Mornings around here are usually quiet. Coffee, breakfast, hollering at the kids to ‘rise and shine.’ The First Reader usually takes the time to actually cook eggs and toast, and this morning took it into his head to make both of us bacon, too. So I was puttering around the kitchen and dining room finding lunchboxes and stuff when I realize something. I look down at the dog, who is, as always, in the middle of everything, and ask her what she’s got. She looks up at me and I tell her to move her disgusting toy. It’s been raining here in Ohio, being on the cusp of spring, and everything the dog has is muddy.
‘Did you leave the dog outside when you went to look at houses yesterday with the Little Man?” The First Reader hands me my plate. “I seasoned your egg.”
“I don’t think so. She wanted to bark at the propane delivery guy. But Little Man may have let her out when I wasn’t looking.”
“Well, she was out when I got home and had been digging a hole, probably because she was bored.” He handed her a scrap of his toast and she wolfed it down, then turned to me.
“She was probably mole-hunting.” I fed her my toast crust. She won’t eat a whole piece of bread. If you give her one, she’ll head for the door and whine until you let her out so she can bury it. Once, a few years back, she’d been given a whole dinner roll, hadn’t been let out, and I found it buried a considerable time later in the overstuffed recliner cushions. Dogs!
After breakfast, I called to the kids, who refuse to eat in the morning so we don’t even bother any more. “Rise and Shine!” The Ginja Ninja emits a faint moan, then… “nooo….” very quietly. The Little Man said just loud enough for me to hear: ‘if I must.’
Chuckling, I walk back into my own bedroom where the First Reader is finishing up and getting ready to leave. “Ew, beast, must you?” I step over the well-chewed and muddy plushy toy she’s now deposited on the bedroom carpet.
The First Reader says, “that’s a really beat up stuffed mole.”
I look closer. ‘Papertowels.’ I tell him and head to get them before he can move. ‘It’s not stuffed!’ I tell him over my shoulder.
Sometime later, slightly damp from the rain and with freshly scrubbed hands, I sip at my coffee and pat her head. She wags hard and goes to get her spiky football. “I’m going to have to wash my hands again, aren’t I?”
As I told the First Reader, I’m just glad she didn’t eviscerate it on the carpet. The carcase was almost entirely intact, infull rigor, and had most likely been in the house since yesterday evening. Moles: 0, Dog: 1