Rion killed a chipmunk this evening. It was horrifying. It was on our evening walk, and we don't even know how he got a hold of the little guy, but the next thing we knew, he was freaking out, shaking his head wildly with something hanging from his mouth. We shouted, and the thing went flying, in (yuck!) two pieces. I was glad it was already dark out so I couldn't really make out any details of the gore. Poor Randal had to clean it up.
Pretty disgusted and turned off by the whole thing, I then remembered the story about the time my parents' old beagle, Tyler, caught a rabbit. My parents have rabbits that get into their backyard every year (they're still a'coming, and even more so now that there is no longer a dog keeping watch), and one year, Tyler caught one of the baby rabbits. I wasn't there at the time, but heard about it afterward. The rabbit squealed - apparently they can let out very high-pitched yowls when necessary - and Tyler, looking a bit stunned about his catch, let go, and the rabbit ran off.
Then I found out a few years ago that the last part was not quite what one might consider truthful; ergo, the rabbit did not make it away entirely intact or, for that matter, entirely (or even somewhat) alive.
I'm now going to go curl up in a ball in a dark corner of the house somewhere and fervently hope that I can clear all the ensuing mental imagery out of my mind. Probably I will make it out of this without years of therapy, but it's still too early to tell. Yuck, ugh, and blech.