Harlei-Dog’s collar has small flecks of blood on it from the day during quarantine – can you blame them – when he fought Daisy-Dog for the first bite of the still-too-hot sweet potato.
Daisy-Dog’s collar comes off too easily when she prances into the too-tall weeds while the dew is still on them and she comes prancing back like she’s been to the raccoons’ secret pool party.
I collar both of them as they try to sneak in too quiet to smear the too-tight-in-some-places too-far-apart-in-others wood kitchen floor. “Paws!” I demand. They never wipe them. Too stubborn.
I get a little hot under the collar. “PAWS!” They ignore me. The green weeds call. Too tempting.
It’s a good thing I own a weed whacker. I’m gonna chop me some greens.
Post script: Daisy-Dog actually did wriggle out of, and lose, her collar in the weeds. I’m still looking: Sunday, 6:43 pm