Growing up, our neighborhood was home to a vagrant collie. A big, yellow, nasty, abandoned collie. His first, middle and last names were MEAN.
He roamed the neighborhood but seemed to be here or at Fishers (our neighbor, Bud Fishers) a lot. He would go into the garage and snarl at anyone who came near. We called the other neighbor (Doc Railing). He came over with leather gloves and his hook or whatever he used to catch strays. He tried a few times with no luck and said he had never seen such a mean dog!
Next call was to the sheriff. He came out and Mean Dog happened to be in the old coal shed in our backyard. Sheriff asked if he could shoot right in the building. Of course, of course. Anything to make the neighborhood safe again for the children. BANG, once. BANG, again. BANG, BANG, BANG , BANG , BANG. Mean Dog had such a thick coat of hair, Sheriff had trouble getting him shot.
Next question regarded the burial for Mean Dog. Since he was on our property we were elected. Dad came home from school and found his work cut out for him. He did it without protest and the whole neighborhood could breathe a sigh of relief.
When that old coal shed was built, it was connected to the rest of the house by sort of breezeway. It was originally a summer kitchen. By the time I first saw it, it had degenerated into a junk room. The breezeway had doors to the east and west. Also, there was a window on each side. The floor was in sad disrepair in one corner. A chipmunk could often be seen as one stepped out of the kitchen door into the breezeway. That and the old summer kitchen were his territory.
That chipmunk still has descendants living near the backdoor! He must like it very much as nothing makes them move away.