As of this date, my pooch, Theo Fannybrice, has been thrown out of the local park, a nearby municipal park, and a federal park. A clean sweep. Actually, a filthy sweep, as no one seems to appreciate a robust hunting dog who ferociously digs to corner – and kill – his natural subterranean enemies, the lowly gophers. Flying dirt and sand make for quite the mess.
His primal instincts are strong, but, alas, unsuited to city life. I’d gladly allow him to uproot our backyard, but, apparently no animals of interest lurk beneath our own soil. I’ve always said Mr. T. needs a job on a farm.
This morning’s escapade also revealed that he’s not quite as brilliant as I’ve maintained. Like a turkey, he didn’t have the sense to come out of the rain. Or, out of the sprinkler system’s arc. By the time I hauled him away, he was a mud covered mess. We hustled off as the gardener hounded, “I know where you live.”
So now I’m housing a bedraggled fugitive from animal justice. And here’s the Offender after I’ve brushed off most of the muck.