Life with The Dog: digging

I look out the window and the first thing I notice is a pile of mud on my lawn. Next, I see a hole next to that pile. Then, I see my labrador digging another hole about a metre away.

I tap on the window, The Dog turns around and I shout, "Stop doing that!" to which she - and I'm not kidding here - sits on the ground nicely, looks at me and nods.

And then I burst out laughing because on top of seeing The Dog nod to me, for now she has also turned into a brown labrador, not black, because all of her head, and her chest, and her paws are covered in dust and dirt.

Over the many forgotten years so many bones have settled (or been dug in, I don't know) around our house that although I pick up and throw away bones on a weekly basis she nevertheless manages to dig up more and deposits them wonderfully, like relics of war, on our front steps or our lawn.

And so I keep throwing out ribs, and skulls, and hipbones, and The Dog keeps bringing me more.

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