This morning I saw three raccoons run across the street and through our neighbor’s front yard, but Mike saw them first and kept a tight hold on me. Since hunting for prey is being discouraged these days, I must pursue other diversions on my walks.
Chasing bouncy blue balls is fun, but my skills have progressed to the point that I prefer catching the ball in my mouth and carrying it around for a while rather than waiting for Mike to pick it up and throw it again. I squeeze it tightly between my teeth, and sometimes I’ve got to rest my gums for a while, so I drop it, usually into a thicket or a patch of stinging nettle, or maybe down an embankment where it can’t be retrieved easily. Then Mike has to get it, he cusses me under his breath, and usually ends the game for that day. I feel his pain. (Yeah, right.)
Treasure-hunting is the next best thing. My nose is always on the trail of something: Normally tennis balls, food wrappers, gum and bunny poop top my list, but sticks are right up there. I like ’em long and chewy, with some tasty innards to gnaw on after I get the bark pulled away. Bark’s too chewy for me, but the inside part is just right. I like to leave whatever I don’t eat in chunks all over the floor. I like seeing Mike with that whisk broom and dust pan in his hand. He wears them well.
The other day on our way home from a walk I found a great stick over by the park chapel, and I carried it all the way back in my mouth (with a few stops along the way for redistribution of weight). It’s a long sucker, close to three feet. As a reward for my spunk, I got to bring the darn thing inside the house and chew it all over the living room. Mike got out the whisk broom and dust pan and didn’t even complain once, so I must have done a good thing. For today, anyway. Let’s see how long he lets me keep it around.
Good thing I live in the moment.