A bird dog

Friday morning I was doing my regular kitchen duty after the kids went to school. At some point, during the dishes, wiping down the counter-tops and swiffering the floor I glance at my little sidekick, Chewie, and see feathers in her mouth. Feathers? In the mouth of a cute little toy poodle?

"Chewie!" I chastized. "No, no. What did you do?" While holding the feathers in my hand, I scoured the backyard. All the while, I am constantly scolding this little dog. "We don't eat birds. No, no." (ironically, I am just realizing that I DO eat birds but, am pretty confident they are no good for cute puppies)

Upon finding a plume of feathers on the basketball court outside, I am convinced my dog will be ill. After a few more no-no's and many stern looks, I return to the kitchen sink while Chewie sulks on a lounge chair nearby.

Right when I turn my attention back to the tasks at hand, out of the corner of my eye, I see Chewie FLY off the chair and under the table. Then a sickening thump, thump.

"Timeout! Timeout! The bird is in the house." I squeal.

As I am jumping up and down and trying to cordone off the table Jeremy just laughs incredulously and says, "Stupid dog."

So, we cleaned up the bird. Jeremy threw in a dramatic flick of the wrist with the dustpan to freak me out. Classic and I still fell for it. More squealing.

Now the question is: Did Chewie really kill the bird? Or, did the bird die and she drug it in?

Here is the dead bird:

Here is the poodle:

You be the judge.