saturday saturday saturday

Went to work. Went to the post office. Came home. Went to the park to walk the dogs. Walked the dogs. Went to the grocery store. Came home. Watched football. Played with brown dog. Watched golf. Played with black dog. Watched football. Cooked turkey burgers. Ate turkey burgers. Watched football. Watched news. Came outside with brown dog. Sat on stoop. Began typing.

Black dog slowly stalked a mole today. The wonder dogs have been digging up a lot of ground over the last couple months trying to track down said varmint. We've got a couple old closet doors and the remnant of another door covering up the main dig sites. Those spots get muddy if not protected.

Maggie has some innate hunting skills. She is a slow stalker. If she thinks she sees the ground moving from a tunneling mole, she goes into super slo-mo mode. Slowly moving only one limb at a time, focused intently on the ground. Occasionally she strikes a classic pointer pose. If you don't pay close attention, you wouldn't know that she was moving at all. She is slow and deliberate, almost like a mime miming something really slow (best simile ever!), but without the face paint and inherent creepiness. She'll do this for minutes on end... then pounce. Her nose leads the charge followed by frantic digging. Normally she comes up empty. I assumed she had today as well, until Mickey and I went outside to play some guitar. Within a few minutes he was running away with some good-sized something in his mouth. He found our mole. Maggie had taken care of it a few hours earlier. Some dog beef jerky treats were a good enough diversion for him to give up the mole. I took a shovel and flung the little gray body into the woods. It landed on top of a small maple tree then fell a bit before getting hung up on one of the branches. I feel bad that it was just hanging there. Hopefully it dropped down in the afternoon breeze. If it's still up there tomorrow I'll have to get it on the ground. There's something undignified and morbid about it being up there, it's been through enough.

Mickey and I are on the top step of the back stairs. He's laying down. I'm sitting up. His hairless hindquarters and still bone-shaped scar are dimly lit by the computer screen. I noticed earlier that his lone white whisker is missing once again. Hopefully the empty follicle will sprout out another trademark hair. Even without it, he's still very much the quintessential Mr. Weenis. There were times today in the car where, when I looked in the rear-view mirror to check on him, all I could see was his black-tipped tail shooting straight up in the air. No doubt he was snacking on ancient crumbs and driveway sand and gravel, his snout on the floor mat and butt perched high above on his spindly springy legs. A moment later he would be curled up behind my seat. Panting. Always panting. Then back to the front seat, sitting with impossibly perfect posture. Panting. Always panting. Always looking. And sniffing. Ready. Even now on the back stairs he looks into the darkness. Looking for ancient crumbs. Looking for something new. Looking for something familiar. Always looking.