Mighty Hunters

The wolves are on the prowl. Narrow wolves, but wolves all the same.

Tuffy is off at the gym. Scarecrow just left to run some errands. The front door clicks shut. No sooner does the sound of the van fade into the distance than I hear narrow little feet trot down the hall towards the kitchen, circle through the utility room, past the dog food bin, back to the kitchen and dining room, down the hall to see if Tuffy left her door open, back up the hall, a quick sweep through the living room, and back to the kitchen. The sharp click of narrow feet on tile means they were scoping out the kitchen counter. A resonant thump on hardwood indicates that anything toothsome that might have been on the dining room table is there no longer. If any of these are followed by the sound of gnawing, I can only hope their hunt came up empty, and they had to settle for a Nylabone. I can usually tell. Paper towels or napkins shred into little tiny bits without much sound. The rustle of a plastic bag or the rending of fabric is probably bad.

At this stage, the slap of the dog door most likely means they found something interesting enough to haul out into the yard. I really hope they didn't find any toilet paper. If it's Tuffy's underwear again, she's really going to be pissed, but maybe she'll stop leaving her laundry on top of the washing machine.



I suppose I should follow them around, telling them "No!" or "Off!" or "Leave it!", as appropriate, even if I know they'll be back into it as soon as my chair is turned. But by the time I catch up with them the hunt is over, the mighty hunters asleep on the couch, or in a patch of sun in the yard, awaiting the return of the rest of our pack. If they ate something, it's been eaten. If they chewed something up, it's already chewed. If they TPd the yard again, at least it's not raining.