From a dog's perspective, it is difficult to see a story unfold. The distractions that bound out of bushes and cause one to charge to the end of the lead - not to mention the sudden, sharp yank that results - make keen observation difficult. The beauty and wonder of the variety of smells defy the description of mere words. And the perplexing behavior of the giant, pink gods that control food, water, and access to the outdoors are frequently a mystery that only becomes clear at distant intervals.
Most of the time I lie around listening to them. The little ones babble and squabble, the bigger ones charge about, moving things and grumbling. There is a lot of noise, and little excitement. But there is something to be said for listening.
I have told some of the tales of the terrorist rabbits, and I shared some of my more embarrassing moments. I even told the story of my friend, the mouse, which was probably not one of the best series of choices I have made. Since then, a lot of waiting has gone on, and a lot of significant events.
The most significant thing, other than waiting for dead mice to show up, was this thing called "vacation". I have been to visit someone called Dr. Andrew several times, mostly to have my nails clipped, and to get shots. You would think this would spoil the allure of Dr. Andrew, but there is just something about him that I find enchanting. I think... maybe... I have a crush on Dr. Andrew.
But it's always been an intermittent thing, since I see him so rarely. But a few weeks ago, the people packed me and some of my things into the car, and took me to Dr. Andrew's office. I was thrilled, until they all hugged me, and petted me, and sent me back... and left me there!
My first thought was that they had gotten tired of me, or blamed me for the mouse situation, and I was being given away. But then Dr. Andrew came in, and it finally sank in that it wasn't supposed to be a "forever" kind of thing. Not that I have any concept of time, but it Dr. Andrew says it's alright, then it's alright.
We had a good time; I spent most of my days with the staff (since I still can't stand other dogs). And eventually, the family came back. We had a joyful/tearful reunion, and we came back to a house that felt... different.
Before leaving, I knew the big folks had made an extra effort to super-clean, and lock up and trace of food. And they set out extra poison and traps all over the place. But the poison was gone, and the traps had been empty when they got back. There were doots all over the usual places. At least they couldn't blame me, since I'd been in the klink.
Things were morose and tense, partly from "coming down" off their vacation high; partly from having to face the mouse problem. And then the other morning, the Hairy Guy went downstairs for a bag of human kibble - they call it "cereal" - and he came back up in a frenzied state of joy. He woke up the Mom Lady, so I knew it was serious.
"We got one!" he announced.
"Dead mouse! Downstairs!"
"Ew! Throw it away!"
"I will," he said, chuckling. "Did you want to see it?"
So, he grabbed a ziploc bag, and a few minutes later, he brought it upstairs. He didn't try to show it to me; he's not cruel that way. But I saw it. He was a little bigger than last time I saw him, but it was Doots.
The people are happy, now. There has been a victory, and a trophy, even if they did chuck it in the bin. But they're still waiting, and so am I. Because we all know there have to be more, hiding somewhere, working up the nerve to appear.
And what will happen when they do?