It appears there is some sort of eternal font in my backyard spawning turtles. That can be the only explanation for the sheer number of them Luna keeps finding. And now, she knows she isn't allowed to have them. When caught, she runs across the yard, drops it and then jaunts back over to us, as if we won't know what just happened.
Meanwhile Marty or I are distracting the mutt while the other takes the turtle out to the front yard, wishes it well and sends it on its way. With that task done, we release the hound, who innocently waltzes back to where she dropped her plaything, only to find it missing.
And then... Luna cries (CRIES I TELL YOU) for the next 45 minutes like she's been whipped and beaten, mourning her little turtle friend. While all this is going on, I'm working on edits, word for word, line for line, with a forlorn, howling dog, who is letting the household know the only one who can possibly console her is Mama. To their credit, Marty, Polly and Buck have tried, but nope. It's me or the turtle.
No comments:
Post a Comment