Winston’s been digging again. The dog often takes geological surveys in the yard but this time, he isn’t going for depth but quantity. He doesn’t spend a ton of time outside, but is very particular about the groundcover. Lately, it seems, he has a problem with grass.
I came home to find the pockmarked surface and asked him about it. Of course, I had to master my emotions first because he is extremely sensitive to loud things. He turned his head the other way very nonchalantly as I approached him while he was laying in his berm.
“Winston,” I demanded sternly to show him who’s boss “Why are you digging again?”
“Where?” he asked in his superior tone.
“All over, just look around! There is almost no green left.”
“Need I remind you that it is winter when grass goes dormant? For a biped with a mower, you really aren’t very bright.”
I hate it when he acts so smug.
“But why are you digging?” I asked as calmly as my blood pressure would allow.
“We could hardly call that a proper dig, now could we? That’s more like scratching.”
“Okay, why are you scratching?”
“It seems, my dear human, that you have a rodent.”
This was news to me. “What kind of rodent?”
“This is really going to be difficult, isn’t it?” He asked before lazily rising to his feet. With his nose he pointed to some raised areas in the ground. “Those are his tunnels. We seem to have lured a mole into the yard.”
“I didn’t lure him! Why don’t you get rid of him? That’s your job.”
“Well, I did find him interesting – thus the scratches. But as you so flippantly relayed to the nice lady last Tuesday, I ‘only eat and poop with no contribution to the house whatsoever’. Did I quote you correctly?”
“Yes,” I answered. That was exactly what I said, but I never think he is listening. Then, in a moment of brilliance, I thought maybe I could use psychology. “Winston, this is your chance! You could get rid of the mole and become a contributing member of the family.”
“I thought of that,” he said as he laid back down. “But I actually like the chap.”
“The mole. His name is Charley and he really is a capital fellow.”
“HE’S A RODENT!” I yelled.
“They all are,” Winston replied with a yawn. “But they’re really just like you and me. Just trying to get by and make a living for their family.”
“Make a living? You do nothing…” then something dawned on me. “Wait, all of them? What all?”
“Well, there’s Leo the rat, the Shallwillow squirrel family inhabiting the shed, and thirteen non-related chipmunks who’ve created some sort of commune under your deck. Oh, and like half a billion rabbits, of course. What they say about them is true, you know. They are prolific.”
“What? You’re okay with all this? I thought you were supposed to be this big, bad territorial beast!”
“Well, maybe in my younger days that would be important,” he replied. “But I do love to see things other then me aggravate you and quite frankly, I’m tired of chasing and barking.”
“But not digging?”
“Oh, no. I like digging,” he answered with as much of a devilish grin as a lab can give.
“Well… Stop it… Bad Dog!” I threw up my hands and yelled.
“Oh don’t patronize me… Bad dog… humph,” he said calmly.
It’s times like this when I wonder who owns whom.