every wolf knows

Tiny chumley happily buzzed about the backyard yesterday morning, sniffing his way through chest high grass and periwinkle, with his tail held high and perkily wagging to and fro like the hips of a dashboard hula girl. This time of year, it’s not the digging that interests tiny chumley so much as it is the smells, the faint, molecular trails of evidence that validate what the little wolf inside him already knows to be true - bunnies. Somewhere. But not sure where yet.

When the little kielbasa is in wolf mode, there’s no calling him to come back so we can go inside. There’s only me, and my gas mask, and the billion quadrillion pollen particles that I attempt to dodge as I go get him. By the time I reach down to carry him home, his displeasure is expressed by his little ears, pulled back and pasted flat, and ready to tell all who would hear his protest, Time to go inside isn’t dictated by sneezy moms, every wolf knows. Time to go inside is after you catch the bunny.

Luckily, forgiveness is only a lunchy lunch bowl away. And while I spent the afternoon toiling away on my
computer, tiny chumley blissfully slept by my side, snug as a bug on a sheepskin rug. :)