in the freezer, the bucket - with the  remnants inside...is placed on the floor for her. She inserts her head. She places her paw inside, so as to hold it in place as well as possible. She licks it until it appears to be so very clean that sometimes I 'forget' to wash it.

Bela bit me. (And that really hurt...)

Instinct trumps thought.
Teeth trump flesh.

Last week, while at the dog park, Bela got in a fight.
The details involve a large dog taking posession of both of her tennis balls.  (Because, yes - we bring an additional ball for ball-thieves.)
As B is not much of a fighter, I knew she meant business.
I didn't see the owner of the other dog moving too quickly to pull her dog off, so...I went in swinging! Well...actually, I went in, arms waving wildly, attempting to pull the other dog on the right more towards the right, and Bela on my left more towards the left.
As the dogs were pulled away from each other (which, ironically, I had nothing to do with -- the other owner grabbed her dog; Mike grabbed Bela), Bela went in for a final chomp.
She got one.  Only it wasn't the other dog she got.  It was me.
(Even the satisfaction of feeling her teeth sink into something didn't stop her.  After being picked up and held in the air by Mike, Bela actually continued to squirm and growl, eager to get out of his arms and KEEP FIGHTING.)

I looked up from the ground where I lay - the only fallen soldier - and said quietly, "I got bit...."
The blood began to pool and run down my arm into the grass. 
We packed up her bookbag with her balls and headed home.

She had, nor has - any idea that she bit me.  She may relate to or remember a scuffle with a large thiefdog, but likely little more than that.  Meanwhile, I ritually tend to my wound and observe it, as it appears as though I have been violently attacked by an unobvious creature.  Everything has a mouth!

Ultimately, I am glad she doesn't know she hurt me, as it wasn't her intention and I wouldn't want her to have to feel bad about something she didn't design.
I have been curious, however, as to whether she could connect to the mark if she were to see it.
So this morning, I held out my arm, while doing my morning cleaning, to see if I could incite some feelings of guilt in her.

She just leaned in and sniffed my perfume, appreciatively.

The Terminator/Exterminator

Last year, we moved into a basement apartment.
Before this move, I was fairly unfamiliar with the centipede.  (Only now do I know how fortunate I had been.)
They began appearing around springtime.  One here, one there.  And then they were everywhere.  I would freeze in fear - and watch the million-legged beasts run where they liked. 
As time went by, and the frequency of spottings increased (minimum one per day), I became bolder when confronted by these monsters.  Fearful screams turned to warrior yells.  After spotting one, no rest was had until I had done him in. 
That said, it never becomes easy to deal with centipedes in the home; I just got better at it.
I still timidly approached the shower each morning (they love to cling at the top of it) and checked the bedsheets each night.  I feared they would show up when I was in my most vulnerable state.  (And one night, Mike said he felt something on his face.  Enough said.)
There was also the frightful day I stepped up to the kitchen sink to wash my hands, and found two large centipedes spooning each other in the drain strainer.

The winter brought peace.

Spring looming, I began researching suggestions for warding off centipedes.  Websites confirmed that the basement is their favorite place in any home, and since the basement is my home...I wasn't feeling hopeful.  I decided a substance deemed Diatomaceous Earth was what I needed most.  I had its name on a post-it, carrying it around with me, but just never got around to picking it up.
In the meantime...spring came.....and went.....with an curiously low number of centipede spottings.

It took me months to figure out what was going on.

Then one morning, Bela was snuggled up with me when all of the sudden, she sprang out of bed! She ran across the floor, and Pow!, smacked her right paw on the hardwood.  A second later, Pow! - left paw!  And then she was silent.  I ran over to see what had occurred, and there it lay.  A dead centipede.  After that, I began noticing dried up bodies all over the house.
Yes, it appears that since spring arrived, Bela has been hard at work during the day.
While I am gone, she cleans up the house.

I recently discovered that she has various approaches to their disposal.
The other day, she gently picked one up in her mouth, drowned it with her saliva and then dropped it back on the floor.
"Good girl!", I exclaimed.  Good girl on two points: 1) She killed me a centipede! 2) She did not eat it!
I immediately ran to her treat cabinet and showered her with freeze-dried liver, oat biscuits and bacon strips.
She deserves it all!
Hell - she deserves a paycheck!  She has exterminated the basement!