I came home from yoga this morning to find a small pile of partially digested dog food on the carpet but there was no indication as to who had left it. A little while later, as I sat down to do some knitting, I heard wretching sounds in the other room and then I knew. It was Jack. Poor baby, he looked terrible. I coddled him and started to worry. Is he uncomfortable? It's the weekend--what if he needs to see the doctor? Is he dying?
I was going through the whole list of Dogmomma Whatif's when I wandered into the kitchen and saw it. There in the corner sat the 40 lb. bag of dry dog food. It was right where we always leave it, but now a corner of the top was missing and the jagged edge of the front was pulled down to just about 10 inches from the floor--oddly enough, the same distance from the floor to Jack's nose. That little thug! While I'm busy making myself a nervous wreck, he's in the other room, quietly sleeping off his morning bender!
Then I got to thinking. In the past few months, I've had holes chewed through to the pocket of my wool pea coat, a flannel blazer totally destroyed and a hole eaten in my favorite jean jacket. I've blamed Molly but now I'm thinking I had it all wrong. Call Grissom, call Jethro Gibbs! Get a cheek swab from the black dog and Mirandize the mutt.
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